I met my six-year-old self last night.
She couldn’t sleep. She was scared.

She only wanted to talk about the seagulls and the cormorants, the fish and the dolphins she had seen covered in a thick, black layer—their feathers and wings glued together as they struggled to open them, their eyes shut. They were trying to survive under a petroleum blanket that spread faster than they could ever outrun it.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did they let it happen? Why are animals suffering? Why aren’t the waves moving? Why is the ocean black?”

I could have answered her. I could have explained that a handful of old men allowed it to happen. We could have talked about how they got away with it—how a carefully managed chain of irresponsibility and corruption let them walk free.

But she didn’t want to hear it. And even if she had, she wouldn’t have understood.

Twenty-three years later, I don’t think I understand it either.

She only wanted it to be over. And how I wished I could have given her that. But I couldn’t. She wanted it to have never happened in such a deep, desperate way that it would have hurt too much to tell her: this was only the beginning.

So instead, I let her rest. I told her everything would eventually be okay. That we would try our best.

The MV Prestige sank in November 2002, spilling 77,000 tons of heavy fuel oil off the coast of Galicia, Spain—my home.

I was six years old when the biggest environmental disaster of the Iberian Peninsula unfolded before my eyes. And it changed me forever.

I wasn’t old enough to truly understand why the ocean, the beaches, the rocks, and the seaweed were pitch black. I wasn’t old enough to grasp why so many animals were dying in the arms of volunteers, or why so many washed ashore already dead.

Yet, somehow, I knew.

I remember the image of that massive ship slowly sinking, broadcast live on television. We all watched in silence, fingers crossed, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as we feared. Hoping it would be as “under control” as the politicians claimed.

But it was worse. Much, much worse.

We watched the destruction of our ecosystem live on TV, while no one stopped it.

For at least ten years after the spill, I would still find black patches on the rocks of the beaches I swam in. The scars were there. They probably still are. The ocean was an open wound. It was crying for help.

And people responded.

Volunteers from across the continent came to clean the waters I grew up swimming in, to save as many lives as they could.

The scene was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. The world had turned black and white, yet the power of those people was a shining light. The thick oil and the white, COVID-like suits moved in perfect, rhythmic harmony along the coast.

Little did they know that the remaining suits from that catastrophe would end up serving the same purpose in 2020—protecting those wearing them against something even bigger.

The Prestige changed us as a community. It showed me how powerful we are when we come together—when people see, understand, and act.

Those living by the ocean opened their doors, only for that thick, black layer to seep inside their homes.

The disaster was far worse than anyone expected. While thousands of volunteers shovelled petroleum from the sand and put suffering animals to sleep, our president stood on TV, claiming it was just a matter of “thin threads” leaking from the sunken barrels.

We were fighting a monster that would continue spilling fuel for years. The more we cleaned, the more arrived.

And then we realised something—something both a blessing and a curse.

We had no one. No authority.
Yet, we had each other. We had community.

I’d be lying if I said living through such a traumatic event didn’t shape who I am today.
Witnessing the power of volunteering at such a young age turned me into one myself.

It felt—and still feels—almost mandatory to use my time to protect the ecosystems that sustain my life, and life in the planet I inhabit as a whole.

The streets, the houses, the balconies, even people’s clothes in Galicia were covered by a banner—a cry of outrage that became a citizen movement transcending borders, disasters, and time: “Nunca Máis.” (Galician for “Never Again.”)

“Nunca Máis” touched us all.
It was an absolutely unified decision. A final warning to the political class: this would NEVER happen again.

The only good takeaway from the Prestige catastrophe was precisely “Nunca Máis”—the people had risen, and they would no longer allow decisions with such devastating echoes in our collective history.

But how wrong we were.

We forgot that only the people save the people. And in Galicia, the people have nothing in common with the political class living in mansions on the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela, our capital.

The Prestige left scars—but they hadn’t healed. And now, Altri has reopened the wound.

