Of Flags and Anthems

A motorcade parading the Haitian flag crawled through the streets of St. Martin in the afternoon of Sunday, May 17th in obvious celebration of Haitian Flag Day, which was the following day, May 18th.

The sight filled me with so much pride that it made me echo that popular Haitian Kweyol saying: Nou tout se zo (loosely translated as We’re all Haitian to the bone). It also reminded me of similar celebrations by other immigrant groups on the island- the dominicanos during Semana Dominicana; the Arubans on Aruba Day, the Curacaoleneans on their Dia di Himno y Bandera and even some Americans on July 4th.

Come to think of it, five flags officially fly over our island: in the South, the Dutch national flag, the St. Martin flag and in the North, the French national flag and the European flag, with the Unity Flag shared commonly between both sides as a “cultural flag.” A sixth flag would soon be added when the Collectivite adopts a new flag for the North.

To traverse the 37 square miles of St. Martin is, therefore, to engage in a continuous visual dialogue with textiles and the quest for identity. On this single, indivisible island, flags do not merely flutter from government poles; they saturate the landscape. They drape across car bonnets during some sporting events, line the streets during cultural festivals, and spark intense constitutional and identity debates in the public sphere.

In a territory defined by dual constitutional and administrative realities and a deeply diverse population, these pieces of colored fabric are far from passive decorations. They are potent instruments of sovereignty, memory, resistance, identity and belonging.

To understand St. Martin’s unique relationship with vexillology - which is the study of the history, usage and symbolism of flags - one must first look at the sheer density of banners that claim its air space. As a con-dominion of the Republic of France and the Kingdom of the Netherlands, St. Martin’s landscape is legally dominated by these two European powers. On the northern side—the Collectivité de Saint-Martin—the blue, white, and red tricolor of the French Republic flies over administrative buildings, signifying its status as an overseas collectivity fully integrated into the French legal and constitutional framework.

Conversely, on the southern side—Sint Maarten, a so-called autonomous country within the Kingdom of the Netherlands—the red, white, and blue flag of the Netherlands historically holds legal precedence, though it is the distinct Sint Maarten flag that captures local pride.

Adopted in 1985, the southern side’s flag features a vibrant red and blue field split by a white triangle holding the island's coat of arms, complete with the courthouse, the monument, and the yellow sage flower. At the hoisting of the flag for the first time, the legendary political leader of the island, Claude Wathey famously said that the St. Maarten flag would one day soar above all other flags in an obvious reference to the day the island would become independent.

Yet, the administrative flags tell only half the story. In recent decades, the Unity Flag—unveiled in 1990 at the Preliminary Conference on National Symbols—has surged in prominence. Featuring a prominent yellow topping a field of green, red, and blue, this flag represents a cultural and nationalist assertion that defies the colonial administrative division of the island. It symbolizes the oneness of the St. Martin people, transcending French and Dutch bureaucratic partitions.

When cultural advocates or grassroots movements raise the Unity Flag, they are signaling an indigenous, unified identity that existed long before modern borders became established.

The profound emotional resonance of these symbols highlights the broader socio-political purpose that flags serve for any community. Human beings are inherently narrative-driven creatures, and a flag operates as a condensed, visual shorthand for a community’s shared history, struggles, and aspirations. It is a sacred totem around which a disparate group of people can coalesce into a unified "we." In times of crisis, such as the aftermath of devastating hurricanes, or in moments of collective triumph, like the annual Carnival or the St. Martin Day celebrations, the lifting of the Unity Flag is a visceral declaration of identity, resistance and resilience. It says, unequivocally: “We are still here, in spite of everything.”

This visual declaration is usually accompanied by a national anthem that serves as its auditory twin. If a flag is the sight of a nation, the anthem is its sound. There exists an unbreakable nexus between the two; they are the dual pillars of modern civic identity. Where a flag offers a static, spatial representation of a community, an anthem provides a temporal, emotional journey through melody and lyrics.

