Basil Jarrett | Blessed Assurance and the children Melissa almost erased

Nearly six months since Hurricane Melissa turned Western Jamaica upside down, life has returned to normal for most Jamaicans. I say most because unless you are a fan of blue tarpaulins as a statement piece adorning your house, the lifesaving plastic sheets are a visible reminder that we have not fully moved on from that fateful October afternoon. The Government’s J$10 billion Restoration of Owner and Occupant Family Shelter (ROOFS) initiative is supposed to hasten that return to normalcy, but even the most ambitious social projects often leave some of our most vulnerable people and places out in the cold, or in this instance, out in the rain.

Last weekend, I found myself in a community that didn’t show up on anyone’s BINGO card as one of those places. Blessed Assurance Children’s Home, a Mustard Seed Community Home for children with disabilities. Nestled deep in the backwoods of Adelphi, St. James, Blessed Assurance is one of those places that country people would describe as being “behind-a-God-back”. It’s not the kind of place that most of us “pass through” on our way to anywhere. You literally have to set out deliberately to get there, or land there accidentally having missed that left turn at Albuquerque.

Today, it is a serene place with well-pruned lawns, neat surroundings and the sound of birds chirping blissfully in the background. A surprisingly quiet place for somewhere that houses children, but quite understandable given that those who live here, have never been able to utter the sounds that mark the typical school compound.

A stark contrast to that loud, terrifying October afternoon as Melissa transformed the normally quiet brook that runs adjacent to the property, into a raging deluge that overflowed its banks and swallowed whole, a number of the dorms that house those precious little tykes.

So when Jamaica began to emerge from the receding flood waters to begin the rebuilding process, Blessed Assurance was one of those out-of-sight, out-of-mind places. But through a confluence of good fortune, good people and good timing, last weekend saw an event which dared you to experience it and not be changed.

It was almost cinematic: Doctors, medics and engineers from the Jamaica Defence Force partnered with nurses and staff of the Tony Thwaites Wing hospital, and members of the Rwanda Defence Force (RDF) who have been here since January assisting with relief efforts, to repair the home, install fans, ACs, TVs and electronics, and carry out health and wellness checks for the children and staff. Soldiers, civilians, doctors, nurses, volunteers, hands, sweat, popcorn, music, cotton candy and hula hoops, all converged in that little green valley, as the children got a February Christmas.

Sceptics will call it PR. The Rwandans call it Umuganda, an African tradition where entire communities come together each last Saturday to help one family or one community member to build a home or some other worthwhile project. But for the 32 disabled children who have lived and will live out their entire lives on that small property, it was Christmas, Easter and more than a few birthdays all rolled in one. It was human beings showing up for other human beings in ways that only a privileged few ever get to experience. Places like Blessed Assurance sit in a strange blind spot in our national psyche. We know they exist, but we don’t know them. We keep them at a safe emotional distance, tucked behind phrases like “less fortunate” and “special needs,” as if language can do the work of compassion.

UNBRIDLED JOY

It is tempting to come to Blessed Assurance with your heart pre-loaded with pity. You assume the atmosphere will be heavy and sad. You brace for gloom. You walk with your Kleenex. And then the children do what children always do: they ruin your assumptions. Because while their needs and vulnerabilities are unfortunate, what hits you immediately isn’t their tragedy, but rather, the unbridled joy, laughter and excitement in receiving these gifts. And that’s the part that moves you.

Despite their cognitive challenges, the children knew that the event was special and that what they were getting was what they really needed. Not toys and phones, but simple things that most of us take for granted like soap, rags, deodorant, socks, toothbrushes and toothpaste. But also wheelchairs and beds. Sure, the new 65” TV and bluetooth speaker system courtesy of the TTW hospital staff, quite rightly generated excitement, but you could tell by how tightly each child gripped their gift bag, that they knew the value of what they had been given.

The deeper gift however, wasn’t what was in the bags. It was the message wrapped around the day: “You are not invisible”.

But there was another important lesson taught on Saturday.

In Jamaica, we have a love affair with the one-off. We do Labour Day like it’s a national cleanse. One day of scrubbing, painting, fixing, clearing and feeling morally refreshed. Then we go back to our regular programming, which includes complaining that things are falling apart. But what would Jamaica look like if we adopted Umuganda, not as a foreign import to admire, but as a Jamaican practice to adapt? Not a once-a-year Labour Day burst. Not a crisis-only response when a hurricane embarrasses us into action. But a monthly rhythm where schools, businesses, churches, service clubs, and yes, even “competitive” institutions decide that one Saturday is for giving time, labour, and skill where it’s needed most. Umuganda isn’t about logos and feather banners. It’s about how the community benefits when complementary strengths meet collective caring. But in a Jamaica which seems to get more and more selfish and self-centred each day, Umuganda may as well be Utopia, someone else’s fanciful pipe dream.

I am throwing out a challenge therefore, to every corporate leader reading this. Don’t wait for a gala invitation. Need knows no season. Adopt a home. Support the basics. Fans. Beds. Soap. Roll-on and rags. If you’re a professional association, offer your expertise once a month. And if you’re an ordinary Jamaican, give an hour, give a day, give a dollar. Just please, give a damn about the less fortunate.

Major Basil Jarrett is the director of communications at the Major Organised Crime and Anti-Corruption Agency (MOCA) and crisis communications consultant. Follow him on Twitter, Instagram, Threads @IamBasilJarrett and linkedin.com/in/basiljarrett. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.