AN OPEN LETTER TO THE PARLIAMENT OF JAMAICA, TO THE SENATE, TO THE PRIME MINISTER, TO EVERY COUNCILLOR, EVERY MP, AND EVERY PERSON WHO HAS EVER DARED TO SPEAK IN THE NAME OF THE JAMAICAN PEOPLE
Kingston, Jamaica. May 2026.
To those entrusted with the mandate of this nation,
I want to begin by telling you something you may not expect to hear from someone my age. I love Jamaica. Not in the way people love a flag or a song or a t-shirt they wear on independence day. I love this country the way you love something you are genuinely afraid of losing. The way you love something that has already given you so much and is now, right before your eyes, being quietly taken apart by the very people who were supposed to protect it.
I am Janiel McEwan. I am not a politician. I hold no office, carry no party card, and have no personal score to settle with anyone named in this letter. I am a young Jamaican who watches, who reads, who listens, and who has decided that silence at this particular moment in our history would be its own kind of betrayal. Because the things that are happening in this country's political life right now are not small. They are not routine. They are the kinds of things that, if left unaddressed, become permanent. They become who we are. And I refuse to accept that this is who we are.
So I am writing this letter. I am asking you to read it. Not to respond to it, not to spin it, not to use it as ammunition against the other side. Simply to sit with it. To let it reach whatever part of you existed before the party, before the platform, before the ambition. The part that remembers why you said you wanted to serve Jamaica in the first place.
That part of you is who I am writing to.
We Did Not Bleed For This
August 6, 1962. I need you to go back there with me for a moment. Not as a political exercise. Not as a talking point. Go back there as a human being and feel the weight of what that day meant. Men and women who had known nothing but the boot of colonial authority, who had organised without resources, argued without platforms, sacrificed without guarantee of victory, they gave us something that most of the world has never been given. They gave us the right to govern ourselves. To sit in our own Parliament, to speak in our own name, to shape our own future with our own hands.
Norman Washington Manley did not argue the case for self-governance with the precision of his legal mind so that Gordon House could become a room where grown men make jokes about a woman's body. Alexander Bustamante did not stare down power with nothing but his voice and his nerve, organising the workers of this island into something that could not be ignored, so that the chamber he helped build could, sixty-four years later, descend into shouting matches that a child watching at home would be embarrassed by. They gave us something sacred. The question I am putting to every single person who holds political office in Jamaica today is a simple one. What have you done with it?
Because what I am watching is not stewardship. It is not service. What I am watching, with grief I cannot fully put into words, is the slow and almost comfortable unravelling of the standard that was supposed to separate a free, self-governing people from the chaos that those who doubted us predicted. And the most frightening thing about that unravelling is how normal it has begun to feel.
@AndrewHolnessJM@MarkJGolding@jlpjamaica@JamaicaPNP@JamaicaGleaner@JamaicaObserver
Her resignation letter made the CEO go silent for twenty minutes...
Emma cleared out her desk at 5 AM.
Left the letter on his chair.
No drama. No scene.
Just two pages of gratitude.
"Thank you for teaching me what leadership isn't."
Then came her lessons:
"When you took credit for the Harrison campaign, you taught me to document everything."
"When you promised three promotions that never materialized, you taught me words without action mean nothing."
"When you ranked us against each other quarterly, you taught me competition inside kills collaboration."
"When you called weekend meetings for Monday's agenda, you taught me fake urgency is about control, not deadlines."
Fifteen examples.
Fifteen lessons.
Each one specific.
Each one true.
The worst part?
She meant every word.
No sarcasm. No bitterness.
Just genuine appreciation for the education.
"You showed me exactly the leader I refuse to become."
He found it Monday morning.
Read it once.
Read it again.
Read it again.
Called her cell.
Straight to voicemail.
His assistant heard something she'd never heard:
Nothing.
For twenty minutes, he sat there.
One of his best people.
Gone.
No notice.
No warning.
And every word aimed at him.
When he finally emerged, he asked:
"How many others feel this way?"
His assistant looked at the floor.
That told him everything.
Emma?
She's running her own team now.
They've never met her old boss.
But they know him.
Through every decision she doesn't make for them.
Every credit she doesn't take from them.
Every promise she keeps to them.
Her team thinks she's a natural leader.
They're wrong.
She was trained by the worst.
And learned exactly what not to do.
Sometimes the best teachers
are the ones who show you
exactly who you never want to be.
I’d NEVER eat anywhere that’s openly racist. God only knows what they do to the food. Please be careful when dealing with these people. Some of them are evil to the core! Fam in Atlanta, you’ve been warned!
#RacistRestaurant#Atlanta#WhiteFatigue#BlackFatigue#BlackPeople
You must create "When I Die" binder.
It will help the people you love find all your financial accounts and guide them on next steps.
Here are 9 things to include: