A hurricane hit the Island recently when FBI agents and men in paramilitary armor arrived on our Island, escorted by the US Coast Guard. Vans and trucks were pulled over with immigrants who were questioned. Some were sent on their way, others were handcuffed and put on a boat, without due process, without a goodbye, their cell phones tossed. Keys taken, cars left abandoned. One immigrant was returned when the family could post a $7,500 bail. Charges unknown. Fathers of students, brothers and workers, members of our community, vanished.

Less than a week earlier, the winds had threatened, the air had turned cold and wet, and the news that a familiar 16-year-old farm was taking a pause. A pause to reconsider their options because they can’t keep up with rising costs. This sent chills down to my bones. Only last fall, a dear friend in Western Massachusetts closed his dairy farm after 35 years for the same reason. It’s the same cry I hear from the last remaining dairy on Martha’s Vineyard, which stopped milking cows this past winter and is also considering their future.

In 2010, we stood on Beacon Hill and demanded that raw milk be allowed for off-the-farm sale in Massachusetts. We argued the fact that so much of what is set up in regulation and legislation aims to protect and keep us safe against big agricultural or factory practices, where animals are treated like commodities and live horrific and inhumane lives. A life many can’t imagine, and yet the same rules apply to the small farmers who know their animals and interact with them every day. A big, fat bill for better efficiency of a system that doesn’t work seems to be the current answer.

Then on May 31, the winds came harder and they didn’t stop. Over 500 community members came together to say goodbye to one of our leaders. He was a mentor and a champion. He provided counsel. He was a shining lodestar, a beacon, a comfort to many and a professional who helped you navigate under any and all thunderstorms. As trees dipped and swayed, we walked against raging air, and we tried to hold each other up in pain, sadness, disbelief and numbness. The wind roared and then the lights went out.

Once again, we stand in disbelief, unsure of our own Constitution, our rights and the rights of our neighbors. We are left in a squall, the turbulence resonating through our blood. Who is safe and who can be trusted? If we don’t fight, we know the consequences. A dairy farm closes, another is threatened, a friend dies, our neighbors are taken away — the winds are ruthless.

I feel vulnerable and question the season.

A mess of trees and branches blocks our road. A robin’s nest with dead babies inside is found. Then, a baby owl is saved from South Road, but it is struggling. Its home was destroyed when a tree fell. With no rescue sanctuary on Martha’s Vineyard, no one can help nurture this young bird, and life becomes very precarious.

Not unlike when our neighbors and friends were taken away.

We are the ones to carry on. We are the ones left to fight injustice and care for each other in these tumultuous times.

Jan Buhrman

Chilmark