Altri Galicia—the megaproject, the enormous, colossal monster that must be fed eucalyptus —an invasive species planted in our region just a few decades ago— 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Altri is the name we give to Proyecto Gama, a massive pulp factory planned for Palas de Rei, Lugo, focused on producing textile fibres. Altri is simply the company behind the monster—a wealthy Portuguese corporation that found no support in its own country and decided to devastate the neighbouring ecosystem, Galicia, thanks to the complacency of our government.

In southern Galicia, there’s already a similar, much smaller company: ENCE. It’s responsible for turning the forests I grew up in into eucalyptus plantations that burn every year, destroying homes, towns, and lives. For as long as I can remember, every year, the entire city of Pontevedra—my city—marches against this factory.

The government keeps granting it 50-year licences. They never listened.

In comparison, though, Proyecto Gama, would make ENCE look like a playground.

It will occupy 360 hectares (10 times more than the current factory in Pontevedra) and require 46 million litres of water EACH DAY, extracted and returned—polluted—into the River Ulla. The company itself has admitted that at least 30 million litres will be discharged, again, polluted, into the river.

In summer, the area already suffers from water shortages. Locals might not be able to wash their dishes every day, but the eucalyptus-eating monster will never go thirsty.

And its reach extends far beyond those 360 hectares. Three protected areas under the Natura 2000 network—ZEC Serra do Careón, ZEC Sistema Fluvial Ulla-Deza, and ZEC Sobreirais do Arnego—as well as the Atlantic Islands of Galicia National Park, are all at risk.

The project directly threatens several endangered species, including endemic plants and more than 140 bird species that inhabit the region, many of which appear on the Galician and Spanish endangered species lists. They didn’t care about the cormorants or the seagulls—just as they don’t care now about these thousands of birds.

To bring this project to life, Altri is requesting up to 250 million euros in public funding from the EU’s Next Generation funds. These resources—meant for sustainable recovery and environmental protection—are instead being funneled into a venture that could collapse one of Galicia’s most precious natural ecosystems.

The response from local communities and environmental organisations has been swift and fierce. We have not forgotten—nor forgiven—the Prestige. Over 23,000 objections have been submitted, with major groups like Greenpeace among them. The first protest in Palas de Rei—the epicentre of the controversy—drew more than 20,000 demonstrators, all united against what they see as a barbaric assault on their homeland.

The Altri pulp megaproject is not just an industrial development. It is a reckless gamble with Galicia’s future. It threatens to erase part of our natural heritage, endanger our communities, and permanently scar an ecosystem that has sustained us for generations.

The Prestige happened behind our backs. We made the mistake of trusting that it wouldn’t happen again—that someone would listen if only we’d had the chance to speak.

But Altri is happening right before our eyes, with our children screaming for a future that is being taken away from them. Only one thing is clear: If history repeats, so do we.

We have fought, we have shouted. We’ve taken “Nunca Máis” and turned it into “Altri Non”—a cry that now resonates at every protest, every march, every social gathering, every concert or presentation, every place where more than three people come together. And yet, they’re trying to drown it out.

And I wonder: if we’ve all learned from the past, why can’t we teach them?

It’s Earth Day as I write this, and all I can think about is my six-year-old self crying over the Prestige, not knowing how to help her while shouting “Nunca Máis.”

And my 28-year-old self, crying now, still not knowing how to help—while screaming “Altri Non.”

The post ‘Never Again’, Yet Again: Altri and How to Build an Activist appeared first on eco-nnect.

Isaac Romero’s transformation, from a high-pressure role at Inditex to becoming a passionate advocate for regenerative agriculture, is a tale of rediscovery, purpose and hope for a more sustainable future.

“I used to work at Inditex, in their footwear division in Alicante.”

Inditex, the Spanish multinational known for brands like Zara and Bershka, is one of the largest fashion retailers in the world. The company — now worth over $170 billion (USD) — epitomises fast fashion, a business model that encourages rapid turnover of styles to meet high consumer demand.

“It was an ultra-consumerist world, and it was draining me. My job was to boost sales, to constantly push for more and more, but in my personal life, I had stopped buying almost anything; I no longer believed in the system I was a part of.”

