Prieto had been on the ground for disasters before—September 11, Superstorm Sandy—but he was unprepared for the destruction and disorder that met them in San Juan. They had divided the governor’s envoy into three small groups, each being helicoptered to a different area of the island to survey and deliver critical drinking water and supplies: formula, insulin, battery-operated respirators. Prieto found himself in Maunabo, a town that, after years of corporate chemical dumping, the EPA had named a Superfund site. On a good day their water was at risk of contamination. The people there spoke of Maria like a monster, barely fighting back tears while they waited for jugs of water. With the power out and the cell towers destroyed, their anxiety had only heightened from being cut off from the outside world. His entourage had been the first officials anyone in the town had seen and they felt relief at being “found.” Feeling the heat and his own thirst, Prieto assessed their supplies.
“Is this all the water we have?” he asked one of the congressional aides in his group.
“They are saying FEMA should make it out in a day or so?”
“These people need water now. Give out everything we have here; we’ll go back for more. We can’t have people dying of thirst. It’s still fucking America.”
“Honestly? If this was a foreign country, we’d likely be doing more,” the aide replied.
In the distance, Prieto heard a commotion. On the outskirts of their long distribution line, people were chattering and, family by family, peeling off, heading in the opposite direction. He followed. Down a side street sat a pickup truck. Two men stood on the flatbed with AK-47s in their hands. Two others were distributing gallon jugs of water to the growing crowd. All four of their faces were covered by black bandanas. One of the gunmen noticed him and called for the others’ attention. Prieto stopped, and gave a head nod in their direction. They raised their rifles, and even as Prieto turned, slowly, to walk away, he could feel their aim on his back.
* * *
THE ENVOY WAS only meant to stay for a few hours before heading back to New York, but when their tour was over, Prieto felt unable to leave. It was hard to imagine going back, sleeping in the comfort of his home, with AC and drinkable water, refrigerated food, access to phone service and internet, knowing that a short flight away, there were Americans who looked just like him, with none of those things. Unlike when Sandy took out power in New York, or when Houston was flooded after Harvey, or when fires burned the houses of Sonoma to the ground, these people had no one to go to. They had no real voice as far as the government was concerned. They paid taxes, served in U.S. wars, yet there was no one with actual power whose job was to fight for them. No one to represent them and demand action. On a good day, Prieto didn’t trust this administration not to fuck anyone who wasn’t a part of their “base.” He could only imagine the cruel neglect they would subject upon an entire island of disenfranchised Brown and Black people. It was playing out before his very eyes. He wanted to stay to help, yes, but also so that no one could deny what he saw. No one could “spin” it and say the footage was worse than the situation. He needed to bear witness.
For the next two days Prieto embedded himself with a U.S.-based news crew who’d been sent down to cover the storm. Prieto trusted them over the government to give him unfiltered access to what was really happening. The first day, Saturday—three days after the storm—they made their way over to Toa Baja, where search and rescue for people trapped in flooded houses was still going on. Sam, the reporter, and his cameraman, Jeff, documented the people stranded on roofs, the homes subsumed with water. Prieto waded through flooded streets helping to put the sick and elderly on floatation devices, wading them to barely functioning hospitals. He was struck that, rather than express fear, those whom they rescued met them with gratitude. Gratitude that they survived. Gratitude that it had not been worse. Gratitude that their brethren had not forsaken them.
The irony, Prieto realized, was that for Borinquen, surviving the storm was just the beginning. Each hour seemed to bring new reverberations of Maria’s impact. Landslides in the mountains were taking down what remained of homes that had survived. Even if you could get your car around the blocked and collapsed roads, there was a gas shortage. Even if you could find gas, because of the power loss, the only way to buy it was if you had cash. On Saturday afternoon, back in San Juan, they’d spotted a line that snaked around a block and discovered it led to an ATM being powered by one of the island’s few working generators. Sam and his cameraman were talking to the waiting people being desiccated by the sun. Prieto’s eye was drawn to a man sitting on the curb. He was skinny and his long gray hair was offset by his dark complexion. His head was resting in his hands. Prieto could see his shoulders shaking with sobs. He walked and sat down next to him.