Looking Back, Moving Forward: Rethinking Decline in Jersey’s Story
First published in the Jersey Evening Post 2025-09-26
I often find myself in conversation with Islanders who say, quite simply, that things used to be better. There’s usually no anger in the statement – just a sense of sadness, or quiet resignation. People speak of a time when houses were more affordable, when the Island felt more cohesive, when the summer season brought bustling hotels and thriving guesthouses, and when politics seemed closer to the ground.
These are heartfelt views, held with real sincerity by many, especially those who have seen Jersey change across several decades. Even as a relative newcomer, having lived and worked here since 2012, I recognise the truth in much of what is said. There has been a shift – a sense that something has been lost, or at least loosened. But I’ve come to believe that we should handle these conversations about change with care. Not because people are wrong to feel something has changed, but because the way we tell the story of that change matters deeply.
During my time studying at King’s College London, I was fortunate to be taught by the historian David Edgerton, whose work has greatly shaped how I think about these questions. In books like The Rise and Fall of the British Nation and The Shock of the Old he challenges what he calls “declinism” – a narrative common in British history that tells of long, slow, national decline after the Second World War. In this telling, Britain is seen as having fallen from its imperial heights into economic weakness, social decay, and diminished global standing.
Edgerton’s argument is that this story, though emotionally compelling, often distorts reality. The evidence does not support the narrative. It tends to exaggerate past success, downplay later achievements, and overlook the role of political choices in shaping outcomes. Perhaps most importantly, he shows that declinism is not a neutral way of describing history. It is an interpretation – and sometimes, a convenient one. When we say “things were better back then,” we’re not just remembering; we’re also implying that today is worse and tomorrow might be worse still. That shapes the kind of future we allow ourselves to imagine.
I think Jersey, too, has a declinist story – told in conversations, letters and opinions expressed in this newspaper, and even in States debates. It often begins with a picture of the Island when tourism was flourishing, when the finance industry was just emerging, and when many Islanders could afford to buy their own home without needing two incomes. It may recall a stronger sense of local identity, when everyone seemed to know everyone else and people didn’t feel the need to lock their doors.
There is emotional truth in this story. It speaks to a time of security, belonging, and possibility. But like all narratives, it leaves some things out. The Jersey of the past was also shaped by choices and constraints. Housing was more affordable partly because wages were lower, household expectations were simpler, and planning controls were looser. The tourist economy was heavily supported by public investment – in harbours, infrastructure, and marketing – and many workers endured long hours for seasonal pay. And while community bonds were strong, they often rested on assumptions about age, gender, ethnicity, migration, and class that might not be accepted today.
In this sense, our Island’s past – like its present – was a mixture of strengths and struggles. Government didn’t merely drift from a golden age to the present. It chose paths: to liberalise the finance sector, to adapt to globalisation, to modernise public services. These choices brought prosperity to many, but also created new tensions: around population, land use, income distribution, and cultural identity. Some of those choices could have been made differently. Others were, in truth, shaped by forces beyond our control.
Today, the risks of declinism are not just about nostalgia – they are also about paralysis. If we believe we are in decline, we may stop believing in our ability to act. We may resist necessary reforms, or cast blame too easily on newcomers, younger people, or those in government. We may yearn for a past that cannot return in the form we remember, rather than asking what kind of future we want to build.
That doesn’t mean ignoring what has changed or brushing aside people’s sense of loss. Far from it. In fact, I believe we need to listen carefully to what these stories are really telling us: that Islanders want belonging, stability, fairness, and a sense of place. These are not unreasonable desires. But we must also ask how we can meet them in the world as it is – not the world as it was.
That’s where hope lies. Not in pretending all is well, but in recognising that Jersey is still capable of renewal. We remain a community with extraordinary resources – economic, human, and cultural. We have the capacity to invest in housing, education, health, and the environment if we choose to. We have newcomers bringing energy and ideas, and long-term residents whose deep knowledge of the Island is an anchor in uncertain times. We have young people who see Jersey with different eyes – sometimes critical, often creative – and who may carry forward a different kind of Island story.
David Edgerton taught me that how we talk about decline is never just academic. It shapes what we expect, what we fear, and what we are willing to try. If we tell ourselves that the best is behind us, then we make that story true by closing down our imagination. But if we recognise that the past was made through choices- and the present too – then the future becomes a place of possibility.
I hope we can find ways to honour our past without becoming trapped by it. That we can remember the warmth and solidarity of earlier years, while building new forms of community for a changing world. And that, in time, we might come to see our Island not as a place that has declined, but as one that has adapted, endured, and still holds the capacity to surprise us.