Philippe Perez

When I step outside, the salty breeze from the ocean hits me, bringing with it the familiar scent of home. Guadeloupe is paradise on earth—a place where the sea is as blue as the sky and the palm trees sway gently to the rhythm of the wind. The beaches are like something out of a postcard, the kind tourists dream of, and the ones I’ve known all my life. But there's more beneath the surface than what meets the eye, a truth that many outsiders don’t see.

My father has been sick for a while now, and it's hard to watch. He worked on the banana plantations for years, back when the use of chlordecone was widespread. It was supposed to protect the crops, but instead, it poisoned our land. I’ve read about the damage—how the pesticide contaminated our soil and water, and how it's likely to stay that way for centuries. The consequences are staggering: the highest rates of prostate cancer in the world, right here in Guadeloupe and Martinique.

At 25, I’m preparing to leave Guadeloupe with him and my mother. We’re heading to France, where he can get better treatment. It’s a bitter departure, leaving the island that shaped who I am. But there’s a purpose in it. I’ve decided to study agricultural sciences there, to learn how to grow food without harming the environment.

It’s strange, the thought of trading the rhythm of the Caribbean for the hustle of Europe. But the drive to make a difference, to find solutions that respect the land rather than exploit it, is stronger. We’ve seen the consequences of ignoring that balance. My father is a testament to that.

As we prepare for this new chapter, I can’t help but feel a mix of emotions—sadness for leaving, but also a fierce determination. I want to honor my father’s legacy and take what I learn to bring it back here one day. Maybe I can help repair the damage, even if it takes generations. I’ll miss the sound of the waves and the warmth of the sun, but I carry a piece of Guadeloupe with me wherever I go. It’s in my blood, and in the soil that connects us all.