Echos of the Caribbean & Whispers of the Future 

While soaking up the beauty, abundance, sunshine, and culture of the Caribbean last year during my visit, the existential dread that global warming is transforming the climate and ecology of the region loomed in the back of my mind. I reflected on the horrifying events that brought my African ancestors to the region and the tragic climate reality that is currently displacing Caribbean people: both share the stench of imperialism. This common denominator deeply informs how Afro-Caribbean communities — and African Diaspora communities as a whole — come to relate to our current environments and the effects of the climate crisis.

The concept of a home for descendants of enslaved people has never been easy. Slavery itself created conditions of existential homelessness, alienation, and dehumanization. This is because the very process of enslavement strips people of their cultural heritage, familial ties, ethnic identity, and sense of self. Enslavement, particularly the Trans Atlantic Slave Trades, also robbed people of the rich, generational knowledge of their local ecology — a devastating loss that is often overlooked. My enslaved ancestors, when stolen away from Central and West Africa, were taken from their traditional lands, disrupting ecological traditions and relations between non-human beings, plants, and people. However, it was this very loss of ecological, geographic, and meteorological knowledge that slave owners depended on to maintain plantation societies. 

Upon their arrival, the islands I now call home were my ancestors’ prisons. The unfamiliar ecology, geography, and climate of the Caribbean made it much more difficult for enslaved Africans to escape. Slavers explicitly took into account the lack of familiarity with the geography in their decisions to shift away from primarily enslaving Native communities to Africans.

I can only imagine how terrifying being confronted with such a different environment after months at sea must have been. The unfamiliar plants and animals overwhelmed them as they spent hours laboring under the scorching sun. They were forced to cultivate cash crops through a destructive system of monoculture. The arduous work wore down their bones and muscles, eroded the soil, poisoned waterways, and destroyed local ecologies.

500 years after the first enslaved Africans landed on a Caribbean island’s shore, I have a very different understanding of the archipelago. My favorite place is the Caribbean Sea, which separated my ancestors from their homeland, making it impossible for them to return. The once unfamiliar animals my mother can name and share folktales about. My grandmother can readily identify local plants when she decides to forage for wild leaves and flowers from which to make tea, balm, or lunch. The Caribbean is no longer a plantation prison for us but a vibrant place of culture, tradition, and history. 

The place we’ve come to love is vulnerable to the climate crisis. The Caribbean, comprised of small island nations and coastal countries, is bracing for impact. A few islands will likely completely disappear due to rising sea levels; others are paradoxically facing droughts. Every year, hurricanes intensify, raging through the region, leaving behind destruction and displacement in their wake. While visiting Puerto Rico late last year, I discussed the effect of Hurricane Maria with various locals; it is a painful memory for most. A conversation with a cab driver struck me as he lamented how difficult the recovery process was and the migration that followed — with an estimated 200,000 Puerto Ricans, 6% of the population, fleeing the island. This is becoming a reality across the region.

Yet, within this vulnerability, we are experts in creating a sense of identity and culture even when there isn’t an option to return to a homeland. This is a phenomenon that billions of people across the world will have to reckon with as sea levels rise and intensified natural disasters force people to migrate and lose their land. From the Pacific Islands to South Asia, communities are asking what it means to be a “people” without a land. My ancestors had to answer this question, as they resided in the Americas on the traditional lands of the indigenous Tainos, Kalingos, Lokonos, Arawaks, Lucayans, Ignerians, Borequinos, and Caribs communities, with no way back to Africa. This is an important opportunity for cross-cultural conversations on cultural preservation and the realities of diasporic identity in a changing climate. 

Even though we are resilient people, that doesn’t mean governments and international agencies shouldn’t invest in preserving Caribbean ecology and cultures. If anything, Caribbean history and our current climate realities add an important layer of complexity when considering what “climate reparations” and other climate policies mean for African Diasporic communities. Loss and damage funds, created by the United Nations, are intended to redistribute money from countries and communities disproportionately responsible for the climate crisis due to historically high emissions — particularly the U.S. and Western European countries — to vulnerable communities and countries. Simultaneously, several Caribbean islands intensified the rallying call for many of these same countries to pay reparations for slavery and colonialism.

For Caribbean communities who are still demanding reparations from Western countries, climate change-related displacement and damages are just adding to the list. Tenants of Environmental Justice, pioneered by African American communities in the U.S., come to mind when describing the interplay of social inequities and the amplification of the climate crisis on marginalized communities. The Caribbean is seeing the compounding effects of racism, colonialism, the legacies of slavery — and now the climate crisis — shape our future. It’s essential to have policy frameworks that empathize with that. 

Even as our world’s future grows grimmer with every degree our climate rises, Caribbean communities remain dedicated to protecting our homes. Caribbean countries remain at the forefront of demanding decisive and swift international political action, implementing innovative solutions, and environmental restoration. Initiatives working on agroforestry, coral reef restoration, and sustainable water systems are growing throughout the region. While traveling in Curaçao, it was exciting to visit the new urban mangrove forests they’ve implemented — a model they’re sharing with other tropical communities. 

As the Caribbean becomes a hot spot for international attention on the impacts of the climate crisis, people must recognise how histories of colonial rule, slavery, and current climate realities are deeply interconnected. In developing these links when working with frontline communities as we address the climate crisis, many lessons can be learned to build a strong foundation for policy, programs, and initiatives. In the Caribbean, this can touch on cultural resilience in an era of climate migration or preserving traditional ecological knowledge and sharing it among various communities. Communities facing the brunt of the climate crisis, particularly island nations, have so much to offer to the world as we all gear up to confront our future on this Earth.