JAMAICA | A Tale of Two Titans: The Rise of Allan Bernard and the Fall of Horace Chang

MONTEGO BAY, Jamaica, April 4, 2025 - The fortress walls are crumbling. For over two decades, Dr. Horace Chang has reigned supreme in St. James Northwestern, but his political empire now stands on foundations of sand.

As the architect of security in a blood-soaked constituency, Chang's legacy is written not in the monuments of progress, but in the graffiti of unfulfilled promises. 

Enter Allan Bernard—lecturer, community specialist, devout Rastafarian—armed not with the machinery of political power, but with something far more potent: hope.

Dr. Chang's political biography reads impressively on paper. Born in 1952 in New Roads, Westmoreland, his journey through Cornwall College and the University of the West Indies led him to the corridors of power: 

Member of Parliament since 2002, Minister of National Security since 2016, Deputy Prime Minister, JLP General Secretary. His resume gleams with prestigious titles. Yet in the alchemy of politics, titles have failed to transmute into tangible change for the people who matter most.

The myth of Chang's invincibility has been carefully crafted over years. St. James Northwestern is portrayed as an impenetrable JLP garrison—a political fortress where challengers fear to tread. 

This narrative conveniently obscures an inconvenient truth: in the last General Election, Chang secured merely 6,481 votes from a pool of 30,113 registered voters. Over 20,000 citizens chose silence over endorsement—not through apathy, but through a quiet rebellion brewing beneath the surface. 

The opposition's failure to present a formidable challenger wasn't born of incompetence but intimidation. Chang's perceived invulnerability became a self-fulfilling prophecy—until now.

The emperor's new clothes are threadbare when examined under the harsh light of reality. When Chang inherited this constituency, annual homicides numbered 66. Today, that figure has exploded to 370—a sixfold increase that speaks volumes about his efficacy as National Security Minister. The implementation of a State of Emergency and Zone of Special Operation (ZOSO) stands not as solutions but as expensive monuments to failure—symbols of a governance in crisis.

The housing promises that once flowed from Chang's lips have evaporated into the rum-scented, reggae-thumping Montego Bay air, where tourists frolic while locals wait in vain. The 76 housing units promised for Canterbury remain phantoms. The $550 million allocated might as well have been buried at sea for all the transparency surrounding its disbursement.

Meanwhile, vendors at the Shoe Market have spent 23 years under tarpaulins, weathering three fires and a flood, while the displaced victims of Hurricane Charlie squat near the infirmary, their promised homes upgraded beyond their financial reach.

Contrast Chang's paper-thin legacy with the concrete achievements of Montego Bay's true titans. Dr. Herbert Eldemire gave the city Cornwall Regional Hospital and the Montego Bay Freeport. Allan George St Claver Coombs, gifted the region the Sangster International Airport (named after the man who opposed its construction), Queens Drive, and vital civic infrastructure such as the  court house at Mawga Bay and both post offices.

Howard Cooke, champion of the dispossessed, elevated education and created housing solutions for those most in need. These men wrote their legacies not in press releases but in brick and mortar, in institutions that continue to serve generations.

Against this backdrop of hollow promises, Alan Bernard emerges not merely as a political opponent but as an antidote. A UWI graduate with deep community roots, Bernard represents politics as it was meant to be—not a vehicle for personal advancement but a tool for collective empowerment. His Rastafarian principles of equity, justice, and integrity aren't campaign slogans but lived values.

Bernard's vision extends beyond electioneering. He pledges to breathe life back into neglected communities like Norwood, Glendevon, and Rose Heights; to create meaningful housing solutions; to foster small business growth through industrial parks and affordable commercial spaces; and to restore the civic pride that once defined Montego Bay. 

He speaks not with the polished rhetoric of a career politician but with the authentic voice of a servant-leader, in much the same vein as AGS 'Father' Coombs of blessed memory.

After nearly a quarter-century under Chang's stewardship, the people of St. James Northwestern deserve an accounting.

Yes, Harmony Park exists. A legacy of the Montego Bay 2014 plan. Yes, Glendevon Road was paved. But these meager accomplishments are crumbs from a banquet table where the people who built this city—the vendors, teachers, nurses, construction workers, and artisans—deserve a seat of honor.

Chang's political alliances with questionable figures have alienated Montego Bay's middle class and entrepreneurial foundation. His conspicuous silence on pressing issues echoes louder than any speech. His failure to implement lasting solutions has left a legacy written in invisible ink—present on paper but absent in reality.

The choice facing St. James Northwestern isn't merely between two candidates but between resignation and revival. Chang represents the politics of yesterday—faded glory clinging to positions of power. Bernard embodies the politics of possibility—a new dawn after a long, dark night.

As Montego Bay stands at this crucial crossroads, the question isn't whether David can defeat Goliath, but whether the people will finally see that Goliath's imposing stature has been nothing but a shadow on the wall. The slingshot of truth is loaded, and the giant may soon fall.

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