When Islands cry
When Islands cry
I grew up where the ocean hums soft against the land, On Abaco’s broken shoreline, where we still try to stand. I remember Hurricane Hurricane Dorian like a scar that will not fade, Roofs torn off like paper, and promises delayed. They came with cameras, boots clean in the mud, Spoke hope into microphones while we were drenched in flood. Said, We will rebuild stronger, said, We hear your cry, But years have drifted past us, and still we’re asking why.
The Free National Movement takes its turn at the throne, Then the Progressive Liberal Party claims the seat as its own. Back and forth like tides, yet nothing seems to change, Just different colored banners in a very familiar range. They shake our hands in election time, call every child by name, But once the votes are counted, it’s silence just the same. Suddenly we’re distant, suddenly we’re small, Like Abaco and the Family Islands don’t matter much at all.
My parents talk in whispers, but the truth is loud to me, A country deep in debt, billions owed across the sea. We borrow for tomorrow, while today is left behind, And the weight falls on the people who are struggling just to climb. Food prices climbing higher than the blazing island sun, A basic plate now costs more than what many earn or run. Crime lingers in the corners where fear and silence meet, While leaders trade their speeches, but the problems stay in the street.
Our schools are overflowing, too many dreams in one room, Children packed like cargo, with futures left in gloom. Healthcare barely holding, systems stretched and torn, You better pray you never need it, or you’ll wish you weren’t born. And I hear them talk of papers, passed too quick, too free, At National Insurance Board on Abaco, like it’s no big thing to see. While Bahamians wait in lines that never seem to end, It feels like rules are bending, depending on who’s your friend.
They say they’re building progress, say they’re doing what they can, But it feels like they’re just selling little pieces of our land. Trading off our future for deals we never knew, While we’re left with questions no one wants to answer true. This is just a fraction of the stories that are told, On docks, in yards, in kitchens, truth spoken raw and bold. From Abaco to Andros, the same quiet despair, A feeling we are present, but they don’t really care.
Still, I am just a girl who watched her island break, Who saw the storm take everything it chose to take. And I listen to the grown folks, every word they say, Because their worries echo louder every day. If we don’t open our eyes, if we don’t demand what’s right, There may be no The Bahamas left for us to fight. No home to come back to, no land to proudly claim, Just memories of what was, and who we chose to blame.
Change won’t come from silence, it won’t come from pretend, It comes when we remember this is not the end. Think of generations, the children yet to be, Your children’s children deserve a better sea. There is so much more to do, so much more they owe, For Abaco, for the islands, for every child to grow. And maybe if they truly see, not just when it’s time to vote, They’ll lead us like a country, not just a passing note.
Written by; Gayniah Bootle 🇧🇸