For years, Isaac was deeply embedded in this world, driven by overproduction and relentless sales targets. However, fast-paced consumerist culture slowly diminished his sense of purpose: he began questioning whether a system that thrived on constant consumption could truly bring fulfilment.

Isaac’s youth was spent in Los Guájares, a village in Granada, in southern Spain — with a population of just over 1000 people — where his parents were lifelong farmers. In the past, inhabitants adapted to the steep, rocky landscape by growing crops like grapes, olives and almonds on terraced land. These traditional farming methods shaped the area’s identity.

Growing up in Los Guájares, Isaac learned the value of hard work, the patience of waiting for a harvest, and the deep connection between people and the land. As a young man, he left home in search of broader horizons, studying abroad in Finland, working in Taiwan, and eventually settling in Barcelona. Yet, despite his global adventures, the rural rhythms of his childhood continued to resonate within him.

“I never imagined going back to the land, much less making a living from it. I saw myself as a city man, but then I got laid off, and I was relieved.”

The layoff marked a turning point in Isaac’s life. Instead of plunging him into despair, it ignited a period of reflection and transformation.

“I moved to Barcelona and immersed myself in sustainability studies, doing a course on climate change, permaculture in Girona, and a Masters in Circular Economy.”

In Barcelona, his new studies stood in stark contrast to his former corporate life, introducing him to a world focused on long-term environmental health rather than short-term profits. Then the COVID-19 pandemic arrived. A global crisis that forced many of us to reassess our lives and priorities. For Isaac, the slowdown was both a challenge and an opportunity. While many of his peers in the sustainability sector dreamed of acquiring farmland, he realised he already had a hidden treasure: ancestral land in Granada.

“I thought, ‘Isaac, what are you doing? You have land in Granada, more than you can manage. Why are you here in the city?’ The city no longer made sense to me. The constant push for consumption, the endless stimuli… I was done with it.”

Isaac found himself back in Los Guájares, where the familiar cadence of rural life, the scent of tilled earth, and the rhythm of the seasons welcomed him like an old friend. Yet, his return was far from a simple homecoming; it was a call to reimagine his destiny.

“I started working alongside my father, but you can’t just tell a 66 year old who has been doing things the same way his whole life that he needs to change. So I made gradual changes, little by little. It took three years just to transition our farm to organic methods.”

The project that emerged from this transformation, Arraigo, is not just a farm, it is a living laboratory that blends the traditional wisdom of his family’s farming practices with modern sustainability techniques to create a new vision of agriculture.

“People think it’s idyllic, but the reality is tough. Arraigo isn’t just about farming; it involves marketing, selling, packing and shipping. Some days, I question everything, but I remind myself why I chose this path.”

One of the foremost challenges Isaac confronts is water scarcity, an issue that is growing more severe as Spain’s climate shifts. Avocado trees, now the flagship crop of Arraigo, are notoriously thirsty, and declining rainfall in the region is becoming a big problem.

“Avocado trees need a lot of water, and rainfall is decreasing every year, that’s why I’m studying regenerative agriculture and working with specialists in Girona to make our farm more resilient. We’re implementing techniques to retain soil moisture and reduce reliance on chemical fertilisers.”

Regenerative agriculture, as practiced at Arraigo, is a radical departure from conventional methods. Rather than relying on intensive irrigation and synthetic fertilisers, Isaac has adopted practices that work with nature. Techniques such as cover cropping, mulching and composting are now integral parts of Isaac’s farm’s routine. These practices not only improve soil health but also boost its ability to retain water, a critical advantage in an increasingly arid climate. Isaac is also exploring agroforestry, growing multiple types of plants together in a symbiotic relationship, creating an ecosystem that mimics the natural diversity of a forest.

“Avocados have become one of the most profitable crops in Spain, but the way they are grown today is not sustainable in the long-term. We need to rethink how we farm if we want to continue feeding people without depleting resources.”

Regenerative agriculture is more than a set of practices, it’s a philosophy, and Isaac’s background plays a huge role in his commitment to this new way of farming. The values of hard work, respect for nature and the cyclical rhythm of the seasons were instilled in him from a young age, and have reemerged as the guiding principles of his new life.

