The Broken Echo: A Voice in the Storm and the Agony of Jamaica

The air smells of salt, of twisted metal, and a despair so dense it barely allows one to breathe. The memory of the storm—the one we call Hurricane Maria here—is not just a recollection; it is a deep scar on Puerto Rico’s soul, and an echo that now, with terrifying clarity, resonates from the shores of Jamaica.

Years ago, I found myself standing in the darkness. The only thread of light and voice in a paralyzed country. I captured those nights of life and death on the microphone in my 2018 book, "Bitácora de una transmisión radial" (Logbook of a Radio Broadcast). It was not an act of heroism, but a moral obligation dictated by my heart: to be the last beacon in the night for thousands. Every transcription was a scream of desperation, a plea, a whisper of life. And sometimes, as I well remember, my voice would break, choking on the impotence of being unable to give more than words to those who needed everything.

I wept in the shadows of the radio booth, not out of personal fear, but out of rage at seeing how misery became an opportunity for the corrupt. I remember the slap of the official lies, the death tolls that danced between shamelessness and cynicism, while we, the journalists, knew the truth lay buried beneath thousands of pieces of debris and uncounted bodies. They said 4,645, and eventually, the final figure settled on 3,000 souls. A slow-motion catastrophe.

And today, as we in Puerto Rico turned the lights back on and count our blessings, my thoughts sink into the heart of Jamaica. Melissa, yet another force of nature with a woman's name, has passed, leaving behind an incomprehensible trail of destruction. She is now heading toward southeastern Cuba, a country that has also marked my life and career as a journalist.

My friend Rubén asked me from Boston: "I wonder if tonight there is a Sandra Rodriguez Cotto broadcasting solace and information over the radio in Jamaica..."

The question pierces me like a frozen splinter. I do not doubt there are others—anonymous radio heroes with dry throats and their hearts in their hands. But, will they survive that monster?

I imagine the fear, the desolation. The desperation for news of loved ones. Will they be cold? Hungry? I think of our elderly, our children, trapped by the brush and broken roads. That unimaginable need, that abyss of having no water, no voice. That is what they are living now in Jamaica and Cuba. And only days ago, the same terror struck the southwestern Dominican Republic and Haiti.

And this is where the sacred importance of the press in moments of emergency resides: not just to inform about the storm's path, but to be the umbilical cord that connects life. The voice that demands accountability from power, that audits the aid, that does not allow corruption to feed on others’ pain. It is the duty to let your voice break so that help arrives, to shout the truth, even when the world is in darkness.

It is precisely from this deep, shared wound that the call for solidarity from Puerto Rico emerges. We cannot stand idle before this echo of our own tragedy. The only way to honor what we lived through with Maria is to remember in order to act.

Every Puerto Rican who experienced the despair of silence, who tasted the canned rations, or felt the agony of the gas lines, knows exactly what a Jamaican mother is feeling tonight. That emotional connection is not just sadness; it is an engine of empathy that must turn our memory into a call: your past pain is the bridge to understanding and alleviating their present pain.

For a journalist like me, the role is now twofold: to be a beacon of conscience and a voice for those who have been silenced. From the booth or the keyboard, we must report on the critical situation in Jamaica while simultaneously scrutinizing the global response. Is aid reaching them? Is there transparency? My platform must not be limited to recounting; it must give voice to Jamaica’s desperation, demanding that their agony not become a forgotten footnote of international indifference. We must act with intention: channel aid through credible organizations, donate what we know was truly needed here (water filters, batteries, first aid kits), and above all, honor their struggle by emphasizing their resilience. They are not victims; they are survivors who, like us, will rise from the ruins.

May my "Logbook" not just be Puerto Rico’s history, but the manual for survival and the call to action for all those who, in the darkest night, need to know they are not alone. The Caribbean is one single heart beating in the same sea, and now, that heart weeps for Jamaica.