If you’re reading these words, you fall into one of two categories: you are either from Anguilla or you’re not. There also hangs in the midst of these two poles the diaspora who (once the years stretch a bit) can become some sort of amalgamation of the two – local enough to remember running in dusty red fields to pick pigeon peas with their grandmother or pressing the pulpy flesh of gineps against the back of their teeth, but gone long enough to see the dull patina of an island still years behind the glittering tech of the bustling outer world. Somehow, in some way, what it means to be Anguillian is a question that has found many answers over the period of the island’s development.

When one reflects on the various iterations of 32 square miles of sun, sea, and sand, there are a few ways to examine the modern Anguillian identity. While Anguilla is often seen as a utopia for tourists to escape their reality, it is also an island with a rich social fabric. The unique disparity came about when the small, often overlooked Northernmost Leeward was catapulted into becoming a land of tourism opportunity during the 1960s. The island’s trajectory from salt picking and subsistence agriculture to becoming a luxury tourism destination is a hard line to remove. With that twist in the history of Anguilla bloomed the first mutterings of the controversial antecedent to the island’s development: how will this benefit tourism? As such, it is not possible to pull back the layers on Anguillian identity without considering the impact of tourist trade on local culture.

At times there can be seen a swaying pendulum between “reality” and “tourism product”. Over the decades, Anguilla’s development has been precariously hinged on the importance of that balance. As the years have ticked by, Anguilla has seen many changes which have rendered it somewhat unrecognizable to returning diaspora and visitors who may have stumbled across the island in a bygone 80s travel agent’s flimsy brochure. While we are so eager to see our island run double-time to catch up with the ease of the digital age, we also mourn the Anguilla of yesteryear. There are times when we see the glaring contrast of the analogue state of most happenings on the island met full force with our emergent dependence on technology.

There is an unexpected comfort in these inconveniences, however. They are nuanced reminders of a world which used to exist globally. A world with paper, ledgers, cursive and humanity which has now been propelled towards digital stratospheres and artificial intelligence. Nevertheless, there still exists a fellowship in Anguilla preserved in that protective utopic bubble that others strive so hard to penetrate. The values, while morphing as society changes, still hold firm despite Anguilla’s motions to fully join the digital movement. The gleam of experiencing, even if only for a week’s vacation, that realm where people still need one another, where they make eye contact, where they smile at your presence, and life doesn’t occur solely behind (or in front of) a screen can be magnetic for visitors to Anguilla. Stronger still is the pull which calls our diaspora home.

The connection to home is an unbroken thread, stretching through time like the lineage of ancestors. What does it mean, though, to be Anguillian in the modern world? In a world where you have Anguillians who never left mixed with those who now vacation back to “home”. This question elicits varying responses depending on whom you ask. For those who stay, it might mean a deep connection to the land—to the red dirt roads that weave between crops, to the salty breeze that drifts in from the ocean. 

For those in the diaspora, being Anguillian might mean cherishing memories of family gatherings on verandahs balancing plates of johnny cakes and saltfish on their knees, and a persistent yearning to return to their roots during August where a pulsing carnival beats with the rhythm of their now-foreign hearts. It is a layered identity that encapsulates heritage, culture, and an ever-changing sense of self. For a people who have their own persona rooted deep into the triangular split from St. Kitts and Nevis,“I from here” is a strong phrase worn like a talisman among Anguillians.

There is more to compete with now, however, than in the 1960s when telecommunication was simply wires connecting the world. As the years rushed around the small eel-shaped island, so too did the waves of modern globalization, further complicating the Anguillian identity. We now navigate a world where cultural influences from the U.S., Europe, and beyond permeate daily life. While our younger generations may adopt global trends in music, fashion, and technology, there is still a concerted effort to preserve traditional practices and customs. Boat racing, the national sport, beats on against the current that ties Anguillians to the historical treks across the sea during the salt industry. Efforts have been made to secure this maritime tradition in the younger generations, but with so much more to now compete with for its solidarity as a cornerstone of the Anguillian identity, there are some concerns in its continuance. 

