A summary of Bernard Place's argument.

https://jerseyeveningpost.com/voices/2026/01/15/jersey-needs-a-political-culture-that-can-differentiate-between-frustration-and-corrosive-fatalism/

Bernard Place’s essay in the JEP argued that Jersey’s political culture must learn to distinguish between legitimate frustration and corrosive fatalism.

He frames what some dismiss as “pitchforks and torches” politics instead as a “politics of impatience,” rooted not in malice but in care for the Island and its institutions. This perspective is a strength of his argument: it acknowledges the emotional intensity of local debate without trivialising it, and it recognises that impatience signals civic attachment rather than disengagement. 

Place highlights how Jersey’s small scale amplifies emotion—failures feel personal, decisions seem opaque, and accountability appears diffuse. By treating these sharp-edged voices as an early warning system rather than a threat, he positions impatience as a democratic resource.

Another strength lies in his call for listening carefully and responding with clarity. He insists that politicians should hear the underlying concerns behind blunt statements, translating “nothing ever changes” into worries about slow implementation or poor communication. This approach encourages empathy and constructive engagement, rather than defensiveness. His emphasis on transparency, accountability, and visible progress provides a practical antidote to drift, offering Islanders the reassurance of direction rather than slogans.

However, Place’s argument also has weaknesses. While he rightly cautions against dismissing impatience, he underplays the risks of oversimplification. He admits that impatience can flatten complex systems into single villains, but his essay does not fully explore how this dynamic can corrode trust or fuel populist scapegoating. 

His optimism that impatience can be harnessed as renewal may overlook how quickly frustration can harden into cynicism, especially if expectations for “visible, measurable progress” are not met. Moreover, his call for clarity and deliverables, though appealing, risks sounding abstract without concrete examples of how Jersey’s institutions might achieve this balance in practice.

In sum, Place’s essay is strongest when it reframes impatience as care and insists on listening as the first step toward renewal. It is weaker when it assumes that frustration can easily be channelled into constructive energy without acknowledging the structural and cultural obstacles that make such translation difficult. His vision of a political culture that turns sharp voices into catalysts for confidence is compelling, but it depends on whether institutions can move beyond rhetoric to deliver the progress Islanders expect.

A Short Story: The Oak’s Long Memory

A Short Story: The Oak’s Long Memory

Three centuries had passed since the acorn first split its shell in the sandy soil above St Brelade’s Bay. The church was already old then, its stones weathered by salt winds and prayers. The oak grew slowly, year by year, its roots threading into graves, its branches stretching toward the bell tower. It had watched tides rise and fall, generations kneel and depart, caretakers come and go.

The caretakers were curious creatures. They came down and vanished into the church, mostly on Sundays, when the bells rang out to call people to church, but sometimes other days. Some evenings they used to go to the nearby Fisherman’s Chapel instead, but this was not as often of late, only once a month. Something of a pattern had been lost, reflected the oak, sadly.

For the tree knew their rhythms: a season of tending, then silence. One would vanish, another arrive. Always transient, always earnest. Their task was simple, to care, and then move on. The oak respected that. It too had its task: to endure.

Yet the oak remembered them. The ones who helped drag the Parish cannon in and out of the large doors of the Fisherman’s Chapel. The one who took out the cannon for good and blocked up the door, and had workmen paint the walls. The one came when and arranged the plain windows of the church to be replaced with stained glass windows. The one who paraded with young people and their drums each February. Each left a trace, like rings hidden in its heartwood.

The last but one caretaker was different. He noticed the oak’s weariness. Rot had crept into its limbs, heavy branches sagged dangerously over the graves. The oak felt shame, was it failing in its duty to stand? But this caretaker did not abandon it. He summoned men with ropes and saws, tree surgeons who climbed into its canopy and cut away the sickness. The oak trembled at each wound, yet felt lighter, renewed. Sunlight reached places long dark. For the first time in decades, it breathed freely.

