Theresa Rodriguez-Moodie | After Hurricane Melissa, Black River waits

I was warned about what I would see before heading to Black River, but no image of the damage from Hurricane Melissa fully captured the devastation, and nothing prepared me for the horror of the stories people shared.

I had visited Black River many times before, and through my previous work in the community, understood its vulnerability to hazards. When I arrived on December 19, 2025, it appeared to have been market day. Taxis were parked beneath what had once been a gas station. A few vendors sold produce from makeshift stalls. A woman had set up a tent selling cooked food. Some people walked through the town as if going about their business, but many others wore a lost, distant look, as though they were still trying to understand what had happened to them.

Driving through the town, I saw the twisted remains of the Black River Market, folded in on itself as if a giant had sat on it. Historic buildings were flattened, and the courthouse appeared to have caved in. Coastal businesses lay empty and destroyed. In some places, I could stand at the front of properties and see straight through to the sea.

Along Crane Road, every structure on the seaside had been damaged to some degree. Several homes looked outwardly intact but were completely gutted, their walls, windows, and doors facing the sea blown out. On the other side of the road, the mangroves had become a dumping ground for storm debris — furniture, appliances, roofs, doors, even forty-foot containers and cars — carried there by storm surge and violent winds.

One man who built his two-storey home in 2015 invited us inside. On his living room floor lay the top of his sea wall, a solid slab of concrete about four feet long, as if someone had carefully placed it there. His home had been gutted. Tiles had lifted. His kitchen was gone. All his furniture had been wrecked. He pointed to a mark about six feet up the wall and told us that that was the height of the storm surge. When I stepped back outside, I had to jump down about five feet from his verandah to reach the sand below. I estimate the storm surge there was at least 11 feet high.

Farther into Parotee, I saw gates leading to properties where homes once stood. Only foundations and rubble remained. Door frames opened to nothing. Graves tilted skyward. Some homes were surrounded by water because the sea had eroded the land beneath them. Others leaned precariously towards the sea.

LIVING IN LIMBO

Some people I spoke with were determined to rebuild but were unsure whether the Government would allow them to do so, even on land they owned. Others had lost not only their homes but their livelihoods and did not know what came next.

Residents shared rumours and fragments of information. Some said they had heard that rebuilding would not be allowed in certain areas. Others said people leasing government land had already been told to leave. I also heard that there was a plan to rebuild Black River. The speculation and uncertainty suggested that the people who live and work in Black River and environs have not yet been consulted or asked what they want or need.

PUBLIC PARTICIPATION MATTERS

Rebuilding Jamaica after Hurricane Melissa will not be easy. The scale of destruction demands careful planning, use of sound science, and long-term thinking. But it also demands something else: meaningful public participation.

Public participation means more than holding a town hall after decisions have already been made. It means ensuring that people have clear, accessible information about what is being proposed, what options are on the table, and what the implications are for their homes, livelihoods, and futures. It means creating space for residents to share local knowledge —about flooding patterns, storm surge, mangrove areas, both former and existing, and the realities of living and working along the coast — that no technical report can fully capture.

It also means involving communities in shaping solutions: where rebuilding should happen, where it should not, what protection measures make sense, and what support people need to relocate if relocation is truly necessary. It also means transparency — clear timelines, honest communication, and avenues for people to question, challenge, and seek accountability when decisions affect their lives. It means listening to their fears – there is already talk about eviction, followed by some form of land grab.

Decisions of this magnitude must not be made behind closed doors or driven either by experts who have never lived in these communities or by elected officials. Without effective public participation, rebuilding or relocating risks deepening trauma, rupturing community life, and repeating the very vulnerabilities that made the damage so severe in the first place.

Black River is not the only community facing these questions, and unless meaningful public participation guides recovery across all areas devastated by Hurricane Melissa, Jamaica risks repeating the same mistakes — again and again.

Theresa Rodriguez-Moodie, PhD, is an environmental scientist and chief executive officer of Jamaica Environment Trust. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com