“Returning to the land isn’t just a career change for me; it’s a way of reconnecting with my heritage and honouring the legacy of my family. I want to show that sustainable, regenerative farming is not only possible but can also be a viable path for future generations.”

The modern food system, driven by industrial agriculture, has led to the erosion of small farms and rural communities. Many small farmers have been forced out of business in Andalucía, and the resulting urban migration has left a huge void in rural areas all around Spain. Isaac believes that by making regenerative agriculture economically viable, it is possible to revitalise these communities and restore the balance between urban and rural life.

“This is not just about growing food, it’s about restoring our connection to the Earth, to the seasons, and to each other. If we change the way we farm, we can change the future.”

To achieve this vision, Isaac has actively engaged with his local community, collaborating with schools, universities, and local cooperatives to educate people about the benefits of sustainable farming. These efforts are part of a broader movement focused on reconnecting urban consumers with the origins of their food, a movement that has the potential to transform the entire food system.

Across the world, farmers and researchers are increasingly turning to regenerative agriculture as a solution to the challenges of the climate crisis, food security and environmental degradation. Industrial agriculture, with its heavy reliance on fossil fuels, synthetic fertilisers and monocultural practices has led to widespread ecological damage.

“I see Arraigo as part of something much bigger. The way we farm and consume needs to change, and I hope my project can be an example of what’s possible.”

Isaac is also passionate about the role of technology in farming. He’s exploring precision agriculture tools that track soil moisture, nutrient levels and crop health in real-time. These innovations boost productivity while reducing waste and environmental impact. By blending modern technology with traditional farming knowledge, Isaac wants to prove that sustainable farming isn’t just a thing of the past, it’s a forward-thinking practice that can tackle today’s challenges.

“Every tree I plant, every method I implement, is a step toward a future where our food systems are not only sustainable but regenerative, where nature and humanity work together in harmony. The land has always been here. We just need to learn how to respect and work with it again. Our ancestors knew how to live in harmony with nature, and there’s so much we can learn from them.”

Isaac’s transformation from a corporate executive to a regenerative farmer has required him to confront not only external challenges, like water scarcity and deep-rooted agricultural practices, but also internal struggles like self-doubt. During long days spent working on the fields, Isaac often reflects on his past life in the city and the hollow victories of corporate success.

“Returning to my roots has taught me that true wealth is not measured in sales figures or profit margins, but in the health of the land and the well-being of the people who depend on it. I want to build a legacy that honours the past and sustains the future.”

As the sun sets over the rolling hills of southern Spain, Isaac’s avocado trees stand as living proof that a sustainable future is within reach. Looking ahead, Isaac dreams of expanding Arraigo into a cooperative network that connects like-minded farmers across Spain and beyond. He envisions a future where regenerative practices become the norm rather than the exception, where consumers actively choose products that support ethical, sustainable agriculture, and every purchase contributes to the well-being of the Earth.

“I want to show that sustainable farming isn’t a niche or a luxury, it’s a necessity.”

Isaac’s story is a powerful reminder that transformation is possible at any stage of life. His bold decision to leave behind his corporate career to return to the land is a call to action. It invites us all to consider how we might live more harmoniously with nature and contribute to a more sustainable future.

“Every step we take toward sustainable farming is a step toward healing our planet. The future is in our hands, and it starts with the choices we make today.”

The post New roots in ancient soil appeared first on eco-nnect.

Faith is an important part of Carlos Vicente’s story.

“Faith is the foundation of my life.”

Carlos’ mother was from the northeast of Brazil.

“Her parents migrated from the northeast to the south. When they arrived, they were drawn into the slavery system, so my grandfather decided to return to the northeast. Even though their situation there was very difficult, they were free, they were not slaves. They took a ship to travel back to the northeast, but it was damaged along the way, and they needed to get off the boat in Cabo Frio, so my mother’s family started a new life in this very small town.”