That caretaker lingered often. The oak saw him outside the church, dressed in flowing robes, speaking with Parishioners as they left Sunday service. His voice carried warmth, his hands blessed children, his eyes lifted toward the sea. The oak thought: “Strange, for a caretaker to wear such garments. Perhaps he tends both tree and stone, both earth and soul.”

Seasons turned. The oak healed. New shoots sprouted where rot had been. It remembered listening to the caretaker’s words drifting across the churchyard, words of hope, of remembrance, of quiet courage. The oak wondered why this one stayed longer than the rest. Caretakers were meant to move on. Yet he remained, week after week, year after year, his robes catching the wind like sails. He was a steward of paths and pews. He was the heart of the parish, the one who carried its burdens and its joys, who prayed beneath its branches and spoke of resurrection beside its graves. Until, at last, it was time for him to leave too. But the oak endured.

One evening, as dusk settled over the bay, the oak reflected on its long memory. It saw caretakers as shadows passing through time, each entrusted with the church for a while, then gone. And each left their mark. And now there was a new caretaker. The oak watched her arrival, and its branches and leaves rustled in welcome.

The oak understood at last. What it had called a caretaker was in truth the rector, the parish priest, the shepherd of souls, the guardian of tradition, the one who tended not only the tree but the people who gathered beneath its shade. Their care was woven into the life of the parish itself.

The oak shivered in the evening breeze, humbled. For three hundred years it had stood sentinel, believing itself the witness and the caretakers the passing ones. But now it saw: each rector was no shadow. They were also an enduring presence, as rooted in the parish as the oak itself. Together, tree and rector shared the same task, to care, to endure, and to remind the living that even in change, there is continuity.

They were the faithful guardians of the legacy of St Brelade, entrusted with a sacred duty of care. Each caretaker would care for the Parish and Church, and hold that legacy in trust for a while, and then pass on their task to another. So it had always been, from when St Brelade landed here, long before the oak was planted. For out of small acorns do mighty oaks grow.

And so the oak stretched its branches toward the stars, whispering gratitude into the night.

Fact Checking Manifesto Promises: Richard Honeycombe

‘I’d like to see a fact checker introduced ahead of the elections to check whether politicians have kept their promises’ (Fiona Walker).

Your support is essential to the role of Connetable. The Connétable is your voice in the States Assembly. If elected I would like to see more involvement by all Parishioners, I would be expressing your views in the States Chamber this is why I would need to know what they are. I would hold regular Parish Assemblies, meetings and working parties to gain your views on important propositions. It would be wonderful to fill the Parish Hall to have lively discussions and for you direct me on how you want to go forward. Maybe even stream some meetings and have online input.

If elected, I would hope to move forward on the following:
• Homes for the elderly
• Low cost housing for the young people of our Parish
• The extension of main sewer system to all properties
• Mains water available to the whole Parish
• Kerbside re-cycling

Waiting at the Bus Stop

A rather inconsequential poem today, but then life  is mainly full of inconsequential moments.

Waiting at the Bus Stop

It is a very dark morning, as I set off
And the cold air makes me cough
And sometimes Venus shines above
Bright the Roman goddess of love

Other days the clouds are thick
And my pace is fast and quick
Later leaving, as rain is falling
And the wind is quite appalling

Timing right to arrive just so
To miss the bus is such a blow
But standing in rain is not nice
Or worse, ground frost and ice

Then the lights coming round
I hear the heavy diesel sound
Now the bus turns the bend
And so my wait is at an end

The bus stops upon the road
At the painted bus stop node
My appointed travel meet
And I alight and find my seat

No more waiting, time to read
As the bus now picks up speed
Along the coast, heading down
And I am onwards off to town

Homes of the Channel Islands: St John's Manor, 1967 Article

HOMES OF THE CHANNEL ISLANDS
St. John's Manor, Jersey
By Penny Hart
Jersey Topic, 1967

Remote, secluded, St. John's Manor stands aloof from the seasonal scrimmage on Jersey's roads. Masked by acres of woodland, its surroundings are timeless, quiet. The only interruptions are the occasional cackles from a group of Canadian geese which spills across the lawn.

Until recently few people - even Islanders - knew what the place actually looked like. For years there was not even a name on the gateway.

