As the editor of this blog series, I realize I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Uli, and I’ve been living in Acapulco since March 2022. Before that, I was conducting ethnographic research on Afro-Indigenous geographies in the Costa Chica of Guerrero and Oaxaca, as well as searching for a social history of my family after finding few institutional records. Vulnerability has been a constant theme—both personal and geographical—that allows experiences to go unrecorded. At 11 years old, I migrated to the United States, later completing my PhD in Human Geography in London before returning to Mexico as an adult in 2017.
My return to Mexico was not just coming home; it was a reconnection with the personal, political, and social landscapes that have shaped my life and those around me. Witnessing firsthand the challenges faced by communities in the Costa Chica—challenges exacerbated by recurring disasters—compelled me to seek ways to contribute meaningfully to their resilience and recovery.
This is how Coastal Commons was born: out of a desire to address vulnerabilities that too often remain unspoken and unattended. Reading our previous blog entries, dedicated solely to the local issues of Acapulco, the optimism—what Lauren Berlant might call “cruel optimism”—is palpable. Students tackled local topics like housing, conservation, sustainable tourism, and agroecological alternatives. We were preparing to present tangible results, embodying the hope generated by local academic involvement and interventions. But then Hurricane Otis struck, and the magnitude of its destruction forced us to rethink the very foundations of our optimism.
Wrestling with Optimism Amid Ruin
I don’t believe Otis revealed new vulnerabilities—it pushed existing ones to their breaking point. My aim here is to grapple with that optimism, an ongoing struggle as I recount this personal narrative. Despite everything, I believe it’s necessary to keep moving forward. For this reason, we’re reintroducing this blog series, now under the name Coastal Commons. This is more than just a blog—it’s an invitation to engage with local voices, foster collaboration, and reflect on the complexities of rebuilding in the face of disasters. We must address not only the physical destruction but also the social, cultural, and political challenges that accompany it.
The emergence of Coastal Commons
coastal commons** is a project funded by the urban studies foundation, focused on urban resilience in the face of recurring disasters. This project is a collaborative exploration of urbanity, concentrating on the small and remote cities of the Costa Chica of Guerrero and Oaxaca, Mexico. As artists, activists, and researchers, we aim to better understand and share our diverse Black and Indigenous histories—interwoven identities in encounters and tales of violence and love. We recognize and celebrate the complexities of transcultural and multilingual networks of care that have existed for centuries in this geography.
Our project involves researchers, artists, and academics working together to explore participatory research methods and engage in transformative conversations based on feminist and anti-racist principles. Our goal is to understand the urban as a fluid and interconnected space that transcends conventional categories, especially the division between rural and urban, exploring how disrupting these categories allows us to embrace the cultural heritage and collective resilience of our localities.
Surviving Amidst the Tempest
I found myself in my bathroom, pressing my weight against the door as the wind “howled like two demons in battle,” as my neighbor would later say. The windows had already shattered, forcing me to seek refuge from flying debris. The last message I sent to my family was short but terrifying: “The building is swaying.” Living on the fifth floor, I felt the structure bending under the force of Hurricane Otis, which had rapidly intensified, catching us all by surprise. The models failed to predict its escalation—our Pacific region often remains on the margins of the most advanced forecasting systems, which prioritize areas of greater interest to more powerful nations. Here, the ocean’s heat drives our destruction, and no one monitors it closely enough to warn us in time.
I fell asleep during the storm, exhaustion overtaking adrenaline as water dripped from the ceiling. Upon waking, I stepped outside into a landscape transformed by destruction—uprooted trees, power lines twisted over cars, debris everywhere. Looting had already begun. I watched as people took what they could from shattered stores, their actions driven by more than just survival—there was frustration in their movements, a collective breaking point from the economic precarity that defines life in these geographies. People struggle daily to afford basic goods, often falling into debt just to survive. Looting wasn’t just an act of violence; it was a release, a moment of victory against a system that keeps those items just out of reach.
