That Watchful Eye

I remember walking home from school in the evenings with my friends, where the banking sides of the road became our enchanted playgrounds. The long journey home was a canvas for laughter and discovery, but when it rained it was way more interesting. Every sidewalk-gutter and drain were like secret streams whispering their way to unseen culverts and rivers beyond. Back then, it was rare—almost unheard of—to see a road without curb walls and drains. Those shallow gutters weren’t just there to carry water; they carried our imaginations. We would race alongside them, setting bits of paper or carefully folded boats afloat, cheering them on as they danced through the currents, each one chasing its tiny adventure. 

Even with skies that poured as if heaven’s gates had been left ajar—ushering in annual floods during hurricane season—destruction was rare. The land knew how to hold the rain, cradling it gently like a mother soothing her restless child. 

Today, even a few scattered drops seem to summon chaos. Roads flood, drains overflow, and communities are left inundated and people in despair. People are quick to blame the capricious hand of climate change, but I see something deeper—a quiet betrayal of the systems that once protected us. 

Those forests and grassy expanses, once nature’s sponges, have been stripped away, replaced by concrete jungles and paved-over dreams. Where trees once stood like sentinels against the storm, now stretch treeless suburbs with unyielding surfaces that refuse to drink the rainwater. The runoff, like a vengeful tide, gathers strength as it cascades down hills and roads, joining others in a relentless march toward destruction. 

What happened to those sturdy curb walls and reliable drains? They evaporated, not by accident but by design, as dishonest contractors and politicians prioritized the awarding of contracts over demanding quality work for the money spent. Cheap materials and poor construction replaced craftsmanship and integrity, and these hollow efforts became more abundant than the infrastructure they were supposed to build. 

We’ve traded the softness of earth for the hardness of stone, and in doing so, created a problem that compounds itself with every drizzle that last more than five minutes, or storm. The water, unable to seep into the ground as it once did, rushes forward like a thief in the night, taking with it anything unprepared for its arrival. 

This isn’t just a story of changing weather—it’s a story of what we have lost in our rush to modernize and monetize. The gutters and drains of my childhood were not just functional; they were symbols of a careful balance between human ingenuity and nature’s wisdom. They were the vessels of simple joys, connecting us to the rhythm of the land even as they protected our homes. 

Our leaders must have foresight. It’s time to reflect on the past decade of infrastructure development and demand better quality for our tax dollars. Natural disasters are inevitable—but what proactive measures are we implementing to mitigate their impact? 

Why have contractors abandoned essential practices like building curb walls, properly sloping road surfaces to match the terrain, and constructing effective catchment and runoff drains? 

Are we becoming so advanced that we neglect the basics of protecting our investments? We must restore our gutters and drainage systems—not just for water management, but as a testament to our commitment to maintaining what we build and preserving the balance between progress and nature. 

Mordecai Amon Israel