Then the present owner, Mr. Noble Lowndes, threw the grounds open to the public in aid of Mental Health Week. And more than 1,000 curious sightseers seized their opportunity to see what lay at the end of the long, tree-lined drive. They weren't disappointed. Jersey Topic went alone to see.

Le Manoir de St. Jean la Hougue Bate, startlingly white in the sunshine, stands serenely in the midst of its 10-acre grounds. The elegant Georgian façade facing a vast, sweeping lawn edged with palm trees and tall white statues. The whole effect is somehow un-English—almost colonial.

Maybe this was the quality which first attracted Mr. Lowndes (there is no Fief of St. John so he can't lay claim to the title "seigneur"). He's a New Zealander whose grandfather was a naval settler in the North Island. He came over to live in Britain in 1933 and built up a world-wide insurance company based in London. Recently he found he was running the danger of being "surtaxed out of existence" so he quit his Surrey home and came to live in Jersey. In the same month he retired from business at the age of 70.

It took five aeroplane loads to bring the furniture over and when he walked into the Manor at the end of last summer everything was ready in its place. Little has been moved since then. For Mr. Lowndes' main interest is in the grounds. Thirty gardeners are working there full time—roughly three men to an acre. And apart from the surrounding woodlands there are 40 acres of farmland belonging to the Manor.

So far this year they've opened up a road to St. Lawrence which has not been used for 60 years. They've uncovered a Japanese garden. They've built a log cabin (the wood had to be sent to Guernsey for cutting because the logs were so large) and a tennis court. Still to come are the stables, the heated swimming pool and the woodland barbecue.

 

"We've had so much to do," says Mr. Lowndes, dressed in pin-stripes and smoking a fat cigar, "that I've only been into St. Helier four or five times since I've been here. I hardly know my way round the Island yet."

He explained that the house originates in the 14th Century. But there have been so many alterations over the years that little remains of the ancient building. At one time there were wings on either side, but these were pulled down by a former owner, Mr. Alexander Raworth, because the walls were crumbling.

An artist and sculptor, Mr. Raworth bought the fief in 1910 and probably had the strongest influence on the shape of the present Manor.

 

He knocked down, he rebuilt, and everywhere there are pieces of his work. Possibly the most impressive - certainly the most original - is the ornate Edwardian moulded plaster ceiling in the banqueting hall. It has an extraordinary stalactite motif stamped with the Raworth crest.

When he died in 1950 his widow built a stone memorial chapel in the grounds and his coffin lies in a sealed vault below. The oaken pews were made from wood pulled from the banqueting hall when the new floor was laid.

The banqueting hall, in fact, is the most interesting room in the house. It is 55 feet long with a doorway onto the drive and a modern granite fireplace at one end. Antique furniture and silver lines the oak panelled walls and the centrepiece is a heavy, oak refectory table.

 

On a slightly higher level and through an archway is the dining room. This is probably the oldest part of the house - witness a huge granite fireplace running the length of one wall. It was the original kitchen hearth and at the back of it is an oven with the Carteret arms on the door.

That is the ground floor. Then the inside stairway or the double flight of steps from the drive leads to the entrance hall and the main floor of the house. On one side is the drawing room with grey silk panels on the walls. The most striking pieces of furniture here are two hand-painted wooden cabinets with a matching painted grand piano. On the opposite side of the hall is Mr. Lowndes' bedroom.

Further back and past an ornately curved and carved grandfather clock are two more bedrooms—a guest room and one for his 12-year-old daughter Sarah.

Upstairs to the top floor are more bedrooms, including a suite for Charles Lowndes, 16, who is at Canford School, near Wimborne.

Down the back steps and past an elegant stone well (Mr. Raworth again) is a small triangular building—purpose unknown but probably built before 1600. Leading from it is a high stone wall and a gateway into a large, sunny walled garden, believed to be about 1825.

The outbuildings are extensive, but the most picturesque in a fairy tale kind of way is the modernised dower house with its leaded windows and big Tudor chimneys.