At the time, Cabo Frio was a fishing town and a major salt producer. 

“It’s about 150 kilometres from Rio de Janeiro, so today it’s a tourist town, very famous, but it’s also a very unequal town with a lot of poverty with many descendants of enslaved people. When slavery was banned in Brazil, Cabo Frio still received many illegally enslaved people from Africa. My father came from a very poor family of fishermen and salt workers. He met my mother at a very young age, she was 18 when she gave birth to me.”

As a child, Carlos appreciated the world with an open mind.

“I loved new ideas, I loved new knowledge, I loved people who did interesting things, different things. As my interest was in knowledge and new approaches, one of the best parts of my life was when I went to school.

“The first school I went to was a Catholic school run by nuns. It only had four year levels, so after four years, I had to transfer to a public school. To get into the public school, I had to take an entrance exam, but when I went to see if I had passed, I didn’t see my name on the list. I remember it was a big wall with lots of sheets of paper full of names, and some of the papers were very high. I was very short and couldn’t read all of the names because I was there alone and had eye problems. So I went home, and in the evening, when my mum came home from work, I told her I hadn’t passed. She was desperate and decided to get help so I wouldn’t miss a year of school: she spoke to the headmistress of one of the public schools attended by the city’s economic elite and asked if I could study there for a year. The headmistress understood the situation and offered me the opportunity to study there paying half the tuition, but we didn’t have that kind of money, so my mum went to talk to the mayor of the town to ask for a grant that he then gave me, which paid for the other half of the tuition.

“So I went to this rich school and saw a new kind of world, totally different from the world I lived in. In this new world people had nice clothes, went on holidays, had birthday parties and had a very open outlook on life, whereas for most people in my world the focus was just on working to make sure we always had food. So I discovered at this new school that our life was very limited, and I developed the desire to live in this other world where you can focus your attention not only on how to have food, but also on enjoying the many other parts of lived experience.”

Carlos lived about six kilometres from the school, and his family couldn’t afford a bus or taxi, so his mother visited one of Cabo Frio’s tourist neighbourhoods “with big houses”. At the back of one of the houses she found what she was looking for, “an old bicycle”.

“My mum offered the owner of the house to exchange the bicycle for her service: my mum did their laundry for six months as payment for the bicycle, and she used that bicycle to take me to school for the whole year.”

The year at the elite school came with its challenges, but it inspired a belief in Carlos that he could aspire to a different life to his parents.

“When I was at the public school, outside of the classroom I felt inferior to my classmates because my school materials and shoes were of poor quality and worn out. I was the only black person in the school and I was very thin, so I was nicknamed mico, which is a type of small monkey. This made me feel very ashamed, and since I didn’t have any money for lunch, I stayed in the classroom during recess so as not to be exposed to bullying. But inside the classroom I felt different, I didn’t feel inferior to anyone because I was able to learn the subjects like the other pupils. It didn’t matter if I didn’t have any material possessions, what counted was my ability to learn and my interest in acquiring knowledge. The classroom was a place where prejudice and poverty didn’t affect me, I could travel in my imagination, discover a new world and learn to dream of a different life. The classroom was one of the few places where I experienced the thrill of feeling free. Outside of school, in the community where I lived, I suffered a lot of bullying too, not because I was poor, but because I was too thin. People made me believe I was abnormal and that I should be ashamed of my body.”

To help buy food for his family, Carlos started working at the age of nine: he sold popsicles on the beach, collected rubbish to sell, and worked at the market as both a vendor and shopper. This work at the market became his main source of income until he was 16.

“At the beginning of my last year of secondary school, I had a conversation with a friend who told me she was leaving our school to go to an elite public school, as she had plans to go to university and then do postgraduate studies abroad. As I was the first person in my family to have studied beyond primary school, I had no guidance on how to develop my academic career, but as I listened to my friend talk about her plans, I saw a window open in front of my eyes, showing me a horizon of possibilities that I had never imagined. I went home and told my mum that I needed to leave public school to go and study at the same elite school I had studied at six years earlier. She went with me to the school and the old headmistress was still working there and she got me a 50 per cent scholarship. I paid for the school myself with the work I did at the markets three days a week.”

