I am a humble Marshallese woman, a mother, a daughter of the seas. The land on which I stand has been passed down from mother to daughter from as far back as our ancestors first called this island home. As a sparkling sun dances around the lagoon, I hold my sleeping daughter close to my chest, pondering the days past and wondering about the days ahead.
Not so long ago, my parents told me that in their youth, there was no such thing as Climate Change. Sea levels rose and retreated daily with the cycle of the tides, there was no talk of flooding or inundation, no fear the heavens would fail to provide water sufficient for our crops, and adaptation had no meaning in their language.
But, with sea water freely taking my children’s toys for a journey across the floor of our modest home, as I hold my sleeping daughter close to my chest, it will be me who tells my parents that Climate Change has never been so real!
Jaluit has been our home for many generations. The open front door frames my young son gleefully playing with friends as they chase floating bottles down what yesterday was a dusty roadway. A shout of joy takes my attention to Jimma and Bubu who are proudly holding up their freshly caught fish which will be part of today’s lunch.
I smile and wave, but the abiding sadness I hold inside tugs and reminds me that I may not be able to pass this simple way of life on to my sleeping baby daughter and mischievous young son.
How soon will it be that I have to tell my family that we have to move away? Tell them that we will be the last generation to enjoy the pleasurable life on Jaluit, the home of our people? Tears well up at the thought of saying one last farewell to my beloved island home.
Startled by a landing bird, Misco the cat suddenly leaps from the tree to which she retires for her regular naps. She realizes too late that her favorite landing place is saturated, and I laugh as she tries to change direction mid-flight, knowing this won’t end well for her. She almost reaches the old wooden chair, landing awkwardly beside it instead.
Desperately she claws her way out of the water, and I feel chastised for my laughter as she glances intently at me, as if I’m to blame for her misfortune. Poor Misco – we found her outside the Misco Market when she was so small, she could fit in the palm of my hand. My son insisted that we take her and give her a home.
Home… that word now seems like a dream. When I walk along the shoreline in the mornings, more and more I see where the sea has crept in, devouring the land, disturbing the graves of my forebears, the salty water parching the trees that once gave us food and shade.
More and more I have to forgo my usual walk as the shoreline is submerged and the dusty road a restless saltwater lake. In vain I fight the sense of fear and loss – this is not the future I had once imagined for my children. I look to the heavens and cry out in frustration – will help come before it’s too late?
The impatient calls of “Mama, Mama” draw me back to the present – my son has suddenly discovered he is hungry. Some things never change! As I set my still sleeping daughter gently down on the bed and prepare some food, I hear a distant rumble. A plane has just landed at the airstrip.
This is cause for wonder and excitement as we’ve only just begun to have visitors again now that the borders, once closed due to COVID, have reopened.
It’s not long before the village comes alive. Vehicles are approaching, and we can’t help but be inquisitive. Abandoning the remnants of his snack, my son calls out for his friends as he splashes quickly along the saturated roadway to see what new adventure awaits. Village elders gather and a crowd begins to build as I too now join the throng.
The vehicles stop and amidst much chatter and gesturing, faces familiar and new greet each other and position themselves for selfies and group photos. Our visitors are led to our newest school classroom, hall long readied for this auspicious occasion. The elders remind us we are all invited to stay as boxes and bags are opened, revealing paper, pens and iPads, computers, charts and more.
A young lady reaches out to introduce herself, and I just know that this is not going to be my usual day. The formalities soon start and before long I recognise something has changed. Has that abiding sadness inside lost its grip on me?
I listen intently as people local and foreign share information and images on what can be done to protect my home. There is talk of a plan, of protection, mitigation, of ways to adapt. Of sea walls, of raising land, of resources and support. Could this be a glimmer of hope?
Hope… hope that I can pass this land down to my daughter. Hope that my son will grow old on his island home. Again, I look toward the heavens.