With the past nine months intensive work, the Manor is already taking on the stamp of its new owner. But whereas Mr. Raworth's name is inextricably linked with improvements to the house, Mr. Lowndes will undoubtedly be remembered for the transformation of the grounds into one of the most beautiful and secluded parks in Jersey.

Christianity in Action: Lesson 14: Control of the Temper

Lesson 14: Control of the Temper
By G.R. Balleine

[Warning: Balleine was writing in the 1920s and 1930s, and his views and language reflect many at that time. However, as a time capsule of the prevailing beliefs, this can be very useful for the historians of that period.]

LESSON FOR THE THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.

PASSAGE TO BE READ : St. John xviii. 1-11.
TEXT TO BE LEARNT : " He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city " (Prov. xvi. 32).
HYMNS : " We are but little children weak," and " Do no sinful action." COLLECTS for St. Stephen and Third Sunday after Easter.

Aim : To teach the class " to fight a battle for our Lord " on the lines laid down by verses 5 and 6 of " We are but little children weak."

I. THE PURPOSE OF ANGER.

(a) During Lent we are thinking about—? Self-control. We have thought of some parts of our nature which need to be kept under strict control. Name them. To-day we are going to think about another—our temper.

(b) Do not think that temper is a wholly bad thing. It is part of the animal nature that we have inherited from the past, and it was put there for a good purpose. Many things in Nature are provided with something to warn off enemies. If a cow eats a buttercup, it gets such a horrible bitter taste in its mouth, that it says to itself, " Never again ! " The sting of the nettle, the spikes of the thistle, make animals that would destroy these plants keep at a safe distance.

(c) What the bitter taste does for the buttercup and the sting for the nettle Anger does for animals. The growl of the dog, the hiss of the snake, the lashing of the lion's tail, say " Touch my food, interfere with my babies, and it will be the worse for you." If animals had been limp and lazy creatures, who never grew angry when wronged, they would have been exterminated long ago. Anger is one of Nature's protective devices.

(d) Man has inherited this faculty of anger ; and there are still occasions when it is right to use it. Nehemiah was working hard to re-establish the Jews in Jerusalem after their captivity, when he found that the rich Jews, instead of helping him, had been taking advantage of the poverty of their poorer brethren, and lending them money, and then, when they could not repay, selling their sons and their daughters as slaves. He says, " I was very angry (v. 6). And he gave them such a scolding that they promised at once to set free all the slaves.

(e) Our Lord was very angry on the day He cleansed the Temple. He found what should have been a House of Prayer turned into a noisy market. And it was in the Court of the Gentiles that this market was held, the only part of the Temple to which " all nations " were allowed to come, and there worship had been made impossible by this noisy rabble. A strong indignant protest was needed. Our Lord made a scourge of cords and scourged the traders out. He overthrew their tables, and strewed the floor with their money.

(f) To-day sometimes a brutal crime causes a great out-burst of righteous anger. A little girl is foully murdered, and everybody stops work, and the whole country-side turns out to hunt for the murderer. And criminals know this, and they hesitate to do anything that may arouse the anger of the whole community against them.

II. A LOW FLASH-POINT.

(a) But the trouble is that most of us get angry far too easily. There is a cheap and dangerous kind of oil known as Low Flash Oil. It explodes very easily. Sometimes we hear of people being injured by the explosion of a lamp. They were using this cheap oil. As the lamp grew warm, it reached a point too warm for this oil to stand. Then came an explosion. The flash-point was too low. They should have used an oil that could stand a very much higher temperature.

(b) All good oil has a flash-point somewhere, and so have all good people ; but it is fatal to have the flash-point too low. Moses was a good man, but his flash-point was too low. When he came down from the mountain, and found that the people had made a golden calf, it was quite natural that his " anger waxed hot " (Exod. xxxii. 19), but it was merely silly to relieve his feelings by smashing the precious tables of the commandments, which had not done any harm. Another flash of anger, " Hear now, ye rebels, must we fetch you water out of this rock ? " (Num. xx. 10) brought down the terrible punishment that he was not allowed to lead the people into the Promised Land.

