Reflections of an American-Islander.

 

The Solomon Islands is in the sights of some of the most serious environmental threats. We are in the Ring of Fire. We are on the front lines of the fight against climate change. Our region is the most disaster prone in the world. We’re subjected to earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, and a rising sea that is swallowing our coastlines.

I’ve never been susceptible to so many different disasters.

The Great Lakes that surround my town in the States, though the largest collection of freshwater lakes in the world, have never risen up and consumed entire homes or neighbourhoods. In recent memory, the tectonic plates underlying my state have never shifted to shake foundations and confidence.

That’s a stark contrast to being roused from sleep by an earthquake almost every night for the past two weeks.

But when I look at the ridges in Guadalcanal that are a smoky blue on a cloudy day, the towering palm trees in Malaita, or the crystal sea everywhere, I don’t think they will come crashing in on us (though they could). I don’t feel pangs of fear or fatalism. And then I wonder why I feel protected in such a vulnerable place.

To me, the way we take care of one another makes all the difference. We do so through grand gestures in times of crisis and thoughtful everyday acts.

Every time during those aforementioned quakes, I heard my auntie’s voice. Her one-word warnings could wake me from the deepest sleep. Then I would get up and run down the veranda steps to wait out the shakes. Someone is always looking out for me here — both family and strangers. If I need a ride, a truck picks me up. If I need a hand, an open palm appears. And the courtesies aren’t extended only to me — everyone is involved in the exchange.

Although it’s quite an extrapolation, I think that influences our ability to handle catastrophes of both the meteorological and psychological variety. Resilience is another factor.

My family from the Solomons, especially the women, are the strongest people I’ve ever known. And I say so not simply because I have an up-close view of them clearing life’s hurdles.

My mother is the most significant example. Like so many immigrants, she had the strength to build a life in an entirely new world. Culturally, the country she adopted was lightyears away from the one she left.

She went to the States with Langalanga tattoos and a big smile on her face. But there was so much that she didn’t understand. She had never seen snow. She felt suffocated without being able to see the ocean. She got through it, though (to make no mention of the gory details). She long ago mastered the language, customs, and adapted to the pace of the place. Even so and even now, she deals with harsh critics. They judge her without an understanding of her struggles and sacrifices. They have no idea about her victories in moving, integrating and succeeding. And she has definitely succeeded.

I don’t think I could handle such a challenge so gracefully. If I stay here forever, I guess I will technically be an immigrant too. But my path would be so much easier than my mother’s in the U.S. that our situations are incomparable. Yet, I have had a taste of some of the same unpleasantries. On a few dreadful Mondays and frustrating Fridays, my yearning to fit in the way I could in the States has gotten the best of me for a few minutes (or a few hours when I let the negativity simmer). I imagine the feelings my mother has dealt with for decades are a thousand times more searing. So I try to emulate her brand of resilience, which I believe was grown and packaged in the Solomons.

Our geography might put us in a precarious position, but the character coursing through our veins means that we can weather any storm.