The Caribbean nation of Trinidad and Tobago has just delivered a brutal slap in the face to its LGBTQ+ citizens, as the country’s Supreme Court overturned a landmark 2018 ruling and effectively recriminalized consensual gay sex. The high court’s reversal reinstates the colonial-era “buggery law,” originally struck down by a human rights case brought by local activist Jason Jones. That decision was a moment of elation for many, but now it’s been replaced by anger, grief, and a grim legal fight headed straight to London’s Privy Council.
Jones isn’t backing down. His next move: appealing to the Privy Council — Trinidad’s final court of appeal — in an attempt to scrap the laws once and for all. The heart of the legal wrangling lies in something called the “savings clause,” a colonial-era loophole that allows countries like Trinidad to cling to outdated laws if they predate independence. “This backwards step revolves around the savings clause,” Jones said. “Parliament is hiding its homophobic bigotry behind an archaic clause that serves no useful purpose in a modern democratic country.”
For LGBTQ+ Trinidadians, the stakes are sky-high. This isn’t just about legislation gathering dust — it’s about legal dignity. “This tells LGBTQ+ individuals their very existence remains subject to legal scrutiny,” said Kennedy Maraj, co-founder of Pride TT. “That progress is fragile and that hard-won rights can be overturned.” The emotional whiplash is devastating. In 2018, activist tears of joy flowed on the courthouse steps. Seven years later, those same steps feel like a crime scene for equality.
No One’s Arrested, So What’s the Problem?
Trinidad’s government has leaned hard on the “no one’s getting arrested” argument. But LGBTQ+ citizens aren’t buying it. The Supreme Court’s clinical 196-page ruling claimed “buggery remains a crime” and brushed off concerns by noting that the law is rarely enforced. Yet for people like Patrick Lee Loy, one of the few openly gay men in the country, the danger isn’t theoretical — it’s lived. “I know a few gay men who were murdered,” he said. “The crimes were never solved. In one instance, the family didn’t push for an investigation in case it brought up too many ghosts.”
Even amid Trinidad’s famously flamboyant carnival culture, queer people live with fear. “I have friends who only meet at home,” Loy added. “They won’t go out to restaurants or bars. They fear for their jobs, their families, their lives.”
From Colonial Chains to the Privy Council
Jones’s 2018 case sparked ripples far beyond Trinidad, inspiring similar challenges in other former colonies. But in his home country, the backlash was swift and politically calculated. The government’s appeal, though delayed for years, seemed laser-focused on appeasing a religious and conservative base. “These are Trinidadian laws,” Jones emphasized. “Not British, not inherited — updated three times. So why are we still living like it’s 1925?”
The Privy Council will now decide whether Trinidad’s LGBTQ+ citizens are entitled to modern human rights or stuck in colonial amber. But for many, the damage is already done. “Judges cannot change the law,” wrote appeal judge Nolan Bereaux. “We give effect to parliament’s intention.” That intention, activists argue, is laced with homophobia.
The implications are stark for the global LGBTQ+ community. Trinidad once led the way in decriminalization; now it’s a cautionary tale of how fast progress can unravel. And it’s a chilling message to queer people in the Commonwealth: even in 2025, your love might still be a crime.