On Oct. 27, 2025, Hurricane Melissa barrelled through the Caribbean, leaving devastation in its wake. By the 28th, it had increased intensity to a Category 5 storm, with sustained winds reaching 185mph and torrential rainfall exceeding 30 inches. When it made landfall in Jamaica, the devastation was both immediate and profound. In the parish of St. Elizabeth alone, many towns were flooded, essentially leaving them “underwater”.
In addition, communication was cut off due to power outages that affected millions of people. Jamaica’s Prime Minister, Andrew Holness, estimated damage of roughly 30% of the country’s GDP, an unthinkable loss for a country already battling economic strain.
As someone born and raised in the Caribbean for over 20 years, I’m all too familiar with the deadly threat that natural disasters pose to our vulnerable region. I’ve experienced multiple hurricanes, earthquakes, and flooding myself.
The recent damage caused by Hurricane Melissa has reignited a painful truth: the Caribbean is on the front lines of a climate crisis it did little to cause. The sad part of it all is that, while we arguably suffer the most from the effects of climate change, the Caribbean has been shown to contribute barely a fraction of the world’s greenhouse gas emissions. According to United Nations data, Small Island Developing States (SIDS)—which include many Caribbean nations—are responsible for less than 1% of global emissions.
So why are we so vulnerable to the impacts of climate change? Part of why this imbalance exists goes beyond emissions. Centuries of colonialism and exploitation shaped Caribbean economies and infrastructure in ways that make the region extremely vulnerable today. Moreover, Caribbean economies depend on tourism, agriculture, fishing and imports, which makes their emissions low but exposure high. Many of these industries are coastal, so when hurricanes hit, they’re often the first to be destroyed. This leaves entire communities without income or resources.
Also, as so many people and products move in and out of the region, even minor disruptions in travel or supply chains can deepen this vulnerability. Finally, the high cost of imports leads to large governmental debts. This leaves little space in their annual budgets for a recovery fund. As a result, when disasters do occur, the rebuilding process feels endless.
In my view, these disasters are magnified due to structural weaknesses in our societies. This means that when hurricanes destroy homes, vehicles or crops, the damage isn’t just physical. It can lead to loss of jobs, lower food security and a decline in mental health. In the view of climate scientists, hurricanes like Melissa are part of a pattern. Warming oceans give storms more energy, slower storms bring heavier rain, and higher seas make storm surges stronger. This means that hurricanes that used to happen “once in a decade” could now occur every year.
A 2019 climate study warns that islands could lose thousands of square kilometres of land due to rising sea levels, as well as a growing part of their economy, unless urgent action is taken.
It all feels simply unfair. This is why conversations around climate justice are so important. Most greenhouse gas emissions come from large industrialized countries that have relied on fossil fuels for decades. This is why wealthier nations have an obligation to support regions like the Caribbean beyond mitigation and adaptation. To combat the irreversible harm already happening, we need all hands on deck.
As for the people? The phrase, “there’s no place like home,” is a true testament to the spirit of the Caribbean. Our love for our islands makes the stakes even higher. From our beaches to our music to our food, we have so much that we desperately want to protect. Disasters like Hurricane Melissa shouldn’t just be talking points that fade away after a few weeks of discourse. These moments should be a call for awareness and advocacy. Even the smallest actions can attract attention and, hopefully, lead to meaningful change.