(c) St. Columba was the missionary who made Scotland Christian, and this was how he came there. He had been an Irish monk, and he had borrowed a Psalter from another monk, and copied it. The owner of the Psalter said that he had no right to have made a copy, and so they quarrelled. The monks belonged to different tribes, and their tribes took up the dispute, and there was a fight in which three thousand people were killed. So Columba was banished from Ireland, until he should have made as many converts as men had been killed in his quarrel. His silly little squabble about a Psalter was regarded as responsible for the death of thousands. No one knows to what evil the loss of temper may gad.

(d) Henry II was in some ways a strong and wise king ; yet, when things upset him, he would fall into such fits of passion that he would roll on the ground and gnaw the rushes on the floor, and bite at those who came near him. And all the disasters of his reign, including the murder of Becket, were directly due to these fits of rage.

(e) Peter the Great was one of the best of the Czars of Russia. In a rough homely way he did a lot of good to his country. Among other things he made a law that any noble who ill-treated his serfs should be imprisoned. The next day he noticed that a stupid gardener had spoilt a favourite rose-bush, and he struck the man such a blow that he died. " Alas," he cried, " I have conquered the nations in war. I have civilized my wild subjects. But I cannot control my own unruly temper."

III. A HIGH FLASH-POINT.

(a) The best oil has its flash-point so high that you can put a lighted match into it, and the match will go out. And there are lives with the flash-point so high that they can bear great provocation without flaring up. Pericles was Ruler of Athens. One day, as he was judging cases in the market-place, a bystander began to abuse him, and continued to revile him in the presence of the people all the afternoon. When the court closed, he followed Pericles to his house, shouting false and cruel accusations. All that Pericles did was to call a servant, and say, " Bring a torch, and light this gentleman home."

(b) When our Lord was arrested in Gethsemane, St. Peter was the man with the low flash-point. He was so indignant that he drew his sword, and began slashing wildly around him. But our Lord showed no sign of anger. He healed the man whom St. Peter had wounded. He quietly allowed Himself to be led before the High Priest. Read Passage.

IV. SELF-CONTROL.

(a) Clearly temper is something that needs being kept under control. Quote Text. Another text says, " A fool uttereth all his anger, but a wise man keepeth it back and stilleth it " (Prov. xxix. 11).

(b) Every religious teacher has recognized that he must train his followers to control their tempers. Mohammed did. There is a great deal about temper in the Koran. Husain, the grandson of Mohammed, was a great man in the East. One day a slave spilt some boiling water over Husain's knee. He gave a cry of rage, but the slave fell at his feet, and quoted a verse from the Koran, " Paradise is for those who bridle their anger," and Husain forgave him. Another passage in the Koran describes how Mohammed visited Paradise. He saw beautiful palaces standing on a height overlooking the whole country. " These," he was told, " are for those who keep down their anger, and pardon insults.

(c) Buddha said : " He who holds back his rising anger, as a chariot-driver reins in his horses, he alone can be called a man. All others are feeble babies."

(d) And the New Testament is full of teaching on the subject of temper. There are texts which tell us to use our wills to keep our anger in check. " Let all bitterness and wrath and anger be put away from you " (Eph. iv. 31) ; " Put off all these, anger, wrath, malice " (Col. iii. 8). Putting off, putting away, is an act of the will.

(e) There is a text which tells us not to let anger last too long, never more than a single day : " Let not the sun go down upon your wrath " (Eph. iv. 26).

(f) There is the example of Christ, " Who, when He was reviled, reviled not again, when He suffered, He threatened not," " leaving us an example that ye should follow His steps " (1 Pet. ii. 23, 21).

(h) Above all there is the promise of Grace, God's strong help to stiffen our feeble wills : " The fruit of the Spirit is love, peace, long-suffering, gentleness " (Gal. v. 22). In as famous chapter St. Paul told the Corinthians that love is the best of all the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and love "-is not easily provoked " (1 Cor. xiii. 5).

