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“WATER rushed in and the roof came down. We walked in the hurricane to the shelter.” That was how 35-year-old Shaneeka Spooner, of Newell, St Elizabeth, described the terrifying night she and her family fought to survive Hurricane Melissa. With her mother and three young children—ages five, eight and 13 years—she braved the howling winds and flying zinc sheets to reach safety after floodwaters invaded their home. “The breeze was everything loud and strong...Zinc a fly and I was terrified anything could happen,” she recalled, her voice breaking. “When I went back, my house was destroyed, under water. I tried to sleep there after to protect what was left, but I need help...I have to rebuild.” Spooner is among more than 30 people now sheltering at Newell High School, which has become a temporary refuge for families who lost everything when the Category 5 hurricane tore through southern St Elizabeth. For Edgar Smith, 57, of Big Woods, it’s faith alone that keeps him steady. He arrived at the shelter with his pregnant wife and young daughter before Melissa’s landfall, fearful of what might come. “I came from Saturday because of what happened during Hurricane Beryl,” he told the Daily Nation yesterday. “My wife is six months pregnant. We started to walk here and a van driver gave us a ride after he saw us walking. When I went back and saw my house, I had to walk through mudlakes, bush. Everything gone. Roof gone, things twisted. I’m in a state of shock. I’m unemployed, with nowhere to go, but I believe in prayer.” Pauline Evans, 58, came to the school last week Sunday with 14 family members, including her 84-year-old mother, after officials warned coastal residents to evacuate. “My son went back on Thursday and told me my house is flattened,” she said softly, tears filling her eyes. “You cannot even see it. I don’t have the heart to go and look for myself. I am devastated. I have nowhere to go.” For many of these families, it has been more than a week of sleeping on desktops and wooden planks spread across concrete blocks. Newell High School principal Audrey Ellington said she is awaiting word from the Ministry of Education and the parish disaster coordinator on what will happen next. “I can’t send them out. This is a government institution, there’s nowhere else to send them. They will have to stay here until other arrangements are made. The despair on people’s faces...All we can do is pray with them. It’s hard and it’s going to get harder,” she said. Ellington explained that the school, part of Region 4 which was one of the hardest hit by Melissa, was activated as a shelter before the storm made landfall. “We knew it was coming, so we left rooms open for people. The first set came on Saturday and the majority came on Monday night. There were about 111 people from nearby communities such as Parity and Newcombe Valley especially, because the sea came in and the storm surge flooded everything. “The winds were high and non-stop from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. I knew it was devastation. The waters reached areas that never had that kind of flooding before.” Though the school itself suffered only minor structural damage, Ellington said water seeped in and a small cottage roof was lost. The school’s farm was destroyed, though a few hens continue to produce eggs used for breakfast. “Connectivity is still out and we have no power, but the generator helps keep the meat from spoiling,” she said. Relief support, she added, has been steady. “We’ve had meals every day—thanks to the Member of Parliament, the councillor, business places and community members. I can say that part has been good.” Still, the numbers have dwindled from over 100 to just 30-odd people. “Some started going home as the waters receded,” Ellington said. “Those left here now have nowhere to go. Their homes are completely gone.” The principal said some of her staff and students were also affected and several remained unreachable since the storm. “The entire community of Parity is here. Where they lived is no more—the sea came and took away everything. We even had a medical team come by and check on people. One elderly man was taken to the hospital. Otherwise, we are holding on by the grace of God.” As the sun beat down on the battered school yard, survivors clung to each other, their faces etched with exhaustion and disbelief. The storm may have passed but for many, the struggle to rebuild their lives has only just begun. • See Page 36 Landscape unrecognisable, stripped of its Caribbean beauty Sunday morning dawned quietly, almost deceptively peaceful, after the fury that had ripped across Jamaica just days earlier. The streets of Kingston were calm, the usual church-bound traffic absent or thinned. It felt as if the city itself was catching its breath. We stopped to top up the gas tank, knowing it would be another long haul, and grabbed some supplies at a supermarket—snacks, water, a few essentials. Relief work, we were learning, was part endurance, part improvisation. On the highways, the once-endless lines of vehicles and flashing security convoys had disappeared. In their place, a few sturdy trucks rumbled westward, hauling water tanks and generators to the coast. The sun blazed, and for the first time in days, we rolled the windows down, letting the country breeze carry in whiffs of wet earth and salt air on our three-hour drive from Kingston to Alligator Pond and Treasure Beach. The signs of Hurricane Melissa’s wrath were still everywhere—trees snapped like twigs, power poles leaning at awkward angles, debris scattered like memories across the roadside. Power remained out in entire communities, but the low hum of generators was proof of quiet resilience. A few small businesses had reopened, powered by borrowed light. At Wenli Supermarket in Junction, a combined grocery and hardware store owned by Guozheng Xu, supervisor Robert Barnes summed up the situation bluntly. “Basically, we’ve run out of everything, which is construction supplies, roofing material, generators, tarps, all gone,” he said. “And we’re still on generator power. Since Melissa hit, no light. They say maybe by the 9th, but who knows?” Barnes had just returned from Black River, where he delivered relief goods. There was another truck parked in the back but it was stalled. “We couldn’t get the truck out,” he explained. “The gate to the warehouse was damaged in the hurricane.” From there, the road took us through Newell, where the high school had been converted into a shelter for displaced families. The drive was a slow dance of dodging potholes and fallen branches. At Sandy Bank Primary, the roof had peeled away. Pond Side Primary was in ruins. Newell School still had no power and no clear date for reopening. Treasure Beach, usually a postcard of calm Caribbean beauty, was unrecognisable, with gates twisted off their hinges, wood and metal tangled along the shore. Parts of the road had crumbled into yawning gaps that demanded the full focus of every driver. We heard reports that the Parity community had been completely submerged. Even police officers spoke of it as a “lost village”. Guided by locals, who kept saying “Keep straight, it right there”, we drove for over 30 minutes but never reached it. The landscape had changed too much; the roads simply no longer led where they used to. By the time we turned back, the sun had begun its descent. We’d been on the road for seven straight hours—tired, dusty, but deeply moved. The journey was a portrait of endurance: of people rebuilding piece by piece, of roads reopening one lane at a time, of a country pushing forward even while the power was still out. Yesterday was not just about distance travelled. It was about the quiet determination of a nation still standing in the sunlight after the storm. —Natanga Smith is a journalist with the Nation Barbados.
