The Nothingness of it All

The deafening sound of silence in what was once a bustling, crowded, vibrant seaside town, lingers in the air and fills the void. I haven't seen even one stray dog. Not one johncrow flying overhead. Just a single man with a shopping bag, something he seems to have picked up from a donation center, walking carefully through the deserted street. His head held down, shoulder bent from the weight of the world.

Tears roll down my face as I stare at the sea through the gaping hole of what was once the Court’s furniture store and is now just columns marking space and time.

The majestic, red brick church that has stood for centuries is now rubble, except for the defiant bell tower that refused to bow to Melissa’s wrath. Four weeks after the storm and with the streets free of debris, Black River is laid bare. Like every picture I’ve ever seen of a town that had been bombed from the air, hollowed out buildings, broken concrete columns and vacant spaces that once held life are everywhere. I turn away and stifle a cry, a guttural sound that threatens to escape my belly and rise up through my throat. 

On my right, beautiful wooden fretwork that once adorned the balcony of the centuries old mansion is crushed, now simply wood chips. It’s unimaginable. You have to see it for yourself to believe it. It stains my mind and I cry again thinking of my Jamaican brothers and sisters who endured the onslaught that pulled concrete columns from their foundation and flung them across the street. I think of the fear, the terror they must have felt as Melissa stormed in and shattered their lives in an instant.

We continue on, leaving behind the ruins of my memories. Black River was a regular stop for me back in the day when I worked for the Jamaica Tourist Board. I knew every street, every corner and every lane. I remember the peat moss fire of some time in the early 90s when I was on the river doing the Black River Safari with two journalists and racing to get back to shore because my car was in danger. I had the story of the day. Or so I thought until I found out that there had been an earthquake and the only people who hadn’t felt it was us; we were on water in a boat. It was a real earthquake too because roads in Kingston were damaged. Black River, I have memories. Large old trees providing shade. Sweet red ripe melons straight from the farm in the bread basket of our island. Fair-skinned blue-eyed friends of German descent who lived nearby and who opened their mouth to reveal true Jamaican language. And of course, Parottee beach. Places to stay and eat along the beautiful stretch of pristine beach that in more recent times saw crocodiles sunny themselves every now and then.

At the border of St. Elizabeth and Westmoreland, I stop to buy bammy. The resilience of the people is on full display. There is freshly-made bammy and fish frying. The new stalls are being erected, an initiative spearheaded by megastar Sean Paul. The eyes, however, still tell the story. They are hollow. There are no smiles. There are no tears. Soon however, they realize that I have come to shop, not just to gawk at their pain. One by one they approach the car, not the usual rush and crush, but slowly, deliberately, and I buy three packs of bammy, making sure to support more than one vendor. If I could I would stop and order some fish, but time is against me as we are heading towards Delveland, many miles away. My travel partner, Malachi Smith, was born and raised there. 

There is no end to the devastation for the next fifty miles or so. In Whitehouse and Bluefields, where multistoried houses command impressive ocean views, I stare into a sea of blue tarps. Every light pole is lying askew, flat or snapped and tossed aside like twigs. Miles and miles of cables that once carried electricity are strewn down, dangling from tree trunks, tangled and mangled along the remains of fences. I am no longer taking pictures. It is too heartbreaking to bear. I turn up Jimmy Cliff and sing to soothe my soul.

Town after town, the story is the same. Destruction at every turn. Line men and power crews working in the blinding hot sun. Tents with World Central Kitchen signs serving up meals to lines and lines of survivors. Hammers and nails hard at work in defiance of their tragedy. Four weeks later. 

Finally, we arrive at Delveland Infant School, our destination for today. The school is still closed. No light. No water. They have seen no relief supplies to date (relief came on Saturday, Dec. 6th). They have been simply working together to help each other as best they can. We listen to one story after another from people who have lost everything and they tell us of their neighbors in a nearby district that are in even worse condition and have also seen no help. Houses completely destroyed and already being rebuilt with wood. We read to the children, feed them snacks and give them gift packages containing coloring books and crayons. The teachers receive packages of teaching supplies and books. We also have clothes and water so we distribute what we brought and I am sad that we only have a regular car that couldn’t carry more relief to this corner of Jamaica. We are doing the best we can. 

Haunted by the images I’ve seen and the stories I have heard, there will be little sleep for me tonight.

Selah

Judith Falloon-Reid