(i) When sorely tempted to lose your temper, there is always time to send up one short ejaculatory prayer : " Help, Lord " ; " O God, make speed to save me " ; " Jesus, defend me " ; and God's grace will come and save you from making a fool of yourself.

A Statement on Dialogue, Disagreement, and Communal Consultation

A Statement on Dialogue, Disagreement, and Communal Consultation

In days of old, Rector and Constable were able to rule as benevolent autocrats and were only accountable to an assembly of parishioners and that in a fairly limited sphere. In many ways this is much easier, and when all goes well it is fine, and it is also less time-consuming. But in today's world we can no longer, I believe, regard it as the right way for a Parish to run its affairs whether civil or ecclesiastical. An increasingly well educated and vocal community must have a part in the ordering of its communal life and this should now, in my view, be built into the official fabric of the working of both civil and ecclesiastical communities in our Island” (Canon Michael Halliwell, Rector of St Brelade 1971-1996)

In our life together as a parish, people often turn to Scripture for guidance on how to handle differences. One passage frequently cited is Matthew 18:15–17, where Jesus instructs us to address sin privately at first, then with witnesses, and finally with the wider church if reconciliation fails. This teaching is vital for dealing with moral fault and personal wrongdoing. Yet it is important to recognize that Matthew 18 is not about silencing debate or discouraging discussion. It is about healing relationships when sin has caused harm.

Disagreement, however, is not the same as sin. Throughout the New Testament, we see examples of faithful people debating openly about matters of practice and interpretation. In Acts 15, Paul and Barnabas entered into “sharp dispute and debate” with others over whether Gentile converts must follow the Law of Moses. The apostles and elders gathered in Jerusalem, listened to testimony, and reached a communal decision. This was not handled privately, nor was it treated as moral failure—it was discernment through dialogue.

Similarly, in Galatians 2, Paul recounts how he opposed Peter (Cephas) publicly when Peter withdrew from eating with Gentiles. Paul believed this action compromised the truth of the gospel, and so he challenged Peter openly. This was not a matter of personal sin to be hidden away, but a question of practice that affected the whole community. Scripture shows us that open debate, even confrontation, can be necessary when the integrity of our shared life is at stake.

In our own time, we face similar challenges. Practices and traditions, whether liturgical observances, symbolic acts, or communal customs, can evoke strong feelings and differing interpretations. To treat every disagreement as “sin” is to misapply Scripture and risk stifling the Spirit’s work among us. Instead, we are called to distinguish between moral fault, which requires reconciliation, and honest difference, which requires dialogue.

The quote from Michael Halliwell remindeds that in days past, Rector and Constable could rule as "benevolent autocrats", accountable only in limited ways to parishioners. That may have been simpler, but it is no longer fitting for today’s world. We live in an increasingly well‑educated and vocal community, and it is right that parishioners have a part in ordering our communal life. This principle applies not only to civil governance but also to ecclesiastical practice. Consultation, transparency, and shared discernment are not burdens—they are blessings that strengthen trust and unity.

Therefore, when disagreements arise in a parish, I suggest the following:

• Disagreement is not sin. It is part of the Spirit’s work in shaping us together.
• Open dialogue is biblical. Acts 15 and Galatians 2 show that debate belongs within the life of the church.
• Consultation is essential. As Halliwell notes, our communities flourish when decisions are not imposed but discerned together.

Churches should therefore commit themselves to a parish life where differences are aired respectfully, where Scripture guides us toward discernment, and where consultation is built into our fabric. In doing so, we honour both the gospel’s call to reconciliation and the Spirit’s call to communal discernment.

The church should be one that listens, debates, and decides together, not as autocrats and subjects, but as brothers and sisters in Christ, seeking truth in love.

A Critical Scrutiny of the Social Security Minister's Statement

Damage Limitation after public outcry

The Minister’s statement of 19 January can be read as a defensive attempt to reassure the public that she has not cut JET’s base funding, but it is open to significant criticism when placed against the wider context of her tenure and the trust’s own response. She has been in office since early 2024, and during that time she has had ample opportunity to reform the outdated funding arrangement that governs JET’s support. 

