I have been reading the news reports on the La Soufriere eruptions in St. Vincent with biblical levels of fear and trembling. The news reports tend to be either frenzied or coldly analytic. For me having experienced a natural disaster, my heart is with the people.  Every shaky cell phone video displaying rivers of liquefied earth, fragmented homes, dismembered trees, and God knows what else, careening downhill in one horrifying soup causes my chest to tighten. How much more traumatic was it for the Vincentians who witnessed this terror? The island remains in great need, the rebuilding will likely take many years, and like all major natural disasters, the eruptions will leave deep emotional scars. 

Caribbean folks have long co-existed with volcanoes, hurricanes, landslides, even the occasional drought. We have adapted to this cycle of devastation, foreign aid, and rebuilding, and have even seized some joy amid these tragedies. Our music, oral and written narratives, faith, families, our culture, have equipped us to engage in this stand-off with nature. When the shock and fear finally subside, we can weave colorful tales in the market, the rum shop, or testify passionately in church of our heroic sufferings and escapes. We can attempt to blunt the emotional force of these storms with our fatalistic humor, hold space through poems like Derek Walcott’s “The Hurricane” or even tame them with the rhythm in our Road March anthems like King Shakey’s “David Blow”.  

I grew up in Dominica, which has its share of dormant volcanos just simmering, waiting to explode. I recall the fear when there were rumblings, tremors, and grave radio announcements of seismic activity. These volcanos, in my childhood mind, were fire-breathing dragons, every few years opening their sleepy eyes, threatening to incinerate our entire population with just one breath. My fears and vivid imagination were fed by library books, fiery church sermons, and stories passed down on moonlit nights, with only a nightdress between my skin and concrete steps outside in my auntie’s yard, huddled in tightly with my siblings. For every worst-case hurricane or earthquake our minds could conjure up, our elders could fabricate a more elaborate, terrifying monster of a storm that dwarfed the ones in our imaginations. These stories of apocalyptic hurricanes from back in those days—before hurricanes had names and categories, before cars and paved roads, before lights and running water—had the power to make my fears seem small. My aunt, C, would laugh: “Child! We see so much miseh, eh! (misery).”  

Not to steal the thunder from my elders’ genius storytelling, but there is evidence-based science behind the healing power of story in certain cultural settings. Narrative exposure therapy is a standardized form of psychotherapy that seeks to contextualize trauma exposure using autobiographical stories of the therapy’s subjects. This therapy has been used to treat PTSD victims, trauma and disaster survivors, including 2015 flood survivors in Burundi. Based on our shared histories, many of us islanders likely can attest that we have been doing this all along. Our oral and written culture (what scholars have called “Lit/Orature”) have long functioned as coping mechanisms and community glue.  

Aunty C’s storytelling embodies what I considered my narrative exposure therapy, as a child curious about the outside world yet hemmed in by the Atlantic and Caribbean Sea surrounding my little island. Aunt C’s tales blended creole and English, hand gestures, and facial expressions that made them more engrossing than anything I had seen from the Brothers Grim. She would intersperse folk songs that to this day have me hunting down their origin and meanings. These songs could be hypnotic, mocking, humorous, or even portentous. For instance: 

“Lilly, Lilly, come here. 
Filambo, come here. 
Filambattam, come here. 
But Cacarat stay there.” 

Hurricane David struck when I was a young girl. I will not forget the screaming winds, airborne stoves, ceiling fans, and sofas banging against the walls. I will not forget clutching my three sisters tightly in a bathroom stall for hours while my mother prayed and tried to keep it together for our sakes.  

My aunt recently recalled that day with the drama and zest of a calypsonian.

“Let me tell you!” She began, then inhaled deeply, pausing to build tension. She was seven months pregnant in August 1979, and she fell on her stomach while fleeing her house to shelter at the Ministry building. “Papa Bon Dieu! I was so frighten!” (Luckily, my cousin is alive and well today with children of her own). Aunt C then launched into a hilarious story of a friend bringing her an unwanted bucket of “Jel cochon” (brined pig snouts) and trying to offload it onto her neighbours. 

That year, 1979, was full of political upheaval for Dominica, and in some ways the hurricane brought us back together.  Memories of the terror still sadden those who lost loved ones, livelihoods, and a homeland. Hurricane David spurred a massive migration to other islands, the United States and United Kingdom. But remembering and telling our stories has brought some healing. Forty years later, when we remember Hurricane David, Dominicans recall how folks came together and made do with the donated “ration” meals, powdered milk, corned beef hash, and all the canned goods we could stand to eat. We even made up our own words:  “Brogodow” for the hand-me-down dresses, shoes, and shirts sent from abroad. 

Even before the US soldiers and overseas aid arrived, our culture activated its innate sense of “koudmen”—a creole word that evokes volunteerism and cooperation. My uncle and a group of his friends hammered our roof back on and went around doing the same in our community. Us kids felt comforted and safe by the togetherness of community in those dark, wet days when the outside world was yet to reach us. We all gathered and played in the yard of that one neighbour with an intact roof. That was also where the adults came together to commiserate and cook outside for the entire community.  As we camped out with neighbours, we shared our hurricane stories, our faces lit up by kerosene lamps. Later, we shared stories as we queued up for clean water under the watchful eyes of the foreign soldiers shipped in to deliver aid. We told jokes in open air services about losing a pot of red beans and dumpling soup during the hurricane and hunting for the pot among the debris. A Calypsonian would write a popular song that I can still sing from memory: “David blow/David blow. He blow down all Roseau.” 

That same spirit of koudmen rose again when Hurricane Erica struck in 2015 and our island had to be rebuilt. Yet again. “Fo nou twavay wed” sang Ophelia Olivaccé-Marie in the aftermath of David in our creole language, meaning “we must work hard.” This was reinforced by a new generation of artists adding bouyon music to our cultural cache, creating sounds that celebrated our strengths and creativity amid that crisis.

When Hurricane Maria struck in 2017, those devastating pictures on CNN revived a decades-old terror for me. I visited Dominica, that December, and was struck dumb at the sight of the stripped-naked interior forest and miles and miles of tarpaulin-covered houses. I pestered my family with questions. How did they make it through? How were they sleeping now? For some, it was too soon to talk about that terrible September night. One cousin shrugged; parts of her roof were still missing, and any slight breeze or lingering shower sent her heart racing. Others simply looked off into the distance, shook their heads and sighed. “Eh beh weh, Papa!” Still, Maria did not blow away our ability to create and acculturate through tragedy. There was optimistic rallying music reminding us like Asa Bantan’s “Dominica Will Rise Again” that hope remained. There were stories shared and poems written like “Weather Conditions” by Dominican poet Celia Sorhaindo. 

Caribbean folks are not defined by tragedy, though these natural disasters are part of our story simply because of where we are uniquely situated in the world. As Celia Sorhaindo wrote in one of her poems on Hurricane Maria:

“I have 
been left with 
Less left with more life to taste more to test
I have 
been left
Wholly changed unchanged.”

When we tell our stories to one another, we lighten each other’s burdens by sharing the weight among neighbours, friends and family. So, I hope we soon hear from our fellow islanders from St. Vincent and the Grenadines. We ought to support them materially, emotionally and spiritually. As with previous disasters, the community’s resilience and creativity will be recovered and reawakened. We look forward to the additions to the literary, visual and performing arts collections to help us survive our own dark and stormy nights.

Joanne Skerrett is the author of Abraham’s Treasure, published by Papillotte Press, among other novels. Her forthcoming novel Island Man will be published by Red Hen Press in 2023 and she can be found on IG at @aja_sklar

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