While I now live in Brooklyn, I will always love Jamaica. I was born there. I grew up there. I proudly wear black, green and gold, the colors of the Jamaican flag, whenever I get the chance to cheer on athletes from “Yard.” I regularly patronize Jamaican restaurants, always on the lookout for those serving up tasty oxtail, jerk chicken or beef patties. On occasion, you might catch me at a concert when one of my favorite reggae artists is performing in the New York metro area (looking at you Buju Banton!).
I’m usually excited to see coverage of all things Jamaican. However, watching the slow and steady movement of a horrific storm on a collision course with my beloved land over the last several days was agonizing. Major outlets—ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox, CNN, BBC, Reuters, Associated Press, seemingly everyone—sent correspondents to file reports. The news was not good.
Hurricane Melissa appeared to grow increasingly angry the closer she got to the island—despite how slowly she was moving. By the time she was approaching landfall, with the eye wall aimed at the western parishes, Melissa had been designated as Category 5. The highest number on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Wind Scale, Category 5 means the weather system will “cause catastrophic damage” with sustained winds of 157 mph and higher. Melissa’s winds were consistently clocking at 185 mph. Even the famed Hurricane Hunters abandoned their efforts to complete documenting the storm, but not before they had measured wind gusts as high as 241 mph.
“Record-breaking.” “Cataclysmic.” “Utter devastation possible.” “Flooding, landslides and storm surges expected.” “One of the strongest Atlantic storms ever.” This was not the kind of history making I wanted for my little Jamaica. “There is no infrastructure in the region that can withstand a Category 5,” Prime Minister Andrew Holness warned in a press briefing.
Terrified and worried about my family and friends who live on island, I felt helpless. The night before Melissa was to come ashore, I barely slept. I checked website after website, and YouTube channels that offered updates until daybreak, praying for a reprieve. Some of my WhatsApp chats were blowing up as family and friends who were also on tenterhooks constantly posted pics and videos.
When Melissa finally landed at the poignantly named town of New Hope in the parish of St. Elizabeth, those of us looking on from afar were in for a long, nerve-wracking day. While we awaited word as to damages, I reminisced about happier times: Picking sweet Julie mangoes from the big tree in the front yard of my childhood home; going to the beach where my late brother tried (and failed) to teach me to swim; visiting relatives during the summer in the very areas that were now being lashed by rain and wind. I prayed my little island would survive the siege.
Later that day, a friend shared her own nostalgic trip down memory lane as she watched someone on YouTube Live touring the Kingston neighborhoods where she had grown up. We talked about being homesick for a place that we hadn’t called home in years. It made me think of the lyrics of “Island in the Sun,” a song by Harry Belafonte, the son of Jamaican parents, who spent a part of his childhood on the island:
This is my island in the sun
Where my people have toiled since time begun
I may sail on many a sea
Her shores will always be home to me
Oh, island in the sun
Willed to me by my father’s hand
All my days I will sing in praise
Of your forest, waters
Your shining sand
Viewing all the happenings from overseas, the overwhelming feeling of being powerless was accompanied by something else—guilt. I should be there kept running through my mind. I had no idea what I would be doing, but I was sure it would be better than sitting safely in Brooklyn while my loved ones faced danger without me. Waiting for news was torturous.
Finally, in the evening, when the winds began to die down and the heavy rains tapered to lighter showers, I exhaled a little. The most pressing danger had passed. I was able to contact some family members who, I was relieved to learn, were safe and sound, but there were still concerns about the ones we couldn’t reach. I could only hope they, too, were secure. Daylight brought more clarity and damage assessment. It was not a pretty picture.
After the storm, how will things get back to normal? What does recovery look like? The days ahead are sure to be difficult. The true impact of Melissa on the island will not be evident for some time. The clean-up is going to take a lot of resources. But one thing I know for sure is that Jamaica will rebuild. I have faith in my people. We’re a resilient bunch; we come from stalwart stock. There’s a Jamaican patois proverb that says, “We likkle but we tallawah” meaning we’re small but we’re strong, mighty and durable. At approximately 4,411 square miles, our homeland may be similar in size to the state of Connecticut, but our heart is immense. “No problem” is our ethos. We will always find a way.
The Prime Minister has declared the entire island as a disaster area and the government has launched a website for those who want to help in the relief efforts: supportjamaica.gov.jm. Other groups in the diaspora are also gearing up to do their part. We’re ready.
As Bob Marley proclaimed in “Survival,” his 1979 anthem, “Yeah! we’re the survivors … thrown in the fire, but never get burn”—that is the Jamaican mindset. We survived slavery, we survived colonialism, we survived all manner of other hardships. We’ll survive this, too.