The Mountain is Wounded
by Damaris Whittaker
Then I said unto them, “You see the trouble we are in: Jerusalem lies in ruins, and its gates have been burned with fire. Come, let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, and we will no longer be in disgrace.” They replied, “Let us start rebuilding.” Nehemiah 2:17-18
Looking out from the balcony of the Airbnb apartment we rented in Maunabo, Puerto Rico, I can still see blue tarps covering roofs in the neighborhood of Emajagua. It has been one year and three months since Hurricane Maria devastated the island of Puerto Rico. This is our seventh trip to the Island since September 20, 2017. Next to our apartment on both sides are two homes. They sit empty and abandoned. One still has a car in the marquesina; the other has a second floor completely destroyed. The evidence of those who once inhabited these homes, perhaps for generations, is slowly disappearing through the vines and weeds overtaking the structures. The neighbors tell us that both families left before the hurricane, cuando las cosas se empezaron a poner malas (when things started to get bad).
This is not exclusive to Maunabo, Puerto Rico. All across the island, the closure of businesses and the emptiness in neighborhoods is pervasive. School closures have added another void in many communities. Nevertheless, this time, this navidades, it seems to us that Puerto Rico’s hope and resiliency is stronger than ever before. The people are still saying, “Buenos dias, been provecho”—reassuring those of us in the diaspora that Puerto Rico will not remain in ruins.
The migration to the mainland started long before Hurricane Irma and Maria. The storms that have been afflicting the island of Puerto Rico possess many names: greed, colonialism, debt, misogyny, fundamentalism, Jones Act—to name a few. But, when the walls of your homeland collapse, so does your spirit, and no matter where one is in the world, in the words of Gloria Estefan, “la Tierra the llama” (Your homeland calls you.)
De mi tierra bella, de mi tierra Santa
Oigo…Una canción que vive entonando
De su dolor de su propio llanto
Y se le escucha penar.
(From my beautiful homeland, from my holy homeland
I hear… a song that lives harmonizing
From her pain and her own sorrow
we can hear her, aching.)
Immediately after the hurricane, Fort Washington Collegiate Church began to organize a response. Fort Washington Collegiate Church, a congregation of the United Church of Christ, is located in Washington Heights in New York City; it is a multi-cultural, multi-racial, open and affirming church, with its faith steeped in social justice. Our planning was delayed by our inability to communicate with the island, to secure airline tickets, and to find our way through an unprecedented crisis. But through the spurs of communication, we managed to contact organizations that were working on the ground, responding to the most affected. Among them was Proyecto Matria, a non-profit organization with the mission of economic development and equal rights for women and LGBTQI individuals. One-and-a-half months later, we arrived in Puerto Rico.
During our first trip, I felt like the prophet Nehemiah who went to assess the ruins of the walls of Jerusalem at night. Contrary to all of the reports in the mainland, we quickly learned that the reconstruction of Puerto Rico was being led by its own citizens. Traveling the mountains to Orocovis, Puerto Rico, we saw the hanging power lines, the mudslides, the impassible roads. We could see that the mountain, once green and lush—a source of breathtaking views—expressed the sense of devastation, and, yes, violation. The bark of the trees had been stripped by the forceful winds, and at that point I wondered, “Will the mountain ever heal?” During those early days it seemed there was no end to the destruction. But when we talked to the locals in the panaderias, we learned that it was the people with their own tools who cleared not only the back roads, but also the highways. The government arrived close to two weeks after the hurricane. It was then we realized that the mountain was wounded, but the people—also wounded—were healers.
The remote location of Orocovis, the most central town in the island of Puerto Rico, presented us with great challenges. When I asked Amarilis Pagan, Executive Director of Proyecto Matrias, to take us to the most affected community in the island, she took us seriously, and, as we drove up to Miraflores, a sign that said “Los Olvidados” (The Forgotten Ones) welcomed us to the neighborhood.
When we arrived at Miraflores, we observed that that community was desperate. Armed with hundreds of solar lights, water filters, mosquito nets, food and other supplies, we attempted to begin to deal with the most pressing needs. But soon we recognized that a one-time approach would not suffice. However, our resources were limited. With all of this in mind, we decided that our church would adopt the community of Miraflores in Orocovis, Puerto Rico, and partner with Proyecto Matria, to establish “Casa Solidaria” an initiative which will remain in Miraflores for the foreseeable future. Our commitment challenged us to continue to raise funds, organize, and return, and so we have: seven times since the storm. We also have directed other groups’ resources to Casa Solidaria, which has resulted in new partnerships and collaborations. Today, Casa Solidaria has permanent staff dedicated to education, economic development and healthcare. In the words of Amarilis Pagan, “It is a 360-degree human rights model” nestled in the mountains of Orocovis, Puerto Rico.
It has been said that the devastation of Hurricane Maria shined a light into the inequities and injustices endured by the Puerto Rican people on many fronts. As a person who lives in the diaspora, I cannot opine. I can, however, say that through our work we discovered that, particularly in Miraflores, Saltos and other adjacent barrios in Orocovis, there is a community with the highest number of hearing-impaired individuals per capita in Puerto Rico, and arguably in the United States. Interestingly, because of their remote location and other factors, they have developed their own sign language. This is information not known widely and, thus, it renders the residents of Miraflores isolated, vulnerable, in a state of “otherness.”
Hurricane Maria, for those of us in the diaspora, brought with it a different kind of storm surge and storm tide. The long periods of time without communication or news from our families was devastating. The utter disregard from the United States government for the Puerto Rican people left us experiencing a different kind of devastation. Over 1,000 lives were lost. Can we say their names? Can our fingers pass over the stone where their names have been edged? The answer is, “No.”
While our efforts in Puerto Rico continued, here in the mainland we organized “The Collective Action for Puerto Rico.” Churches, seminaries and community organizations gathered to advocate, protest and organize efforts to support the efforts of citizens of Puerto Rico. We added our voices to AuditoriaYa and collaborated with Power for Puerto Rico.
It has been a year and three months since Hurricane Maria. When I drive up the mountain to Miraflores now, I see there are leaves on the trees, branches are coming out, the mountain is no longer stripped to its core. But for those of us who know the mountain, we can see beyond the new growth: there are injuries left behind. There are trees that never regrew, and the mature branches have been lost.
It is so, also, in the lives of the Puerto Rican people, both in the island and in the diaspora. Las cicatrices—the scars that the largest ecological devastation has left behind–are of unprecedented proportions. For one, it allowed us to assess our colonial relationship with the United States. It united our voices in proclaiming that the lives of Puerto Rican people deserve to be counted. It made public that thousands of our young people have died in every American war since 1896; but, prior to Hurricane Maria, only 50% of Americans knew that Puerto Ricans are citizens of the United States.
The mountain is wounded, but is being healed by wounded healers. When healing comes, it will leave behind scars. Those scars will forever remind the Puerto Rican people that no empire on earth, by neglect or otherwise, has the power to kill the spirit of a people whose faith leads them to say in every conversation, “estamos vivos, gracias a Dios.” (We are alive, thanks be to God). Mañana es otro dia, (Tomorrow is another day.) “Come, let us rebuild.”
