Millennials have a saying making the rounds nowadays: My truth. In any argument there are different sides to the story, so “my truth” may not be “your truth”. The whole truth and nothing but the truth can be hard to hear, and harder to tell.

In the past, there have been suggestions that Jamaica needed to have a Truth and Reconciliation Commission similar to that of South Africa when they needed to lay their souls bare and work through the wounds of Apartheid. In some quarters, memories of the 70s and 80s have come back to the surface in the last few weeks. That period of Jamaica’s political story was a trying time that brought us to our knees. Brother and sister turned against each other, inflicting physical and emotional wounds, the scars of which we still carry nearly half a century down the road. Ask anyone who lived through that time and you will hear versions of the truth. The experience shared are coloured by which side of the political spectrum they fall.

The turmoil of the state of emergency of 1976 to 1977 has many stories told of threats being issued, families split apart as fathers and mothers went into hiding to escape danger, some went further afield, leaving our shores and promising never to return. And yet, with all the heartache and pain, the period of the 70s saw an enormous creative energy. Our passion burned for music, dance, art, fashion, and ideas that brought light to the gloom.

Reggae music developed into a worldwide brand during those tumultuous times. Bob Marley and the Wailers, Peter Tosh, Third World, Inner Circle carried the Rastafarian style to the wider world. The great visual artists, such as Barrington Watson, Eugene Hyde, Albert Huie, Carl Abrahams, and Gloria Escoffery, were producing powerful works of art. Francis Keane worked her wonders with cut-work embroidery. Dashikis, caftans, bell bottoms were the style of the day. Even when fashion was drawn into the political argument it was still part of the creative expression of the time.

The Cultural Training Centre, an amalgamation of the national schools of music, dance, theatre, and art, was home to many of the creators who have made their mark on Jamaica. Even as we seemed hell-bent on tearing each other apart, we were building a vision of ourselves that the world was taking note of.

The 70s leading into the early 80s was a time of complexity. There were layers upon layers that gave us inspiration and frustration. An article published in the Toronto Star in 1980 said: “Death, intrigue torment island in the sun. Jamaica is hell on Earth, not paradise, as 500 die on streets in political battles.”

The report by writers Hamlin Grange and Tom Bron explained: “Although there is no evidence to prove it, rumours abound that the almost daily slaughter is encouraged by ‘outside’ interests.”

There were many international stories of what was happening in our homeland. Whose truth was being told? What was full truth, what was half-truth?

Over time memories fade and details become blurry. The line of truth wavers and, while some may want to put it all behind us, one day we will have to face the uncomfortable truth of what happened. Whether you blame outside forces and influences or not, the truth is Jamaicans brutalised Jamaicans. And we’re still doing it today. The underlying reason for the present appetite for violence may not be politics; the hunger now is for personal interest and gain.

Question of the day: What profit is there in grief?

The result is the same — communities under siege, families dealing with loss. Scamming, conniving, robbing, and killing for power and wealth will not reap rewards. How did we get to a place where young children are raped and murdered? Fathers and mothers are filled with such hate and anger they kill their infant children. Teenagers stab and chop at each other in schoolyard arguments. Did the violence of the 70s and 80s infect another generation? Can we find an antidote? Do we want to? Can we face the truth of what we are still doing to each other?

Barbara Gloudon is a journalist, playwright and commentator. Send comments to the Observer or gloudonb@gmail.com.