As with any country, the youth clutch the future of the culture in hands that may not even understand its significance. Many young Anguillians leave the island to pursue higher education abroad, gaining new perspectives and skills, seemingly unaware of how this cyclical flow of people affects the identity of Anguillians. The amalgamation of this experience in other countries coupled with their innate Anguillian culture has enriched Anguilla, blending the old with the new and ensuring that the island remains both rooted in tradition and open to innovation. 

The culinary narrative is a metaphor for Anguilla’s broader journey—a delicate balance between the preservation of heritage and the embrace of modernity. At roadside stands, you can still find some of the old-time dishes: steaming bowls of corn soup, tender stewed goat, and the spiced delight of conkie bearing imprints of a sea grape cocoon. Yet, global fusion has washed new flavors onto our island’s shores. Struggling to please tourists (and homecoming locals alike) menus now boast everything from boba and sushi rolls to creamy fettuccine alfredo. 

This convergence of tastes is emblematic of the island’s cultural crossroads. The juxtaposition of traditional fare with international cuisines reflects a community grappling with its Caribbean identity in an interconnected world. Yet, these shifts come at a cost. Many of the cherished flavors that once defined daily Anguillian life are now relegated to rare appearances at festivals and heritage events. 

Such recognition of heritage is our life’s blood. On an island where the threads of kinship and familiarity form an intricate tapestry of shared lives, Anguillians have shouldered the rearing of families and the struggle of economic downfalls together. This closeness fosters a communal heartbeat that quickens in the face of calamity, like when hurricanes carve paths of devastation. But it is also evident in times of celebration when milestones such as weddings and christenings arise. Our island responds in unison like a harmonic calypso chorus, our people bound by an unspoken accord. These moments, steeped in warmth and belonging like lemon grass tea, stand in poignant contrast to the solitary rhythms of urbanized societies. Societies where individual pursuits often drown out the melody of collective unity.

However, the siren call of the globalized world, like a mermaid swimming beneath the bowels of a ship, cannot be ignored. Through the addictive draw of social media, Anguilla steps into a matrix far larger than its shoreline. Instagram becomes its canvas, presenting our island’s identity to broader an audience than we could ever imagine. Anguillians now find their voices amplified, reverberating far past the confines of even a local network. Where there was once only our own few news outlets with which to contend, we now find ourselves bombarded with the unfiltered thoughts of hundreds of thousands. With this newfound prominence comes the delicate negotiation of authenticity—a tug-o-war between sharing a culture and preserving its soul. How does a small island (a mere 16 miles long, mind you), with its profound sense of self, remain untouched at its core while inviting the world in?

Perhaps the answer lies in a harmonious balancing act. The kind mastered by children scaling mango trees or rebels fighting the Kittitians. By embracing the boundless horizons of globalization while guarding the sanctity of heritage, Anguillians tread a path both ugly with its complexity yet beautiful with its ability. It is a pursuit marked by thoughtfulness: education that cultivates wisdom, infrastructure that honours the land, and sustainability that safeguards future generations. 

It is evident that the morphing idea of Anguillian identity struggles, a chimera of past and present wrestling within the grip of modernity, against the relentless push of international ideals. It is a fragile dance—this interplay between the deeply rooted traditions of an island and the encroaching whispers of globalization. Here lies a tension, taut like the string of a bathpan bass, vibrating with the melodies of resilience and evolution. Anguilla, with its crystalline waters and limestone dirt, sits in the sea as both a relic and a participant in an ever-shifting world—a guardian of heritage striving to thrive amidst the relentless surge of change. 

To be Anguillian in a modern world is to wine in a delicate dance between constancy and change, to uphold the legacy of an indomitable past while peering toward the shimmering horizon of an unwritten future. It is to treasure the ties that weave a community close, yet to welcome the vibrant hues of diversity that the wider world unfurls—a testament to resilience, grace, heart and soul that builds our nation, proud, strong and free.

This essay won first place in the Facts & Fiction Writing Competition facilitated by the Department of Youth & Culture in Anguilla