Silence is not an option

The Caribbean stands at a perilous crossroads. As communities clear rubble and grieve after Hurricane Melissa, a wider climate emergency tightens its grip—and military maneuvers in our seas threaten to make everything worse. The region’s people are rebuilding in the shadow of warships, jet fuel, and drifting uncertainty. That contradiction is untenable.

Hurricane Melissa’s explosive growth did not happen in a vacuum. The storm fed on abnormally warm Caribbean waters—roughly 1.4°C above long-term averages—conditions made far more likely by human-driven warming. Small island societies like Jamaica contribute little to the gases overheating the planet, yet we bear the brunt: homes torn apart, beaches gnawed away, reefs and mangroves battered, livelihoods on pause.

Militarization magnifies these dangers. Independent assessments have shown that war and military operations are significant sources of greenhouse pollution—from the rapid emissions spikes that accompany bombardments to the sustained climate footprint of prolonged conflicts. Recent conflicts have released tens of thousands of tonnes of carbon dioxide in mere weeks, while decades of overseas warfare have added hundreds of millions of tonnes more to the atmosphere. Now similar high-emitting activities are occurring closer to our shores.

For months, foreign military assets have operated across Caribbean waters. Their presence is not just symbolic. Heavy fuel combustion at sea and in the air drives emissions; reports of lethal actions raise grave questions about legality and accountability. Actions at sea must comply with international maritime law, including the duty to avoid unnecessary endangerment, respect for coastal states, and safeguards against arbitrary violence. Where such standards are ignored, the risk of extrajudicial killings and environmental harm rises together.

Those most exposed are the people who keep our food systems alive. Fishers working traditional grounds now navigate near active security zones, facing not just rougher seas and shifting fish stocks but the immediate dangers of militarized encounters. One mistake, one misread signal, can cost a life—or a family’s entire income.

These layered crises are not accidental. They grow from long-standing patterns of extraction and dispossession that have left the region less resilient to shocks. Despite this history, our governments possess tools they are not fully using. Caribbean states can press for de-escalation through regional diplomacy, invoke hemispheric collective-defense mechanisms created in 1947 when peace is threatened, and demand respect for human rights guaranteed in inter-American instruments. None of these avenues should gather dust when our people’s safety is at stake.

What leadership should look like

First, there must be a clear, public stance: Caribbean waters are not a theatre for great-power posturing. Jamaica and its CARICOM partners should call for the drawdown of military activities that inflame tensions and fuel the climate crisis. Demands should include full transparency about operations, adherence to international law, and safeguards to prevent harm to civilians at sea.

Second, protect those on the front lines of both climate and conflict—our coastal communities. Authorities can establish temporary safety corridors, create rapid communication systems between fishers and maritime agencies, and develop compensation and insurance mechanisms for interrupted livelihoods. Emergency response plans must account for scenarios where extreme weather and security incidents collide.

Third, move decisively on the climate measures we can control. That means accelerating a transition to renewables at utility and community scale, building out energy storage, and modernizing grids so that post-storm recovery doesn’t depend on imported diesel. It also means shutting the door on offshore oil and gas exploration that locks in future risk and undermines our moral clarity. A recovery model rooted in justice—decolonized in outlook and practice—should prioritize community land rights, participatory planning, and local ownership of green infrastructure.

Coastal resilience policy must be more than a slogan. Practical steps include re-zoning the most hazard-prone shorelines, restoring mangroves and seagrass meadows, expanding coral nurseries, and investing in “living shoreline” defenses. These nature-based protections do double duty: buffering storm surge while storing carbon. Coupled with resilient housing standards, microgrids for critical services, improved water security, and modern early-warning systems, they form a protective web our islands urgently need.

Finally, regional diplomacy should push for climate action that matches the scale of loss and damage we are living through. That includes fair access to climate finance, support for debt relief and climate-resilient rebuilding, and recognition that the Caribbean’s security is inseparable from the stability of its climate and seas. Security, in our context, is not defined by the number of ships in a flotilla but by the safety and dignity of people in coastal towns and hillside communities.

When seas are hotter and guns are closer, it is always the poor who pay first and most. We cannot normalize a future where extreme storms intensify over superheated waters while fuel-churning fleets idle nearby. The choice before us is stark: speak and act to protect life and law in our waters, or accept the quiet slide into a more dangerous, more unequal Caribbean.

Silence is not stewardship. Silence is not safety. Silence is not an option.