The Honeybee that Stung Jamaica and Yielded Sweetness

This story by Candice Stewart originally appeared on Global Voices on January 9, 2026.

I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of 2025; it was a tough year for Jamaica — and disappointing, to say the least, to see the privilege of folks in the Global North (and a few in the South) showing even before Hurricane Melissa made landfall. We can’t all just pack up and evacuate the country. This island is our home. We have nowhere else to go.

The storm was massive, with unprecedented wind speeds and pressure drops; of course, we anticipated great loss and damage, but for six months of the year, the Caribbean lives in the throes of the Atlantic hurricane season. Some years, we go unscathed.

Other times, we take the hits. In 2025, Jamaica was on the hit list. In the lead-up to a storm, there’s nothing to be done but take the lashing, adapt further, and continue to live.

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The Caribbean contributes only about one percent of global greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions, making its direct role in driving overall climate change heat very small compared to larger emitters like the United States, China, and the European Union.

These GHGs contribute to intense weather systems and phenomena like superstorms — so please, check your tone when speaking to anyone from this part of the planet. We are doing the best we can with the resources we have.

This is the context in which Melissa struck: a storm layered on top of injustice. Prior to it making landfall, all we could do was wait. Afterwards, we must continue to fight for climate justice by holding agencies accountable for stronger disaster preparedness, pressing for more resilient housing and infrastructure, demanding more community-focused recovery, and insisting on global accountability from high-emission countries.

What’s in a name?

I'm told that the name “Melissa” is of Greek origin and translates to “honeybee” in English, but on October 28, 2025, instead of sweet honey, Jamaica felt a bitter sting, with its Western parishes in particular gravely affected. The fallout felt personal, as if we troubled the hive and threatened the queen. In reality, Melissa’s fury came from particularly hot ocean waters — conditions conducive to feeding a supercharged storm. We were just in her way.

Melissa came, destroyed, and vanished, indifferent to the aftermath. The storm left Jamaicans in mental, physical, and financial distress. Even with preparations, plans, and systems in place, nothing could have prepared us for what it would do. Since its devastating onslaught, my mind has been in a state of undress.

I’m uncertain about how to feel, how to process my emotions. I find myself swaying between gratitude for survival and guilt at not experiencing the level of damage and turmoil others have endured. It feels like standing in the sunshine while others rebuild in the shadows.

Volunteering to quell the sting

I turned to action to keep myself both busy and useful, channelling my feelings into rendering aid to some of the worst-impacted communities. Knowing that even small acts have the power to help others, volunteering brought me joy and peace.

I opted to volunteer with the Jamaica Red Cross, and was often joined by members of the International Federation of the Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (IFRC) working in communities in Westmoreland, Hanover, St. James, Trelawny, and St. Elizabeth. Throughout these relief missions, I battled an internal overwhelm — perhaps even a dissonance — as I was still unsure of the health and safety of my own family and friends from those parishes.

Additionally, I bore witness to the sudden appearance of trenches and breakaways that were once roads, buildings without roofs, foundations without walls, streets that turned into rivers, historic landmarks rendered reminiscent of abandoned ruins, iron and steel containers flipped over, mangled water tanks, once erect light posts that now had more in common with forward slashes, and trees left as bare as if the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb had blown through. I also saw people crying, their eyes filled with fear, bewilderment, and frustration.

Days after the storm, the folks I met included young mothers seeking shelter with family and friends, who, upon returning to their homes, found them flattened; families with children who had escaped with only the clothes on their backs; people with nowhere else to go, resorting to living in their cars; and barely mobile seniors trying to piece their spaces — and their lives — back together. It’s been an all-round heart breaking situation.

The tears and sadness, however, were not monolithic experiences, having been accompanied by complementary smiles, laughter, endless praise to God, and gratitude to volunteers who continue to show up and assist in meaningful ways.

Sweet reflections

Each community I visited revealed a different face of resilience, etched in both sorrow and gratitude, all coexisting with countless stories of survival in the wake of the storm.

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On November 15, I accompanied the volunteer team to the Petersfield Health Centre in Westmoreland, and despite the rain, we cleared the debris. The roof of the facility was so badly damaged that most things inside were irredeemable. I helped clear rooms where needles were strewn all over, and the ceiling sat waterlogged on the floor. Despite the obvious devastation, the staff on site remained hopeful, positive, and thankful that things weren’t worse.

The very next day — also rainy — I volunteered at Mount Peto, Bessiebaker, and Axe-and-Adze in the parish of Hanover to the island’s northwest. As our team was driving along the road, we passed a house with a stirringly eerie image: a lady, Ms. Sandra, stood within the structure of her room with an umbrella over her head; her roof was gone — only the walls of her abode remained intact. We immediately helped to get her dry and added a temporary cover over her home. She was so grateful despite all she had endured.

On November 30, I went to Retrieve in St. Elizabeth, where community members showered us with verbal expressions of thanks, handshakes, and bags upon bags of peanuts, the only crops available from the farmers’ yield at the time. Last but certainly not least, on December 14, I joined the volunteer team in Westmoreland.

While at a rest stop, a stranger approached me to say how happy he was to see us in the community of Salt Spring, Montego Bay, a few days earlier, where he and other folks had benefitted from yet another relief mission.

These experiences and many more have added such great perspective to my life that they fuel me to want to do more. At every opportunity, I joined the relief distribution team on the ground, offering food, water, and hygiene packages, cleaning kits, solar lights, and many other shelter kit items.

Others I’ve volunteered alongside feel the same way. Adrian Reid, for instance, told me, “It has been a very warming feeling for me when I’m able to bring a smile and sign of hope to a family that has been affected by the hurricane.”

Fellow volunteer Kavone Willis said it was “both a blessing and an emotional experience … especially when you hear some of the stories shared,” and Donna Thomas added, “It’s emotionally heavy — urgency mixed with heartbreak as you see homes damaged and people exhausted. Even small actions, like clearing debris or handing out supplies, feel surprisingly meaningful. The fatigue is real, but so is the solidarity; neighbours helping neighbours, strangers working together. Those moments of gratitude and connection stay with you long after.”

From service to solidarity

The idea, widely attributed to Mahatma Gandhi, that “the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others,” does not capture the fullness of my experience. My journey feels … different. Volunteering post-Melissa hasn’t helped me find myself; rather, it has reminded me how fragile and interconnected we all are — a reality made painfully clear by the similarities in every difficult story and the shared hope for a brighter tomorrow that extends beyond parish borders.

Much like Hurricane Melissa’s predecessors, this storm left destruction, pain, and loss, but failed to snatch our joy, camaraderie, gratitude, and will to not only survive, but to get better than before.

The sting to our island nation left us with a lot of cleaning up to do, as well as opportunities to re-evaluate our processes for future hurricane seasons, but it also allowed us to show each other how sweet and beautiful it is to help one another in times of great need, while counting our blessings and standing firm.

Melissa’s legacy is not just about destruction. It’s a reminder that healing is something we do together — so much so that I'd encourage anyone who wants to volunteer their time and other resources to the continued relief effort to get involved as we build back our country.

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