There are a couple of experiences that I would not have chosen if there had been options. One of these is the experience of having my home gutted by fire in 1996. So as I empathize with Brother Dread Ites whose house was completely destroyed by fire a few weeks ago, all these feelings that I thought had been put to rest, rushed to the fore.

I certainly encourage all to give generously to help restore some degree of normalcy to this young man’s life and if you are reading this on Thursday afternoon, please join us at Irie Acres for the Fire Relief Food Fair on Friday 16th May. It will be on the corner by the Tamarind Tree on the roundabout just across the road from the Environmental Health Department in The Valley.

It took a long time for me to recover from that experience and even now I feel like using the present continuous. I did not see my own house on fire but as I watched Brother Dread Ites’ house go up in flames I felt the same gut-wrenching loss mixed with the certain knowledge of a new beginning. I was surprised to find that I did indeed have an attachment to some of my worldly possessions and there was a moment that still makes me laugh out loud. Shortly before the fire I had splurged on good linen. I had bought sheets that do not turn into fuzz balls and all my beds were looking good. The day after the fire, I was going through the rubble with my youngest sister Allison who had come down from St. Kitts to provide much needed support. After my third lamentation out loud about the loss of sheets, my sister looked me in the eye and said kindly but firmly, “Ijahnya, you have no beds.”

I later got beds from the then Department of Social Welfare. I finally got to see what it felt like to rely on Welfare – way back when in St. Kitts I had been a Social Welfare Officer.

No one was in the house when it caught fire. I can still remember the chilling but unreal phone call to me in St. Lucia to let me know that my house was on fire. I dropped out of the meeting at once and managed to get the last Eagle home but first there was my big life lesson. I, who had been on the giving end of charity all my life, now had to switch roles and become the one for whom the envelope was being passed. That was hard. Then I managed to get a seat on the plane right next to my former Head of Department from my Youth and Community Development Days in St. Kitts and when I told him what had happened, had to accept his money (which I used to buy clothing for the children during the stop over in Puerto Rico). When I talked with the children on the phone, they were quite philosophical about the fact that no one had been injured and were a little bit excited at the prospect of a whole new wardrobe.

But there were a lot of good things about that fire. One was the neighbourliness of the response. It was only years after the fire that someone brought me a photograph of the Honourable Eric Reid, hose in hand, actually helping to put out the blaze. I think he supplied some of the water as well and had it not been for that photograph I would never have known. I didn’t see any photographs of Siya White but by his own account, he was the leading man in the drama of rescuing valuables such as my fridge and stove. My washing machine ended up looking like a work of art. The quick action of those present, prevented utter destitution.

From the church community, the Seventh Day Adventists treated me like a tithe paying member. They brought the Pathfinders to help salvage wet books. Then they sent a member with a power hose and I think more Pathfinders to paint two rooms that had been damaged but not destroyed. They sent a cheque one week from the Community Outreach Committee and a cheque the next week from some other church fund. I joked to Pastor Cross that I would keep on expecting weekly cheques. Not once did anyone suggest that I should come to Sabbath service or the big tent. Nuff respect. Mutual respect. Since then, I have thought of myself as an honourary Adventist.
Civil society would not be undone and the Optimist Club with its usual dynamic, proactive spirit came one Saturday and scrubbed soot away, cleared rubble away and did all kinds of generally dirty manual labour. All those usually well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who look like they always eat with a knife and fork, got their hands dirty that day for me and my family. I will never forget.

My Rastafari family came over en mass from St. Martin, set up camp in the yard and did whatever needed to be done. They ordered me to go rest myself and cooked up some ital. They are called Solidarity Rastafari Organization and there was no doubting the sense of solidarity brought by their gesture.

The response from individuals is what I remind myself of every time I start to cuss “Anguilla People”. I saw the humanity and generosity of Anguilla People. My neighbour Bastoh’s home became our own – and I mean our own. Other offers of homes had come immediately. My sons and I stayed in the neighbourhood, my daughter stayed with a family to whom I will always be indebted.

Then there was Mrs. Eliza Romney who was a tower of strength. She gave in many more ways than one and I grew to love and admire her – a woman of strong faith. The late Nurse Bowry also helped keep my flame a burning.

The fire turned out to be cleansing fire but challenges abounded. One of them was a ten year bank loan, not to finish a house but to make it habitable again. Ouch! Then there were rip- offs and attempted rip-offs by construction workers who seemed not to have heard of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay. But there were some who volunteered along the way and I do not even know all their names.

A fire is a traumatic experience and for me the trauma manifested itself in my not being able to look into the boxes of the remains of archival material. I just could not bring myself to look at what had been salvaged and went about in a state of not knowing exactly what I’d lost and exactly what had been saved. As time passed and I ventured into the boxes, there were some pleasant surprises as well confirmations of lost treasure. Among the lost treasure were some of my father’s photographs. Some that I had managed to protect from Luis the year before.

Just as my fire helped me along the path to humility, patience, thanksgiving and accepting the love and care of my people, I hope that especially in moments of personal disaster, we find time to reflect on life and what gives it meaning – as distinct from what makes it convenient. I still give utmost thanks for those who responded to my family’s need way back in 1996. I give thanks for the public agency and for NBA, which enabled me to regain a certain comfort level. There were many people who could give nothing at all but who came and who talked me into staying sane. Personal disasters may grow good fruit but we really would prefer if people didn’t have them.

| Printer-friendly page | Send this article to a friend |

World News