Carlos wanted to be a doctor, but when he saw a film focused on medicine and saw the blood of a patient undergoing surgery, he became ill, and thus discovered he was not suited to this profession. Nobody in his family offered alternative recommendations, but on the final day of registration for a university scholarship, he decided on forest engineering. He knew very little about the job, but he felt a strong intuition that working with nature would be the right direction. His love of nature was a reflection of the comfort it had offered him.

“I was a very, very thin guy and I had low self-esteem in relation to my body, so when I went to the beach, I felt very ashamed. I would wait for the moment when I thought people weren’t looking at me, take off my shirt and get into the water and stay there for three or four hours enjoying myself. I discovered in nature I felt at peace, far from the atmosphere of prejudice that suffocated me, far from the stares and judgements. Nature was my space of freedom. So when I decided to go to university, I tried to focus on nature, because nature was my place, and I wanted a career that would help protect it, I wanted to repay the care that nature gave me.”

Carlos studied at the Federal Rural University of Rio de Janeiro. His days were not easy, trying to make his way without his family’s support.

“For a few months I had nowhere to sleep and nowhere to store my suitcase. I slept on the floor and even on a table in other students’ rooms. I only ate one meal a day, my immune system weakened, but I was convinced that this was the price I had to pay in order to try to have another life. 

“Two years into my degree, a friend recommended me for an internship at a large forestry company. The company was in the centre of Rio de Janeiro, 60 kilometres from the university. I travelled four hours each day (round trip) to get to the internship. This work was paid and it allowed me to stop receiving help from my family, eat three meals a day and buy books. I was working as an intern at Floryl Florestadora Ypê AS, one of Shell’s companies in Brazil. They had a forestry operation dedicated to planting eucalyptus and pine trees for the timber industry. Despite always being very tired, I managed to maintain good grades and my time at university was very rich, full of learning, but somewhat lonely because I didn’t want people to know about the difficulties I was going through, to not risk further prejudice and bullying.”

When Carlos finished his degree, he spent five months in Rio de Janeiro working for a consultancy.

“This company was very problematic and I decided to leave for ethical reasons, so I went back to my hometown. At the time, Brazil was facing a long economic crisis with high unemployment rates and hyperinflation. I couldn’t see any opportunities to work or change my life. I spent my days on the beach depressed because I felt there was no place in the world for me and I would be condemned to live in misery.”

Then life intervened.

“A friend of mine was sitting on a bus and overheard a conversation between the two men sitting in front of him who were talking about a job opportunity in the state of Acre. There was a man looking for a forestry engineer, and my friend overheard this and asked if they could write down the number of this man. My friend then called me, gave me the number and I spent four hours trying to call the man on a public phone. As I didn’t have the money to pay for an interstate call, I had to call collect. When the man answered, I explained my situation and said I was interested in the job. We chatted for a few minutes and he hired me.

“My friend who gave me the number bought the plane ticket from Rio de Janeiro to Acre and another friend lent me money for the first month’s expenses. So I went to Acre without knowing anyone apart from this man I’d met over the phone, but I knew it might be my only opportunity to escape the reality of my hometown, so I put all of my efforts into earning the respect and credibility of my boss in order to remain in that job.”

Carlos was working at the Technology Foundation of the State of Acre.

“The purpose of this Foundation was to develop technical studies and research for the sustainable development of Acre based on forest conservation and to promote better conditions for small farmers, rubber tappers and Indigenous Peoples. We were trying to create alternative technological responses to curb deforestation and improve the population’s quality of life.”

Carlos’ focus connected with the growing social and environmental movements in Acre.

“When I arrived, Chico Mendes was still alive, and together with Marina Silva they were fighting in defence of the rights of rubber tappers, Indigenous Peoples and small farmers, and for the preservation of the forest. I was very attracted to them and the social movement they were part of. My dream was to be part of this group of people fighting against social injustice.”