However, the legal path to establishing this auditory twin can be fraught with constitutional complexities, as seen on the southern side of the island. Though St. Martin (South) attained its status as an a so-called autonomous country within the Kingdom of the Netherlands in 2010, its Parliament is yet to approve an official anthem as constitutionally mandated. Meanwhile, the popular "O Sweet Saint Martin’s Land"—written by Father Gerard Kemps— continues to be used, (some would say illegally) as a pseudo national anthem.

It is sung often at official settings and government as well as cultural events, despite the copyright constraints that have prevented it from being adopted officially. Yet, its lack of formal, legislative approval underscores a poignant truth: a community's soul often accepts what the bureaucracy has imposed on it, albeit unconstitutionally.

Can the flag exist without the anthem? Historically and practically, yes. Many ancient civilizations marched under military standards long before the concept of a synchronized national song was born in the 18th and 19th centuries.

On the other hand, a marginalized group or a displaced diaspora might possess a rich tradition of protest songs and cultural hymns long before they design a formal banner to represent their struggle. However, within the architecture of modern statehood and self-determination, the flag and the anthem are functionally inseparable. A flag without an anthem lacks a voice; an anthem without a flag lacks a face. Together, they perform a sensory synchronization, engaging both the eye and the ear to evoke a state of profound psychological alignment among citizens.

Consider a medal awards ceremony at an important sporting event. The winner climbs the podium, draped in their national flag. What comes next? The national anthem of the winner.

However, this alignment becomes complex in a highly cosmopolitan society like St. Martin, which hosts immigrants from scores of different nations. How should the island navigate flag protocols when immigrant communities wish to celebrate their own national or flag days?

The answer lies in a delicate balance between hospitality and sovereignty, guided by clear, respectful protocol. Freedom of cultural expression is a hallmark of a mature society, and immigrant communities should be permitted to celebrate their heritage, fly their home flags, and play their anthems during private functions, cultural festivals, or at designated diplomatic venues. However, public protocol must always reflect the hospitality context of the host territory.

When foreign flags are displayed publicly during immigrant celebrations, they should ideally be flown ALONGSIDE the host emblems — in our case, either the St. Martin (South) flag, the French tricolor, or the culturally unifying Unity Flag, depending on the jurisdiction and context.

Crucially, international flag protocol dictates that a foreign flag should never be flown higher, larger, or in a position of greater honor than the flag of the host nation on its own soil. By maintaining this standard, immigrant celebrations can be beautiful expressions of the island’s diversity without inadvertently signaling a disrespect for the people and laws of the land that has welcomed them.

This brings us to the core paradox of symbols in our contemporary reality: What sense do flags make in a colonial setting like ours?

In the St. Martin context where independence has not yet been realized, flags can send deeply contradictory messages. To see the French tricolor or the Dutch flag flying over our Caribbean waters can feel like a persistent reminder of external, metropolitan authority—an explicit visual marker of a colonial relationship where final decision-making power often rests thousands of miles away across the Atlantic. In this light, these flags can symbolize an uncompleted march toward full self-determination, serving as daily reminders of a structural and colonial dependency.

Yet, to view flags purely as symbols of colonial subjugation is to overlook the agency of our people. In a colonial setting, the creation and elevation of local flags—like the St. Martin (South) flag or the Unity Flag—become acts of profound counter-assertion of a separate identity and even of resistance. They are tools of psychological decolonization.

When the people of St. Martin hoist their own banners, they are actively carving out an autonomous identity from within the belly of the colonial administrative machine. They are stating that their culture, their history, and their right to the land cannot be fully erased or subsumed by a European identity.

Ultimately, in our setting, flags make sense because they are sites of active negotiation. They are not merely passive pieces of cloth; they are battlegrounds of meaning. They force us to ask who we are, where our loyalties lie, and what future we wish to build.

As long as the people of St. Martin continue to look up to the banners snapping in the trade winds, the dialogue between the flags imposed on us and the flags we freely choose will remain a vital heartbeat of the island's journey toward full self-determination.

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