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By Annie Casquejo
Everything changed when Odette happened. Our daily routines changed. The seawater rose. Things that used to be simple, like sleeping, cooking, or going out to fish, suddenly felt hard and dangerous. We lived in trauma. It occupied our dreams.
It has been four years. Have we recovered? Not really. Maybe 60–70%, and not everyone has. Little by little, we’re getting back up because of help from NGOs and the like, for which we are grateful. There were microfinance groups that offered assistance. But the losses were huge. I’m thankful to the Lord that no lives were taken—only material things. Those can still be replaced. Still, “only material things” can mean a lifetime of work. My equipment, my appliances, all wiped out. My house was totally damaged. Only one wall left standing.
We used to have this habit: every year we saved for a small project—this year we’ll buy this, next year we’ll build that. Then in one instant, it all disappeared.
I remember when the sea poured into our sleeping area. We didn’t realize it at first. We thought my grandchild peed. But it was seawater…
Take it from us, climate change is already here; it’s been here for years. We can’t pretend otherwise. What matters to us now is making sure it doesn’t get even worse. We can’t stop it overnight, but we can demand accountability and push for solutions that protect communities like ours.
People ask about the case we’re filing. We’re in it to fight a big international company. Am I afraid? Courage comes from my family—from my children and my grandchildren. Whether we lose or win is not the point for me. What matters is that we stand up. Even if it takes many years before results—many years before we know that we’ve won or lost—my grandchildren will remember that their lola stood up for them. I want them to know that as a matter of human rights, we should fight.
Why is it important that we win? Because a win can force payment for damages. At the very least, the possessions we spent years saving up for—our boats, our homes—could be replaced. But even if we lose, at least we did something. We are not “small people.” We are people who fight.
Climate justice can sound like a big, distant phrase, but for us it is simple. It’s the right to sleep without seawater licking the floorboards. The right to fish and come home safe. The right to rebuild once—and not rebuild the same house again and again. It is the right to live with dignity.
If you are reading this from far away, please know that every storm has names and faces behind it. Boats have names. Homes have birthdays. When storms make the news, we carry on with repairs long after the headlines are gone. We need those responsible for this crisis to help pay for the losses and to change their business so others don’t suffer the same.
I fight for my family, my neighbours, and the generations yet to come. I fight so my grandchildren can look back one day and say, “Our grandmother was part of that. She stood up for us.”
No, we are not small. Our hearts are bigger than any storm. And why do we fight for climate justice and accountability? Because beneath the statistics and reports lies the simplest truth of all: our lives are at stake.