The Death of a People's Festival: How Carnival Was Stolen from the People
February 7, 2025
There are a few aspects of society that clearly reflect its state. Two stand out in particular: traffic and carnival. Traffic is a disaster—fewer rules, more congestion, and a bizarre reversal where red means go and green means stop—a world turned upside down. But today, I want to talk about carnival.
Today, February 7, 2025, marks the finale of the Tumba Festival. Due to heavy restrictions, the public can only watch a minimal portion via television. They must pay per view or buy an expensive ticket if they want more. The fact that 80% of the island's population struggles to make ends meet is of no concern to those in charge.
As a teenager, I spent countless days at the home of Omalio Meriën, the spiritual father of our modern carnival. By then, he had already stepped back, having cleared his name of accusations regarding his management. If I recall correctly, this all happened after the 1969 uprisings, when there was a consensus that the people needed unity. The carnival motto became: Karnaval di un i tur i pa uni tur (Carnival for everyone and to unite everyone). It was meant to be an inclusive and unifying festival for the people.
Slowly but surely, things began to change in the 1980s. Barricades were put up because the carnival groups believed the public should not mix with their festivities. Then, the people had to start paying for precarious rights just to stand along the roadside and watch. The event was no longer for everyone—it belonged to the groups, who spent more and more on elaborate costumes. The Tumba Festival, also Meriën’s brainchild, became increasingly commercialized. Ticket prices rose. A red-carpet section was introduced—suddenly, not everyone was equal. Broadcasting rights were sold, and the tumba music no longer belonged to the people but to the musicians and commercial interests. A festival that once united the people was stolen from them, leaving them with nothing but rising costs and the status of an unwanted audience. The dream of turning Curaçao’s carnival into an international product took hold—it became all about tourists and image, about marketing a goldmine that never quite materialized.
Three years ago, a new group took over the organization of the carnival. They understand nothing of the event’s essence and speak only of the "Carnival product." Events are now held in a dome near the airport—a completely unsuitable location for a tourist island that prides itself on growth. But what if you happen to own that dome?
This reminds me of how Curaçaoans brought carnival to the Netherlands. It grew, but it never remained Curaçaoan. Instead, it became the Zomercarnaval, stripped of its original roots and taken over by others.
The same happens to our beaches, land, and homes. They once belonged to us and were for us, but now we can barely access them. We are forced to watch from behind fences, outsiders in our homeland.
We have become zombies. The Curaçaoan is dead, but like a zombie, he does not yet realize it.
This results from the neoliberal wave that swept in during the late 1980s and refuses to be stopped. People and nature have been reduced to mere tools for profit.
This same mindset is behind the absurd ideas of building bridges over protected natural areas and dismissing critics as people who "don’t understand" modern urbanization.
I wonder if people will wake up on their own and realize that this is a path to self-destruction. Will they course-correct? The people's festival that once united everyone has now become a festival for the happy few.
Miguel Goede
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