Yet despite acknowledging that the arrangement is “old and out-of-date,” she has only now introduced a limited RPI-linked uplift, despite being nearly two years into her role. This delay makes her position appear reactive rather than strategic, as though she is responding to immediate criticism rather than having pursued a long-term plan to secure the trust’s sustainability. For an organisation that provides vital services to disabled Islanders, the absence of foresight is a serious failing.

The Minister’s statement confirms that JET’s baseline funding has been given an RPI uplift for the current year only, not a guaranteed uplift across all ten years. It is described as part of stabilisation funding for 2026. There is no commitment in the statement to apply RPI uplift automatically for each of the next ten years. Instead, the Minister stresses that future funding will depend on a new contract and Treasury approval, with “future‑proofing safeguards” considered once a sustainable model is agreed.

The previous reliance on one-off grants further undermines the credibility of her statement. She points to the £785,000 top-up in 2025 and the £200,000 in 2026 as evidence of government support, but these are ad hoc measures dependent on underspends elsewhere in the department. Such funding is inherently unstable, leaving JET unable to plan confidently for the future. A charity that depends on unpredictable top-ups cannot secure staff, develop programmes, or reassure clients that services will continue uninterrupted. By failing to embed inflation-proofed funding permanently into the baseline, or backtracking it over ten years, the Minister has left JET exposed to uncertainty, and her statement does little to disguise that weakness with her statement that she would never remove baseline funding. Critics can argue that this approach amounts to patching holes rather than building a sustainable foundation.

The Minister also places significant emphasis on data-sharing, suggesting that delays in agreeing to share information with government have held back reform. Yet JET’s board has made clear that it has, for years, shared all information it is legally permitted to provide. The barrier is not reluctance on JET’s part but the constraints of data protection legislation, a position of which the department was fully aware. This clarification exposes a gap between the Minister’s narrative and the legal reality. By framing JET as obstructive, she risks misrepresenting the situation and unfairly shifting blame onto the trust. In effect, she has used “data-sharing” as a scapegoat for her own delay in reforming funding, despite knowing that the law prevented the sharing of personal client data. This undermines trust between government and the charity, and it raises questions about whether the Minister is more concerned with deflecting criticism than with solving the problem.

The tone of the statement itself is reactive rather than strategic. By stressing that she “has not cut base funding,” the Minister appears to be engaging in damage control rather than setting out a vision for sustainable disability support. Her rhetoric about a strong disability inclusion agenda rings hollow when the funding insecurity of JET directly undermines services for disabled Islanders. The contradiction between policy rhetoric and practical delivery is stark: she claims commitment to inclusion, yet her actions have left a key provider uncertain of its future. This inconsistency weakens her credibility and suggests that her agenda is more about appearances than substance.

The implications of these criticisms are significant. Service instability means that disabled Islanders cannot be confident in the continuity of support. Public trust in government is eroded when ministers appear to misrepresent facts or deflect responsibility. And politically, the Minister is vulnerable to the charge that she had nearly two years to embed RPI safeguards and negotiate sustainable contracts but failed to act until forced by external pressure. The board’s clarification about data-sharing only sharpens this critique, showing that the obstacles she cites were known and manageable, and that her failure lies in not finding lawful, constructive alternatives.

Taken together, the criticisms highlight a pattern: the Minister has been slow to act, reliant on temporary fixes, and willing to deflect responsibility onto JET rather than confront the systemic flaws in funding. Her statement may reassure some that base funding has not been cut, but it does not address the deeper issue of sustainability. For Islanders who depend on JET’s services, this is not a matter of political rhetoric but of daily life and dignity. The Minister’s failure to embed inflation-proofed funding earlier, coupled with her misrepresentation of the data-sharing issue, leaves her open to the charge that she has undermined both the trust and her own disability inclusion agenda. In the end, the statement reads less like a plan for the future and more like an attempt to cover for past inaction.

Debate in the States?