In the early 1980s, Chico Mendes and Marina Silva formed a labour union while also leading empates, peaceful demonstrations against deforestation and the expulsion of forest communities from their traditional territories.

“Six months after arriving there, I became friends with them and became part of this group. I took part in meetings and demonstrations. In Acre I found my place in the world and the people I wanted to share dreams and struggles with.”

Through the process of becoming closer to Chico Mendes and Marina Silva, Carlos made another important connection.

“Eight weeks after arriving in Acre, I met Raimundo de Barros, another leader of the rubber tappers and a cousin of Chico Mendes. He invited me to spend a few days in the Xapuri forest with him. It was one of the most important moments for me in Acre because we stayed together for a week, sleeping and walking in the forest. He told me lots of stories about the forest, showed me many different trees, and illuminated the relationship between animals, plants and the climate. It was like taking a new university course because my university studies were about plantations, not natural rain forests, and Raimundo de Barros gave me a very intensive course. This deep contact with the forest and its people opened another huge window in my mind and was fundamental in guiding my priorities and the development of my professional career.”

In 1988, Chico Mendes was assassinated in his home in Xapuri.

“The group that killed Chico Mendes wanted to elect a governor who would approve building lots of roads in the forest and favour the expansion of the agricultural frontier in Acre. This would increase social conflicts and deforestation. A friend of mine, Jorge Viana, who was director of the Foundation, together with Marina and the other people in our group, decided to run for governor, and I was part of his campaign team, responsible for the election polls. We didn’t win the election, but he got a lot of votes and two years later he became Mayor of Rio Branco, the capital of the state of Acre. So I decided to leave the Foundation to work as Jorge’s technical advisor.” 

After almost two years in this role, an incredible opportunity arose for Carlos to study abroad.

“After the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development took place in Brazil in 1992, the Costa Rican Institute of Business Administration (INCAE) created an MBA in Natural Resources Management. A friend from our group, who fought for forest peoples, had been selected to take part in the third class of the course in Costa Rica but he couldn’t go as he had been elected to the state legislature. He told me about the course and recommended me for his place. I took the tests and passed the selection. I was very impressed with INCAE because it was the second best business school in Latin America and I knew that business knowledge would help us in the challenge of creating projects, strategies and public policies to sustainably develop the Amazon.”

Carlos decided to enrol, but the cost of the opportunity was a barrier.

“The course lasted 18 months and cost $50,000 (USD). I raised these funds by selling my house and car, borrowing from friends, and through two scholarships — one with the Ford Foundation and the other with the International Tropical Timber Organisation (ITTO).

“I wanted to acquire the technical knowledge and develop the cognitive, behavioural and managerial skills to create viable sustainable economic ventures in the context of the Amazon and its traditional communities. My initial university education didn’t give me these competencies and I knew they were important for structuring solutions so the forest bioeconomy could become a reality in the region.  Since arriving in the Amazon, I had participated in and learned of various projects that sought sustainable economic alternatives but failed. One of the causes, in my opinion, was our lack of knowledge about how to structure viable businesses in remote regions and how to deal with competitive markets.”

After completing the course in Costa Rica, Carlos returned to Acre with a clearer vision of how to connect natural resources and traditional cultures with the market. He then worked for two years as a consultant for various organisations. 

Marina Silva had been elected senator for Acre in 1994. She was the first rubber tapper elected to the Federal Senate and the youngest senator in the history of the Republic of Brazil. Four years later, when Jorge Viana was elected governor of Acre and adopted the slogan “Government of the Forest”, Marina suggested he create the Executive Secretariat for Forests and Extractivism, to structure public policies to support the development of the state, based on the sustainable use of biodiversity; and to support Indigenous Peoples, rubber tappers, river dwellers, small farmers and the traditional forestry sector. Marina also suggested that Carlos lead this work.

