Blog 48-Huracan Nancy

Huracan Nancy
The hurricanes threatened and this time the hurricane came. Palenque went into a frenzy of preparedness, an orderly frenzy. Several swarms of muchachos moved the elders and the children to the shelters, while other swarms installed the Venturan storm dome over the communications installation and the central hub of our encampment, the Comedor, las casitas. La Fabrica. Our tents and blue tarp structures were dismantled and the materials were secured, some inside the dome, some inside the shelters. Rows of cots were laid out as las Señoras cooked and put away food. Hundreds of us took shelter as wind and water raged around us for two days. We gathered in assemblies whereever we were. Guille took charge of ours. We spent the hours of the storm telling stories, figuring out who slept where and when, organizing our meals, repairing breaches in the dome, taking turns looking out.
When we emerged the beach was as if Palenque had never been. Our assemblies determined what we'd learned. Which spots were most vulnerable to Nancy? What had perished? What remained? Where did it make most sense to rebuild? Guille began his first post Nancy discurso, “Not one human casualty to wind and rain.” Within two days the dome was rolled back and stored, the elders and the children returned, swarms of Los Muchachos rebuilt the shelters and Palenque was restored.

Writing Late at night after Machi and David have gone
I sat at my usual spot in La Fabrica, pretty much intact after the storm, alone except for a group of young men who had just set themselves up to write together on a rebuilt laptop, facing Hillside, as far from me as they could get. Why weren't they off with my boys? My spot faced Beachside and was close to a fire, red coals now. Machi went out with David, Lagarto and Robles. I didn't know if they had a swarm tonight or if they were working on the toilet bank which took a lot of planning and figuring out, more so after hurricane Nancy flooded the holes they'd dug. Maybe they were restoring the Hillside shelters. When he set off with Lagarto and Robles Machi said he had a lead on Ori. He wouldn't tell me what it was and I felt more relieved than annoyed.
I just reread an old Work Journal entry and made some notes. My whole life, un puñado de arena, thrown away in those jobs.
I decided to search Palenque TV livestreams. A quiet night. I stared at the frozen tiles. Then a plume of fire moved in one of them, toward the bottom right. I clicked on it and recognized my boys, swarming the outer perimeter of the Base. I wasn't sure exactly where. Two emotions battled for my mind: terror that tonight, this moment, my son would be killed; joy that now that he was a revolutionary, he would live. I heard ametralladoras and it took me a few moments to understand the Guardias had opened fire. The screen was black, but I could hear the sea, movement, and screams. I don't know how long I watched and listened, unable to move. The young men must have seen what I had seen. They ran out, into the night.
Guille showed up then. Radio Bemba is what I'd heard some women in El Comedor calling him, when he approached them with a story, choteándolo. “New Guardias on the perimeter jumpy from their first storm opened fire. Una masacre.” My heart stopped. Guille began his discurso. “ We may have embraced non-violence. But what do we do when they don't?” I put my hand over his mouth. “No hables mierda. Y mi hijo?” He took me in his arms and held me, left saying he would be back when he had something to tell me.
It was days before I knew, or Julia knew, or Patria knew if our boys were safe. We barely ate or breathed. We walked to the perimeter, to Palenque's communications center, to Coral to see Padre Ezequiel, our life a frenzy of tracking. Last night Machi, Lagarto and David came home. They had been detained by the Guardias and Daniel and Padre Ezequiel forced a deal and here they were.
Again, other mothers' sons were dead, not mine, not Julia's, not Patria's. I stood with our muchachos watching the rows of bodies wrapped in the Karayan flag burn. I realized we were standing in the very spot by the shelters where Anacaona had first shown me Todos doing their circular rite. I never knew this was Palenque's funeral pyre.