Joe Philemon

I’m thirty-eight, and I’ve spent my whole life on the edge of disaster. That’s just how it is here in Vanuatu—storms, quakes, and the sea always remind you how fragile everything is. The land gives us life, but it also takes it back whenever it wants. Still, leaving has never felt like an option.

Last year hit us hard. The winds came at night, howling like angry spirits, tearing through roofs and trees. I sent my wife and daughter to the church, the only concrete building in the village, while I stayed behind to secure what little I could. By the time the storm passed at dawn, there wasn’t much left of our home. The saltwater had flooded the fields, killing the cassava and taro we depend on. For weeks, I climbed into the hills every day, looking for food and fresh water. My hands blistered, my back ached, but what choice did I have?

One evening, as I repaired a fishing net, my daughter sat beside me and asked, “Papa, why don’t we leave? Somewhere the storms can’t find us.” I didn’t know how to answer. Where would we go? Even if we could, would it feel like home? My father survived the earthquakes; his father endured tsunamis. Their stories are tied to this land, just as mine is.

But I see her fear when the winds howl at night. I feel it too. Living here means always knowing the ground could shake or the sea could rise without warning. Yet it also means resilience. After every storm, we rebuild. We share what little we have, and somehow, we keep going.

Some nights, when the stars are bright and the ocean is calm, I wonder about courage. Is it staying in a place that tests you again and again? Or is it leaving for something easier? Maybe it’s both. All I know is, no matter how many storms come, there’s always a sunrise after. And for me, that’s enough.