🎙️ Linton Kwesi Johnson: Poetry as Protest in Reggae

Let’s rewind to Brixton, South London, sometime in the late 1970s. The sun’s low, the streets are humming. Kids are kicking footballs between parked cars, elders are posted up on their front steps, and someone’s blasting roots reggae from a battered speaker. You can smell fried plantains and engine oil. And if you listen closely, you’ll hear poetry — not just rhymes, but resistance.

This is the world of Linton Kwesi Johnson (LKJ), the godfather of dub poetry. His voice didn’t just echo through speakers — it shook institutions. And the backdrop? Brixton. A place that, like Rotterdam’s own Crooswijk or Afrikaanderwijk, carries the weight of migration, marginalization, and music.

🧠 Who’s LKJ, and Why Does He Matter?

Linton Kwesi Johnson is a Jamaican-born, British-raised poet and activist who turned spoken word into a weapon. His style? Dub poetry — rhythmic, political, raw. Think reggae beats under verses about police brutality, racism, and the Black British experience. He didn’t rap about Bentleys or bling. He wrote about brothers getting stopped and searched, mothers losing sons, and communities rising up.

His track “Sonny’s Lettah” is basically a letter from a young man in jail, explaining how he ended up there after defending his brother from police harassment. It’s not just a song — it’s a testimony.

🌍 Brixton in the ’70s: Not Just Vibes

Brixton wasn’t always the trendy spot it is now. Back then, it was a hub for Afro-Caribbean migrants — many from the Windrush generation — who came to rebuild Britain after World War II. But instead of gratitude, they got suspicion. Instead of opportunity, they got surveillance.

The police ran operations like “Swamp 81,” flooding the streets with officers and stopping young Black men at random. Sound familiar? It’s the same energy that fuels protests today — from Ferguson to Schilderswijk.

In 1981, Brixton exploded. Three days of riots — or uprisings, depending on who you ask — shook the city. LKJ called it “Di Great Insohreckshan.” Not just chaos, but a reckoning.

🎶 Reggae as Resistance

Reggae isn’t just chill beach music. In the hands of artists like LKJ, Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Lucky Dube, it’s a sonic protest. It’s the soundtrack of Babylon’s downfall.

In Rastafari culture, Babylon represents the corrupt system — colonialism, capitalism, racism. Zion, on the other hand, is liberation, spiritual peace, Africa. So when LKJ spits bars over dub beats, he’s not just vibing — he’s fighting.

Reggae became the language of the oppressed. It gave voice to the voiceless. And in Brixton, it turned frustration into fire.

🔥 The Crack Epidemic & Gary Webb’s Bombshell

Fast forward to the ’80s and ’90s. Across the Atlantic, America’s inner cities are drowning in crack cocaine. Communities are collapsing, families are torn apart, and prisons are filling up — mostly with Black men.

Then comes Gary Webb, a journalist who dropped the Dark Alliance series in 1996. He exposed how the CIA turned a blind eye to drug trafficking by Nicaraguan rebels — the Contras — who were selling cocaine to fund their war. That coke ended up in U.S. ghettos, cooked into crack, and sold on the streets.

The system didn’t just fail Black communities — it targeted them. Babylon wasn’t just metaphorical anymore. It was chemical.

🏙️ Rotterdam’s Echoes

Now let’s bring it home. Rotterdam, like Brixton, is a city of migration and contradiction. It’s proud of its diversity, but still struggles with systemic inequality. The Afro-Dutch community — many with roots in Suriname, the Antilles, or West Africa — knows what it’s like to be seen as “other,” even when Dutch is your mother tongue.

In the ’70s and ’80s, the Netherlands welcomed thousands from Suriname after independence. But many arrived to find themselves boxed into the lowest social strata — single mothers, unemployed youth, and families placed in underfunded neighborhoods. Not because they lacked potential, but because the system lacked vision.

And while the Dutch didn’t have a crack epidemic like the U.S., the stigmatization was real. Media narratives painted Afro-Dutch youth as troublemakers, and policies often reinforced exclusion.

🧠 Identity Politics: Blessing or Burden?

Today, identity politics is everywhere. Some see it as a tool for empowerment — a way to name injustice and demand change. Others feel it’s divisive, creating echo chambers and moral hierarchies.

LKJ didn’t use the term “identity politics,” but he lived it. His poetry was rooted in Black British identity, but it spoke to anyone who’s ever felt unseen, unheard, or unwanted.

In Rotterdam, identity politics plays out in debates about education, housing, and representation. Who gets to speak? Who gets funding? Who gets stopped by the police?

It’s messy. But it’s necessary.

🎨 Art as Survival

What LKJ teaches us — and what reggae embodies — is that art isn’t just decoration. It’s survival. It’s how communities process trauma, reclaim dignity, and imagine freedom.

In Brixton, poetry and music turned pain into power. In Rotterdam, we see the same in spoken word collectives, street art, and underground music scenes. From Crooswijk to Delfshaven, young artists are telling stories that mainstream media won’t touch.

And platforms like Dutch Echo exist to amplify those voices — not sanitize them.

🌐 Why This Matters Globally

Whether you’re in Brixton, Brooklyn, or Bospolder-Tussendijken, the themes are the same:

• Migration without integration
• Policing without protection
• Culture without credit

Reggae, dub poetry, and grassroots journalism like Gary Webb’s work remind us that truth doesn’t always come from the top. Sometimes it comes from the block, the beat, or the broken heart.

🧭 Final Word: Babylon Still Standing?

Babylon hasn’t fallen yet. But it’s shaking. Every protest, every poem, every beat is a crack in the foundation.

LKJ’s legacy isn’t just musical — it’s moral. He showed that you don’t need a podium to speak truth. Just rhythm, rage, and a reason.

So whether you’re a new Rotterdammer trying to find your place, or a global reader tracing the echoes of resistance — know this: the struggle is real, but so is the art. And sometimes, the art hits harder.

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