Tucked up behind the burglarproofing for another early night, it's easy not to mind the state of emergency too much, apart from some mild grumbling about being shut in. To be perfectly honest, part of me feels safer because of the curfew.

The fact is that—of course—crime is down.

I don't need to worry about being safe if I go out at night, if only because I can't go out.

Those rounded up by police and soldiers will be off the streets for a while—if they were held under the Anti-Gang Act, they may not get bail for four months. So if the right people are now behind bars, the lull in crime should last at least until Christmas. And a lull is better than nothing.

But it comes at a price. And being behind bars all night every night gives you time to think.

Five hundred people have been arrested. Were they targeted, or picked up by chance? Have any big fish been hooked, or are these small fry who were snagged in the net?

If the authorities have a well-thought-out plan, why did they make so many basic blunders when they put it into operation?

If a government does something this drastic, it needs to make it clear that its members have thought through their move.

Instead, they seemed not even to know—or were unable to explain—whether the State of Emergency and the curfew were nationwide or not, far less what the Emergency meant for the public at large.

When an edgy Dominic Kalipersad asked the Attorney General why the Prime Minister had described the State of Emergency as limited, Mr Ramlogan scoffed at him, suggesting everyone else understood perfectly. It was limited, he argued, because the curfew was confined to certain areas and because it was set to last only 15 days.

But the State of Emergency itself covers the whole country; and as for the timeframe, the law says any state of emergency lasts for 15 days in the first instance.

Mr Ramlogan, as chief government spokesman, tried to have it both ways. "We have declared a state of war in Trinidad and Tobago against the criminal element," he declared.

At the same time, he played down the impact of this "limited" emergency further by saying citizens' constitutional rights had not been suspended.

But the Constitution and the emergency powers regulations say otherwise.

A state of emergency is the State's ultimate weapon—and a weapon of last resort, because innocent bystanders are injured by the fallout.

Your house can be searched without a warrant. You can be locked up without due process.

The forthright Justice Minister, Hubert Volney, warned cheerily that people who were found out of doors during curfew hours could be shot on sight.

The form of the regulations that the authorities chose to issue really has a wartime ring: they allow for "censorship and the control and suppression of publications, writings, maps, plans, photographs, communications and means of communication."

Citizens may not possess documents that may "cause disaffection or discontent," nor try to "influence public opinion in a manner likely to be prejudicial to public safety and order."

You can be jailed, it seems, for having not only illegal weapons but illegal opinions.

As well as freedom of speech, the rights of free movement, association and assembly have also been taken away.

It will take more than a few quiet nights to justify that. And the State of Emergency may have other, unintended consequences.

Take the titles on YouTube given to the same television interview from Wednesday night: you can choose between "AG exposes Dominic Kalipersad's bias" or "Ramlogan loses it on (sic) TV6 interview."

It wasn't seen merely as a slightly snappish but informative interview; it was viewed through polarised lenses. So it wasn't a simple difference of opinion or a personality clash. Depending on where you sat, it proved either that the entire Government was incompetent and dishonest, or that the whole television station was anti-government.

The State of Emergency itself is having a similar effect. Questioning it makes you an opponent of the Government and a supporter of violent crime.

How you see it depends too on whether you see yourself as a victim of crime or of the police, whether you live in an urban hotspot or outside the curfew area.

For some of us it means less liming on the avenue. For others, it means your house being ransacked by police and soldiers; your son handcuffed in the tray of a police van.

These sweeps have left frightened and angry people in their wake, and caused still deeper resentment and alienation among the communities whose young men have been singled out for searches, roundups and lockdowns. Those feelings won't go away when the curfew is lifted.

In an increasingly fissive society, the State of Emergency is entrenching the divisions, and they run from top to bottom. Whether it's a television interview with the Attorney General or a police and army exercise in Sea Lots or St Joseph, it's us against them. That attitude is what got the country into this state in the first place. That's the real State of Emergency.