The privy council will never uphold a 500-year-old homophobic piece of British law
A law written by the British Empire to govern its colonial subjects now stands before the Empire's own highest court, challenged by the man it was used to silence. Jason Jones, a Trinidadian activist, has carried a decade-long legal fight to London's Privy Council, seeking to permanently strike down a 1925 statute that criminalizes consensual same-sex intimacy in Trinidad and Tobago. The case asks not only whether one man's rights were violated, but whether the legal architecture of colonialism — preserved at independence through constitutional savings clauses — can continue to define the boundaries of human dignity across the Caribbean.
- Five Caribbean nations, all former British colonies, still criminalize homosexuality — while every other country in the Americas, from Canada to Chile, has decriminalized it.
- A 2018 court victory for Jones was reversed last year when Trinidad and Tobago's court of appeal reinstated the law after government intervention, sending the fight to the Privy Council.
- The government's resistance is not purely moral — officials warn that overturning the savings clause framework could destabilize dozens of other inherited colonial statutes still embedded in Caribbean law.
- LGBTQ+ individuals in Trinidad and Tobago currently face up to five years imprisonment for consensual intimacy, making the human cost of delay both immediate and measurable.
- A ruling expected within three to six months could set a binding precedent that forces Caribbean nations to confront — and potentially dismantle — the legal remnants of empire.
In 2017, Jason Jones chose to challenge a law that had followed his country since the colonial era. The statute — originating in 1925 and later codified into Trinidad and Tobago's Sexual Offences Act — made consensual anal sex between men punishable by up to five years in prison. A high court agreed with him in 2018, ruling the law violated his constitutional rights to privacy and equality. Then, last year, the country's court of appeal reversed that decision after the attorney general intervened, and the law was restored.
Now 61, Jones is in London presenting his case before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council — the highest court of appeal for Commonwealth nations. The hearing carries weight far beyond one man's story. Activists across the Caribbean are watching closely, aware that the ruling could determine how their own nations reckon with colonial laws still embedded in their legal systems. The deep irony is not lost on observers: the law Jones is fighting was written by the British Empire itself, in a country that has long since repealed such statutes at home.
Trinidad and Tobago's government is contesting the appeal, though its primary concern extends beyond the sodomy law itself. Officials worry that striking down the savings clause — a constitutional provision that preserved existing British laws at independence — could unravel a broader legal framework, forcing a reckoning with dozens of inherited statutes. Prime Minister Kamla Persad-Bissessar has called the expected ruling "a very profound decision" that will offer guidance on which colonial laws to retain and which to abandon.
Jones sees the decade of legal battle differently. He has watched the state spend millions opposing him, when parliament could have simply repealed the law at any point. The statute, he argues, does not merely criminalize behavior — it dehumanizes an entire group of people. He expressed confidence that the Privy Council, ruling in 2026 within a legal tradition that treats privacy and individual rights as foundational, would not uphold what he calls a centuries-old homophobic relic. The decision, expected within three to six months, will determine whether the courts finally sever the living connection between colonial-era legislation and contemporary justice.
In 2017, Jason Jones, a Trinidadian LGBTQ+ rights activist, decided to challenge a law that had shadowed his country for nearly a century. The "buggery law"—a relic of 1925, codified into Trinidad and Tobago's Sexual Offences Act in 1986—made consensual anal sex between men a criminal act punishable by up to five years in prison. A year later, in 2018, a high court agreed with him. The judges ruled that the law violated his constitutional rights to privacy and equality. It seemed like a victory.
Then last year, everything reversed. Trinidad and Tobago's court of appeal overturned that decision after the country's attorney general intervened. The law was restored. Now, at 61, Jones finds himself in London, presenting his case before some of the United Kingdom's most senior judges—the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, the highest court of appeal for Commonwealth nations and British overseas territories. The hearing this week carries weight far beyond one man's fight. Activists across the Caribbean are watching closely, knowing that whatever these judges decide could reshape how their own nations reckon with the colonial laws still embedded in their legal systems.
