Ira Mathur

“The nights is the worst. De chirren sleepin in we bed now but I still feel the empty space where you use to sleep with your mind awake, one finger on the trigger to keep we safe.

You will love again the stranger who was yourself. Derek Walcott The NGC Bocas Literary Festival in April was just that, a canvas of the Caribbean greeting itself, our islands saying to ourselves, to

Justice Devindra Rampersad’s judgment ruling “buggery” laws unconstitutional paved the way to decriminalising gay sex, turned back a colonial chokehold, dignified a beleaguered group, and created a pr

Winnie Mandela’s death on Easter Sunday—unreasonably but powerfully felt like a personal betrayal perhaps because the news came while I was looking at the Cybercrime Bill 2017.

When the imbroglio of Chief Justice Ivor Archie is written in our history books we may discover that what we felt about him said more about us, our fevered, gleeful picking of the sordid private detai

On a day so crisp this week the trees in the Savannah looked like they were touched up by master painter, the light falling with elongated slants, the shade of branches dancing with the sun on the str

The images of the rioting out of East Port-of-Spain last Monday could have been from a war zone, with residents blocking the streets with debris, throwing stones, burning garbage and tires.

It happened on a pre-Carnival night with the pans being tuned in the balmy dark in yards across the city, on the cusp of hills, deep into areas where few dare to venture after nightfall.