Now that there is a petition on the matter which has reached 5,000 signatures, should there be a debate?
Technically, the States Assembly could decide not to hold a debate even when that number is reached. But the damage of ignoring it would be considerable, because the threshold is meant to signal significant public concern and provide Islanders with a formal route into parliamentary discussion. If the Assembly were to disregard it, the message would be that even when citizens follow the rules and mobilise in large numbers, their voices can still be set aside.

A petition with 5,000 signatures represents a substantial proportion of Jersey’s population. To ignore it would risk alienating not just those who signed, but also the wider community sympathetic to the cause. In this case, the issue touches on disability inclusion and the funding of JET, which carries moral weight. Politicians who appeared complicit in brushing aside the petition could face reputational damage and electoral consequences, as opponents would seize on the decision as evidence of indifference or arrogance.

Jersey’s government often speaks of fairness, inclusion, and transparency. To ignore a petition that has reached the advisory threshold would undermine those principles in practice. It would look like a government unwilling to engage with uncomfortable issues, preferring procedural escape routes over open debate. That contradiction would be especially stark given the petition concerns services for disabled Islanders, a group whose voices are already vulnerable to being overlooked.

Finally, it should be noted that petitions are one of the few mechanisms by which Islanders can directly influence the Assembly’s agenda. If the Assembly ignored this one, it would send a signal that collective action is futile. That could discourage future participation, leaving Islanders disengaged and resentful. In a small jurisdiction like Jersey, where civic involvement is vital to community life, such disengagement would be damaging.

So while the threshold is advisory, ignoring it would carry real costs: undermining trust, damaging political credibility, contradicting values, and discouraging civic engagement. In practice, the Assembly would gain little by refusing a debate, but it would risk a great deal in terms of legitimacy and public confidence. Even if the debate is uncomfortable, holding it is the healthier path for democracy.

A Short Story: The Lecture Room

 

The Lecture Room

The room smelled of chalk dust and old varnish. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the rows of desks—each one occupied, each student hunched over notebooks, eyes glazed, pens moving not with curiosity but obligation.

At the front, Dr. Ellison stood like a relic. His jacket hung loose on his frame, the cuffs frayed, the collar stained with years of coffee and indifference. He spoke without inflection, his voice a low drone that filled the room like fog. Behind him, the blackboard bore the scars of past lectures—half-erased equations, ghostly outlines of diagrams, and today’s fresh scrawl: a mess of symbols that might once have meant something.

He didn’t look at the students. He didn’t ask questions. He simply wrote, spoke, handed out the assignment, and waited.

The scripts came back in silence. He marked them in silence. Red pen. Tick. Cross. “Incomplete.” “Correct.” “See notes.” The rhythm was mechanical. The names meant nothing. The handwriting blurred together. He didn’t read—he processed.

Outside, the world moved. Leaves fell. Rain came. But inside the lecture hall, time was fixed. Each student had their place. Each lecturer had their role. The bounds were clear, the expectations clearer.

Once, years ago, Ellison had tried something different. He had paused mid-lecture and asked, “Why do you think this matters?” A few students had looked up, startled. One had even answered. But the department chair had called him in later that week. “Stick to the syllabus,” she’d said. “We’re not here to philosophize.”

So he stopped asking.

He stopped wondering.

He stopped trying.

Now, he taught the way he was taught. He marked the way he was marked. He existed within the system, a cog in a machine that neither welcomed nor punished deviation—it simply ignored it.

One afternoon, a student lingered after class. A quiet boy, always in the back row. He approached the desk and said, “I think I understand the equations. But I don’t understand the point.”

Ellison looked at him. Really looked. The boy’s eyes were tired, but not dull. There was something there - something reaching out.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, “The point is to pass.”

The boy nodded slowly. “Right.”

He left.

Ellison sat alone in the empty hall. The blackboard still bore his scrawl. The scripts still waited to be marked. He stared at the chalk in his hand, then at the board, then at the door.

He thought of saying something different next time. Of writing something that wasn’t part of the syllabus. Of asking again.

But he didn’t.

Because he remembered the meeting. The memo. The silence that followed.

And so he picked up the next script. Tick. Cross. “See notes.”

Alas for he that tries to be human.