Saturday February 20th is a date that will never be erased from my memory. Weather reports warned Tropical Cyclone Winston had done a u-turn, and was headed for Fiji, where I live with my Fijian husband and our two children.
The government issued curfews and we were advised to prepare, stay alert and stay safe. By 6pm a dense fog covered the pine nestled valley, and the winds were gaining strength and speed. We made final reinforcements to our home and nails were hammered frantically into planks of wood to board the windows.
This was the second time such preparations were made in our 20 months living here since leaving Ireland, and we weren't particularly worried. But by 7pm everything changed, as the screams of our neighbouring children banging at the door alerted us to the potential seriousness of what was to come. Clutching bags of clothes under their tiny arms they informed us their house was falling and their parents were following behind.
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The crashing of rain against the iron roof and the howls of wind were deafening. The muddy water that leaked through cracks was now ankle high, and we promptly piled rugs and mattresses to one side while mosquito nets dangled from the ceiling with the weight of leaves and rainwater which was seeping through the roof. I grabbed passports, documents, phones and the laptop, and wrapped them in plastic and towels and secured them in a suitcase.
As the hurricane intensified so too did our fears. Voices were raised as parents commanded the children to listen carefully to our evacuation plan in the event of the house being ripped apart. We were to prepare to crawl from the house with two parents in front, seven children in the middle, and two parents at the back. There was no translation necessary as the men demonstrated loud and clear the instructions for all to abide. I wanted to scream like a rebellious child “no way, I’m not leaving”, but I couldn’t speak, I was numb with terror. My heart was racing as I handed the children their wetsuits and told them to get ready.
Candles were lit at our altar, and prayers recited. Rosary beads were adorned and hymns were sung, but our brief moment of peace was interrupted when the bedroom walls began to bend with the force of the gales.
Shoulder to shoulder we stood and pushed with all our might. Our feeble attempt to fight this raging monster deemed hopeless and we were blinded with the flashes of lightening through the cracks of the walls. Little bodies sought shelter under ply-boards and held onto frightened kittens and puppies. It was a sad, pitiful sight but our children belted out the Irish and Fijian anthems, and comforted each other as their parents continued to wrestle with Winston.
It wasn’t long before despair set in and I abandoned my base and crawled in a corner surrounded by wet books which had fallen from the shelf. I blocked my ears and closed my eyes but it was useless, there was no escape from this monster who insisted in savagely battering our home.
After a short reprieve I stumbled back to join the others. This time I fought with all my might, determined not to be driven out of our home we toiled so hard for. In my mind there was no Plan B, perhaps I was being ridiculously stubborn but just like the captain of the Titanic I was staying and that was final.
After what seemed like an eternity, Winston’s roar appeared to be fading in the background, and one by one we loosened our grip on the poles that held our roof and walls in place. We fell to our knees and gave thanks to God for sparing our lives. Shaken and traumatised we comforted each other, we fought the fight and we survived. Winston departed and it was only when dawn fell we witnessed the trail of devastation he left behind.
The aftermath
As we walked along the road to the school, families were busy salvaging the remains of their possessions. Most were left with only the clothes on their backs. It was a pitiful sight and there were few words that could comfort them, but as always they remained resilient in the face of adversity. Their homes were in ruins but their faith remained unshakable.
The school compound could only be described as a war zone, and I had to dig deep to find any flicker of hope as the classrooms where our own children sat and where parents, students and teachers gathered only a month previously for a prayer service to bless the new school year were unrecognisable. Desks and chairs were overturned and barely used texts books laid in tatters on broken glass. Only the library and the office were left unscathed, and now this was home for many families in the locality.
I recalled how only a year ago we all gathered to celebrate the grand opening of Nakoroboya Primary School, and how excited and enthusiastic the children were as they proudly posed for pictures. Today there was a look of bewilderment in their faces as they forced smiles for the camera. What would happen next? Where would we learn? And how long would we wait?
Nobody knows the answers to these questions and for now the priority is to repair and restore. The cyclone left 42 people dead in Fiji, and tens of thousands homeless. Thankfully there were no lives lost in our community, but as often happens in remote rural areas aid can take a long time to reach, and with farms totally destroyed, there is long difficult road ahead for all here in Fiji.
Ellen Momo blogs at fijisunsets.wordpress.com. She has set up an online campaign to raise funds to help with the rebuild at mycause.com.au/page/120007/a-force-of-friendship-for-fiji
