IN the aftermath of the storm, the winds quiet, but the soul still trembles. Trees lean as though in prayer, rooftops bear the scars of their wrestling with the sky, and the Earth itself seems to hold its breath. Yet from this stillness, Jamaica begins again to rise with the rhythm of language, the power of music, and the enduring wisdom of our cultural memory.

This rising is ancient. It is ancestral.

And in this moment when grief is raw, when shock is still settling, when the scale of loss opens before us, Jamaica’s first response is cultural. It is song. It is prayer. It is proverb. It is poem. The sounds of hammers, the movements of hands, and the collective lift of community reveal the living truth of our motto: Out of Many, We Are One.

This truth came sharply into focus during Strong in the Broken Places’ recent gathering, Grief, Grace & The Gathering Storm, featuring cultural scholar Dr Opal Palmer Adisa, with poet Dr Monica Minott and voices across the Diaspora. What began as a conversation on resilience quickly became a meditation on sorrow, belonging, and the right to grieve — fully, honestly, and uncompromisingly.

“This is not the time to ask Jamaicans to be resilient.” These were Dr Palmer Adisa’s words: firm, compassionate, and necessary.

Standing in the memory of the storm she had just witnessed, she voiced what many feel but seldom say: Jamaicans must be given the grace to mourn. The grace to cry out from the core of their pain. The grace to feel the full weight of loss before they are asked to lift anything at all.

She spoke of the tremendous toll borne by the most vulnerable — children, whose eyes now carry the imprint of winds they could not name; elders, whose memories of earlier hurricanes surfaced with painful force; and families, displaced in a single night.

Her testimony opened a wound and a doorway. A door into honesty. Into lamentation. Into the right to say: This hurts. We are hurting. This grief is our truth.

From this truth emerged a deeper question for those of us in the Diaspora: Do we have the right to grieve a storm we did not physically endure? Can emotional distance coexist with ancestral closeness? Can place and people still call us to mourning, even from afar?

The Diaspora’s grief has its own geography

Our conversation revealed that grief, too, has a diaspora. Though miles away, we felt the wind through trembling phone calls, saw the devastation through videos that circulated like smoke signals, and woke to nights of restless worry. Our grief was not identical to the island’s, but it was real, shaped by helplessness, longing, and the ache of ancestral belonging.

Participants shared the ways they were contributing, coordinating relief drives, wiring financial support, offering shelter, and activating community networks from Miami, London, Toronto, and beyond. Even the smallest acts formed part of a collective rising.

Amid these reflections, five poets — Dr Palmer Adisa, Dale Mahfood, Monica Minott, Malachi Smith, and myself — shared storm verses in progress: raw, unfinished, urgent. These poems were the first language of a people writing themselves through shock and towards meaning.

This convergence of music, poetry, and communal care brought forward a central truth: Jamaica has always turned to culture as balm, compass, and catalyst during crises. It is our most powerful instrument of healing. Poetry, song, and storytelling transform chaos into creativity and sorrow into solidarity.

Songs as balm and banner

Across radio stations, churchyards, and online platforms, the air has filled with verses of recovery. Songs like Jamaica Strong, Hurricane Melissa, and We Shall Rise Again have become modern psalms soothing wounds, restoring faith, reminding us that rising is part of our DNA.

The word rise now holds literal and symbolic urgency.

It guides the rebuilding of shattered homes and summons a restoration of the inner self.

“We shall rise again” echoes the indomitable spirit that carried our ancestors through enslavement, colonialism, and generations of trials. It invokes the timeless creed: “Wi likkle, but wi tallawah.”

As the nation rebuilds, creative expression continues to pour forth. Lines of Resilience: Jamaican Poets After the Storm, a poetic initiative gathering voices across Jamaica and the Diaspora, stands alongside this musical and spiritual movement, creating a living archive of strength and a cartography of hope.

In the stillness after the storm, we remember who we are: a people who rise because the spirit within us cannot be extinguished. So let the poets write. Let the singers sing. Let the builders build. Let the lovers love again.

For in our rising, we honour all that has endured and all that will bloom anew beneath the same sun that once darkened our skies.

Dr Marva McClean is a Jamaican-born author, poet, and cultural scholar whose work explores resilience, Diaspora memory, and ancestral wisdom. Founder of Strong in the Broken Places, she writes across genres to illuminate the healing power of story, community, and the enduring spirit of the Caribbean.