The irony cuts deep. The law Jones is challenging was written by the British empire itself, during the colonial era. Britain has long since repealed such statutes at home. Yet in five countries across the Americas—Jamaica, Guyana, St Vincent and the Grenadines, Trinidad and Tobago, and Grenada—homosexuality remains criminalized. All five are former British colonies. As Leo Varadkar, Ireland's former prime minister and now a human rights fellow at Harvard, noted in a recent paper, this is no accident. From Canada to Chile, every other nation in the Americas has decriminalized homosexuality. The exception is these five anglophone countries, still bound by the legal chains of empire.
Trinidad and Tobago's government is fighting Jones's appeal, but not entirely on the grounds one might expect. Prime Minister Kamla Persad-Bissessar argues that the case touches something larger than sodomy laws alone. It concerns what lawyers call "savings clauses"—provisions written into Caribbean constitutions at independence to preserve existing British laws rather than wholesale repeal them. The government worries that striking down the sodomy law could unravel the entire framework, forcing a reckoning with dozens of other inherited statutes. "This ruling is going to be a very profound decision," Persad-Bissessar told the Guardian at a Caribbean leaders' summit. "We have a lot of colonial laws that were saved, so this will give us guidance as to which ones we keep, which ones we don't keep."
Jones sees this differently. He has spent a decade in legal battle, watching the state spend millions of taxpayers' money opposing him, when parliament could have simply repealed the law itself. "At any time over the last decade of my legal challenge, the state and indeed parliament could have put a stop to this and just removed these heinous laws themselves," he said. The law, he argues, does more than criminalize behavior—it dehumanizes an entire group of people, making them simultaneously criminal and victim. He expressed confidence in his case, noting that the privy council judges would be ruling in 2026, in a country where human rights protections and the right to privacy are foundational legal principles. "The privy council will never uphold a 500-year-old homophobic piece of British law that goes against the rights of the individual," he said. "I know I'm on the right side of history."
The judges are expected to deliver their decision within three to six months. Whatever they rule will reverberate across the Caribbean, where similar colonial-era laws remain on the books in multiple nations. The case represents a moment when the legal inheritance of empire—still active, still punitive—collides with modern understandings of human rights and bodily autonomy. For Jones and thousands of others living under these laws, the outcome will determine whether the courts finally sever the connection between colonial-era legislation and contemporary justice.
Notable Quotes
At any time over the last decade of my legal challenge, the state and indeed parliament could have put a stop to this and just removed these heinous laws themselves. They have wasted millions of taxpayers' money fighting me.— Jason Jones, LGBTQ+ rights activist
This ruling is going to be a very profound decision, not just impacting on sodomy laws but that whole issue of the saving clause. We have a lot of colonial laws that were saved, so this will give us guidance as to which ones we keep, which ones we don't keep.— Prime Minister Kamla Persad-Bissessar
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter that these judges are British, sitting in London? Doesn't Trinidad and Tobago have its own courts?
They do, but the Privy Council is the final court of appeal for Commonwealth nations—a holdover from the colonial period itself. So in a way, the structure that's hearing this case is part of the same colonial architecture the law comes from. But that also means these judges are ruling from a jurisdiction where the law was already repealed, where privacy rights are protected. That's the irony Jones is banking on.
The government says this could affect other "savings clauses." What are they actually worried about?
They're worried about precedent. If the court says a colonial law can be struck down because it violates human rights, then dozens of other inherited statutes become vulnerable. The government wants guidance on which laws to keep and which to discard. But critics would say that's exactly the point—these laws should be examined, not preserved just because they were saved at independence.
Has anything like this happened before in the Caribbean?
Yes, actually. Barbados, Dominica, St Lucia, and Antigua and Barbuda have all had their sodomy laws struck down by judges in recent years. So there's momentum. But Trinidad and Tobago's government fought back harder, which is why it's reached the Privy Council. The stakes feel higher here.
What does Jones think will happen?
He's confident. He says the judges won't uphold a 500-year-old homophobic law in 2026, not in a court system built on human rights principles. But he's also frustrated—he thinks parliament should have just repealed it themselves years ago, instead of forcing him to fight through the courts and waste millions in taxpayer money.
And if he loses?
Then the law stays on the books, and the message to LGBTQ+ people in Trinidad and Tobago is that the courts won't protect them. It would also suggest that other Caribbean nations can keep their colonial-era laws intact. The decision will ripple across the region.