Hurricane Melissa took my family’s home.
Our ancestral home is near Tombstone, a Maroon burial ground in Santa Cruz, St. Elizabeth, one of Jamaica’s largest parishes, situated on the southwest coast of the island. 90% of the homes in Black River, the capital of St. Elizabeth, are completely destroyed. The Category 5 hurricane pushed through Jamaica last week. It was the strongest storm ever to make landfall on the island. Melissa tore off roofs. She snatched homes from their foundation. She dug up caskets planted deep in the ground. She wrecked the police station, courthouse, hospitals, schools, the downtown shopping district, and signage posing on the side of the road. Melissa took it all.
The Black River is unrecognizable. As are parts of St. Ann, Ocho Rios, Westmoreland, Montego Bay and high above sea level in Blue Mountain, where uncle Noel’s Bed & Breakfast and Ital Kissa sit. And although the weight of destruction and rebuilding vastly plagues communities across Jamaica, no being, natural disaster, global phenomenon, or wild conspiracy theories can ever take the fight and faith from our land. Or our people. Jamaica will get through this. Jamaica will recover. Jamaica will overcome. The Saint Elizabeth I know and love is gone.
I’m holding on tight to the memories made over decades of enjoying this low-key pocket of paradise. Birthdays at Jake’s. Cold Red Stripe and irie vibes at Floyd’s Pelican Beach Bar. Chilling seaside for hours at Las Vegas Cafe, yaming fried fish and bammy. And breadfruit when it was in season. Tarzan rope swings at YS Falls. Lover’s Leap. Bubbling Spring. Fish tea in styrofoam cups from street vendors to relieve my nauseous belly from the winding roads. Crocodiles and lush mangroves in Black River. My family’s home around the bend from the pink house on the corner near Tombstone.
It was a modest home that my cousin Dave has occupied since he left America for Jamaica in 2005. Two bedrooms, a small kitchen, one bathroom and a quaint sitting room at the front of the house. The zinc roof blew off during the storm — then tree limbs and rubble took over.
My grandfather, James Webb, whom we affectionately called Fadda, also lived in that home. It belonged to his late sister, Sylvia Webb, who built it with her late husband on my great-grandfather’s land. Fadda fled the country for Kingston, then in 1973, he immigrated to America with my grandmother, Carmen, and their two youngest sons, Barrington and Michael, my father. Fadda returned to Santa Cruz in 1989 to join his father, sister, and brother at our family’s grave site.
Fadda was a chatty man who was often looking for someone to reason with and share stories about his barbershop back in Jamaica. His thick-rimmed rectangular frames never left his slender face. The brim of his corduroy newsboy cap sat low above his bushy brows. Fadda loved him pickney dem. He considered himself a rich man because, for Fadda, family, children, and legacy equaled wealth. He has eight sons, 60-something grandchildren, and over one hundred great-grandchildren. I remember his worn chocolate complexion, the suffocating smell of the unfiltered Marlboro cigarettes he incessantly smoked. I remember his clean style and pensive gaze.
I remember visiting our ancestral home for the first time in 2007 with Mommy and Noni. We went to check Dave, the handsome cousin Noni and I would party with back in our Q Club, Mercedes and Amazura days. Dave was an unassuming Ras with sweeping locks and swagger, who left America for Jamaica against his will. We drove from Montego Bay to South Coast to rescue Joshua, Dave’s eldest son, who was spending the summer at the old house near Tombstone with his father. That experience was humbling for Joshua, and for us. The old house was primitive. There was no TV, radio, iPads or modern modes of entertainment. Just family, history, love and land. Land that has held the Webbs for generations.
After the storm, I reached out to a few of my dearest on and off the island to discuss the devastating impact of Hurricane Melissa. I tried to phone Dave. Cell service is restored but power is limited. “Most of the so-called belligerent slaves were sent to Jamaica,” my mother shared. Mommy’s family is from Alexandria in St. Ann. St. Ann was underwater when Melissa was done.“We are the descendants of a strong, courageous people. We will overcome this and continue to move forward.”
“Jamaicans are suffering,” she continued. “And for many, it’s going to take a long time to rebuild. The land is an important part of our history. To know that people will be uprooted from land that has been in their family for generations really bothers me. I’m praying that people of Jamaican descent get down to the island and build in the areas most impacted so we don’t have all these outsiders coming in, taking away our land.”
When I spoke to Daddy, who grew up in Vineyard Town in Southeast Kingston, he shared a similar sentiment. “For those who have a voice, they must let the world know how serious this is,” he said. “I’m heartbroken but seeing the Jamaican’s that have left home and settled all over the world, jumping in to help without waiting on the government is beautiful. This is not just a hurricane. It’s generations of people’s lives that are going to be displaced forever.” Daddy’s message to those impacted is simple: “stand firm and do not allow yourself to be bought out.”
Toray, my best friend and son’s godfather, who left the island as a young boy, has his sights set on a better Jamaica. “Jamaica has an opportunity to make this disaster one of our greatest moments,” Toray said. “Infrastructure wise, some of those places needed to be rebuilt and rebuilt properly. I’m hoping the government utilizes resources to build back a better Jamaica.” He continued, “for a lickle piece of land to stretch its influence all over the world, now is the time for the world to give back all Jamaica has given.”
Uncle Noel, who runs a Bed & Breakfast and Ital Kissa on the opposite side of the island, wasn’t prepared for the storm. “We never prepare, because the impact was supposed to be far away from the mountain,” Uncle Noel told me. “Monday mornin, di place start get dark, and we start hear dis rain and dis noise. By Monday night, it was tearing down di place. The windows dem shakin. Di doors dem shakin. There is not one leaf dat stay on di tree. I’ve never heard or seen anything like this,” he continued. “But nothing can beat Jamaica. The hurricane come and go, but you dun know we still have di vibes.”