But the next day brought a different urgency. I needed to get to hemodialysis. Three times a week, I depend on a machine to filter my blood and keep me alive. The clinic was nearby, but even if I could walk there, I wondered: how would the nurses and staff make it? The streets were blocked by debris, and when I arrived, the clinic was devastated—broken windows, destroyed machines. Panic set in—not the frantic kind, but a quiet, calculated panic. This is climate grief: the stark realization that life, as fragile as it is, becomes a bargaining chip against the forces of nature. The infrastructure we rely on fails us, and we are left searching for solutions in a world that seems indifferent to our survival. I survived, we survived. How we did it is at the core of this blog series, which tells collective stories of survival through communal life—imperfect, arduous, repetitive, and sometimes hopeful. It reflects the frustration and hope inherent in collective, participatory community-building efforts in the face of a region that has been historically (infra)structurally abandoned.
The volume of Zombie Hurricane John
Eleven months after Otis, when we were still in the process of recovery, Hurricane John struck—a zombie hurricane that, after weakening, was reborn and regained strength by interacting with other hydrometeorological events—bringing more rain and flooding. I was there too, witnessing the relentless onslaught of nature against a city still recovering from the previous disaster. Though not as destructive as Otis, John exacerbated the city’s recovery challenges. The already deteriorated infrastructure was pushed to its limits once again—roads collapsed, homes were flooded, and the city was submerged in water.
For me, Hurricane John was a painful reminder of our vulnerability and the ongoing struggle to rebuild not just structures but lives. I emphasize the importance of the work we are doing with Coastal Commons. The personal experiences of living through these storms inform our approach to community engagement and resilience. They highlight the urgent need to address the systemic issues that make recovery so arduous.
From Solitude to Solidarity
These personal encounters with disaster are not isolated incidents; they are deeply intertwined with the social, political, and environmental contexts in which Coastal Commons operates. My experiences during Hurricanes Otis and John have reinforced my commitment to this project. They have shown me that rebuilding is not just about infrastructure—it’s about understanding the lived realities of those affected, fostering networks of care, and challenging the systems that perpetuate vulnerability.
While writing this, Hurricane Milton was threatening Florida. The U.S. media was filled with news of its potential devastation, tracking its every move with precise models and constant updates. They have the resources to monitor and predict these storms in real time, supported by extensive satellite data and forecasting technology. In contrast, when Hurricane Otis rapidly intensified from Category 2 to 5 in less than 12 hours, there was little warning for those of us in its path. Our region lacks the same level of attention and investment, despite facing equal or even greater threats. Otis, John, Milton—these storms are all connected, fueled by the same ocean heat that makes hurricanes more frequent and intense.
However, as farhana sultana reminds us, the impacts of climate change are not distributed equitably. Borders and economies define who suffers more, with the Global South facing greater vulnerabilities despite contributing much less to the problem. The Global North does not experience climate change in the same way, nor does it share equal responsibility. This inequity must be recognized. The grief it brings is collective but unequally borne, and so must our response be, acknowledging and addressing these disparities. Grief is not just a personal burden; it is a shared process we must navigate together, transforming our pain into action.
Embracing Our Shared Burden
This blog is more than a reflection on survival; it’s an invitation to engage in the collective work of rebuilding. Coastal Commons is dedicated to this work. Limited as we are by scale and resources, we are united by our responsibility to others and to the places we call home. We undertake this not just to rebuild what was lost but to rethink the way we live in this region, to challenge the systems that continue to fail us. The storms we face are planetary in scope, and so must be our response. The work of confronting climate change is also the work of grieving—a grief that must be worked through individually, yet collectively. It is through this shared journey that we find the strength to weave resilience into the very fabric of our community-building efforts.
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* In this blog post, images of the devastation have been intentionally omitted. In an era where tragic media content is abundant, adding more visuals risks contributing to a desensitization toward suffering. While visualizing these events is undeniably important—and we have ample material to do so—this piece aims to offer a space for philosophical reflection rather than visual consumption. The focus is on the narratives and the underlying issues of vulnerability, resilience, and collective grief. By refraining from including images, my intent is to encourage a deeper engagement with the text and to provoke thought about the complexities of representation and the ethics of witnessing. This decision aligns with a commitment to move beyond passive observation toward active contemplation and, eventually, meaningful action. Therefore, this specific blog post foregoes imagery, at least for now, to prioritize introspective discourse over visual depiction.
** This research was supported by a Seminar Series Award from the Urban Studies Foundation, grant reference: USF-SSA-230311
