A line of makeshift shelters fringed the hillsides above the city. Outside crude shacks groups of people sat facing the sea, looking out at ominous signs of turbulence which been a familiar part of earlier lives. Many had experienced rapid costal land erosion where homes had once been. Some had been fortunate escapees from rogue tides and surging waves that had wiped out people, dwellings and, often, all means of surviving. People had fled for their lives, joining the worldwide population of climate refugees in search of safety and clean water.
All the hillside people had found their way to their present precarious safety by crossing the sea – some by rescue boats illegally patrolling the Mediterranean, others by crooks with inadequate boats ready to exploit fear and desperation. Receiving countries inevitably rejected claims for asylum, and yet were unable to deport to countries of origin since many of those places no longer supported life. No recourse to the public purse, as the official language stated. It was an undiscussed problem amongst an indigent citizenry, primarily concerned to protect its own life and keep its resources for its own use. Why should people share, or even care?
A few cared, of course. A small trail of people regularly made the challenging climb to deliver blankets, some food supplies and useful surprise items such as seeds and string. It was all very welcome in putting together makeshift lives, and so was the kindness and friendship of strangers.
When the storm clouds began to blot out sunlight, the hill-siders became acutely aware of sudden changes happening. Rain and hail pelted down and blasts of gale stormed around the city. From the beach terrifying plumes of water began to beat the shore. Giants with many watery hands rose from the sea seized the shore side cafes and threw them down, along with trees and cement pathways. They relived private nightmares of loss and fear.
There was no warning that could be given as a colossus of water rose above the city and smashed down, eliminating everything in its mighty path. The hill-siders knew this was not the end and that other, less mighty torrents would smash the land and suck all in front of them back into the angry guzzling sea. The city would flood, houses be demolished and many people would be lost for ever. A collective shiver signalled shared memories of parallel losses. Looking down from the hillside it was clear that there were survivors. Straggling lines of people could be seen making their way slowly to higher ground. What response could the hill siders offer other than simply to share what little sanctuary they could and divide their limited supplies to keep life going. They had learned much during their various routes to safety, and particularly that calls for asylum were usually not due to the fault of the seeker and needed respect. The other key lesson was the paramount importance of a dry box of matches.
