Energy poverty is not a statistic. It’s a grandmother in Georgetown, St Vincent, unplugging the fridge at night because she can’t afford to run it and the fan. It’s a schoolchild in Barrouallie doing homework by candlelight because the power got cut again. It’s a fisherman in Bequia watching his catch spoil because cold storage is a luxury. It’s a mother in Union Island, after Hurricane Beryl, trying to rebuild a life while wondering if “reliable electricity” is something she’ll ever have again.
So, when energy policy is reduced to megawatts, targets, glossy reports, and “net-zero by X date,” something goes sideways. A grid can look “greener” on paper while people remain in the dark in real life. That’s not a transition. That’s a spreadsheet exercise wearing a cape.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: rooftop solar and net metering programs, often promoted as the solution, were never designed for most Vincentians. They quietly assume you own your home, your roof is strong enough, and you can access capital or credit.
Who does that describe in St. Vincent and the Grenadines?
Let’s talk wages before we talk panels. On March 1, 2024, the minimum wage was updated after being stuck since 2004. An agricultural worker is now listed at EC$50 per day. That’s about US$18.50 for a full day’s work.
Now picture someone earning EC$50/day being told to invest in a solar system costing US$15,000–US$25,000. That’s not “tight budgeting.” That’s fantasy physics. Even people we call “middle class” feel the squeeze. After rent, food, school costs, transport, and an electricity bill that can spike with fuel surcharges, what’s left is often just anxiety and prayer that nothing breaks down.
And then comes the cruel twist: net metering can unintentionally transfer costs downward.
When a wealthy household installs rooftop solar, they use the grid like a personal battery—exporting power by day and importing it at night—while their bill collapses. But the grid still has fixed costs: lines, substations, crews, repairs after storms. When high-income solar adopters pay less into that system, someone else covers the fixed costs.
That “someone else” is usually the people who cannot afford solar: renters, low-income households, and the very communities already spending the highest share of income on electricity. We have designed a system where the poor pay more so the rich can pay less—and then we call it “clean energy policy.”
Now, layer in reality: disaster after disaster
La Soufrière. Elsa. Beryl—where over 90% of buildings in the Southern Grenadines were destroyed, and losses were estimated at US$230 million (about 22% of GDP) in a single storm.
Every shock resets households to survival mode. And survival mode is not where US$15,000 solar decisions get made.
So, what does a just energy transition look like here?
It looks like designing for renters, low-income families, storm resilience, and real lives—not for donor dashboards. It looks like community solar. Shared installations where multiple households subscribe—even if they rent, even if their roof is weak, even if they can’t afford a high upfront cost. Community solar turns sunlight into a shared public good, not a private upgrade.
It looks like cooperatively owned microgrids. Puerto Rico’s town of Adjuntas built a cooperative solar microgrid with storage that kept businesses and community services powered even when the main grid failed—and reinvested its savings to help the most vulnerable. That’s the opposite of “the poor subsidise the rich.”
Imagine that model in Union Island. In Bequia. In Barrouallie.
It looks like financing that reaches the last mile. Revolving funds. Pay-as-you-save models. Green banks that don’t treat low-income households like bad bets, but like the whole point. It looks like resilience hubs. Solar-plus-storage in schools, clinics, and community centres—places that can become lifelines when hurricanes hit. It looks like fair rates. If net metering creates hidden subsidies, reform it. The poor should not bankroll the grid so others can “battery it” for free.
And finally—this one is personal—it looks like new success metrics. Not just “megawatts added,” BUT: How many households left energy poverty this year? How many clinics stayed powered during outages? How many children stopped studying by candlelight? Because the sun is democratic. It shines on Indian Bay and Rose Place with the same force. If our policies keep funnelling that sunlight into the pockets of those who already have stability, credit, and property—then we’re not building a clean energy future. We’re building a cleaner version of inequality.
The sun shines on everyone. It’s time our energy systems did the same.
Lonzel Jones Caribbean Regional Chairperson – African & Caribbean Energy Network (ACEN) https://acenergynetwork.org