In Mayotte, the feeling that “France doesn’t give a damn” about the island

“Mom, where did our house go?” The night Cyclone Chido swept through Mayotte, 39-year-old Nifani Daoud’s little boy didn’t understand what had happened. On December 14, when the tropical storm that ravaged Mayotte for hours finally subsided, Nifani Daoud, her husband, and their three children left their shelter to return to their home in the small coastal town of M’Tsangamouji. But there was nothing left, just red earth. “The wind had blown everything away,” recalls Nifani Daoud, wearing blue lipstick, as her three children fidgeted with her legs.

The sloping streets were littered with branches, fallen palm trees, and sheets of corrugated iron. People were in shock—stunned by the cyclone's devastating power, deeply saddened by the extent of the damage, and euphoric to have survived. The death toll stood at 40, 41 missing, and hundreds injured.

Four months later, in Mayotte, this mountainous island nearly four times the size of Paris nestled between Madagascar and Mozambique, it feels as if the cyclone passed through a week ago. The streets are clear, and with this tropical climate, the lush vegetation has partly grown back, certainly, but the landscape remains apocalyptic: uprooted trees, wrecked cars, gutted homes, smashed sailboats as far as the eye can see. Here and there, along the streets, piles of garbage give off a foul stench.