Carlos was faced with a challenge that seemed too great for him: despite the good reputation he had built up in Acre as a competent technician, he didn’t feel he was capable of fulfilling the vision of this new role. Carlos saw himself as a survivor of an unjust and unequal social system, but he also carried deep wounds in his heart, struggling with insecurity and low self-esteem. He didn’t see himself as capable of taking on a role full of historical and symbolic importance, as it would be the secretariat responsible for developing public policies inspired by the legacy of Chico Mendes and all the other martyrs who fought for the forest and its peoples for decades, facing the violence imposed by powerful economic and political interest groups. So Carlos decided not to accept the invitation, and he told Jorge and Marina. Then, on the day Jorge was about to announce the government team, Carlos had a profound and transformative spiritual experience with Jesus Christ, and he suddenly felt safe to accept the invitation and lead Acre’s forestry policy.

“Our work at the State Secretariat was both visionary and paradigmatic, because we created the first payment for environmental services in the Amazon, structured the production chains for various socio-biodiversity products and created Acre’s forestry legislation. The results came quickly to the point where we saw growth in the economic indicators for forest products and a reduction in the rural exodus by rubber tappers. This work began to attract national and international attention.” 

The New York Times published an article about their work. 

“We also supported the creation of COOPERACRE, which is currently the largest co-operative of extractivists and small farmers in Acre, and brings to market a large part of the state’s fruit pulp, rubber, nuts and other products, benefiting thousands of small producers. It is an excellent example of the viability of local solutions to protect the forest and improve the quality of life of the rural population.”

In 2002, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva was elected the President of Brazil, and Marina became the Minister for the Environment when he assumed office in 2003.

“Marina invited me to join her team at the Ministry. At first I didn’t accept the invitation because I was very happy in Acre and saw many opportunities to expand the impact of the Secretariat’s work, since Jorge Viana had been re-elected and we had another four years of work ahead of us.”

It was in this moment Carlos had another strong spiritual experience, and he decided to move to Brasilia to work with Marina and Lula. Carlos worked as Marina’s advisor until 2008, when she resigned from her position in Lula’s government and in the Workers’ Party.

“We then decided to create a Marina Silva Institute, an organisation to promote awareness about the Amazon, climate change and protection of nature in Brazil, and I stayed as Executive Secretary of this Institute until 2017.”

During this time, Marina ran for the Brazilian Presidency three times and Carlos remained her advisor for each campaign.

“I had huge learnings about Brazilian society, about the politicians, about the institutions, because I was very close to her in those three campaigns, participating in the whole process. In 2018, when she lost the last election, when Bolsonaro was elected, I moved to the Senate to work as an advisor to five senators, including Joênia Wapichana, from the Sustainability Network’s Party, Marina Silva’s party.”

Carlos worked as an advisor until 2021, when he started his current role as the National Facilitator of the Interfaith Rainforest Initiative (IRI) in Brazil. Created with the United Nations, the IRI is an international, multi-faith alliance that works to bring moral urgency and faith-based leadership to global efforts to end tropical deforestation.

“We are working to help religious leaders have a clearer and deeper understanding of the seriousness of the climate crisis, the urgency of stopping the destruction of the Amazon rain forest, of protecting the rights of the guardians of biodiversity — such as Indigenous Peoples, Quilombolas and traditional communities — and the value of scientific and ancestral knowledge to overcome these problems.

“The absolute majority of the Brazilian population follows some kind of religion. Religiosity has a significant influence on personal values, the economy, politics and the functioning of the state. Caring for nature needs to become a civilising value above ideologies and political and economic interests. Religious leaders can make a fundamental contribution to this leap in civilisation, especially since all religious and spiritual traditions contain principles and teachings about human responsibility in caring for nature. For more than a decade, opinion polls have shown that the majority of the Brazilian population is in favour of environmental preservation, however this position has not yet become a generalised value in the hearts of most people. If it were, it would guide individual habits and choices and influence the quality of elected officials and parliamentarians, as well as the behaviour of companies.”

In an effort to help shape these values more quickly, the IRI invests in educating and training religious and spiritual leaders.

“If caring for the climate, forests and their guardians becomes a spiritual, moral and existential value for these leaders, millions of people could be influenced in the short term. They have the potential to educate and influence around 90 percent of the Brazilian population. This could drastically reduce resistance in political and business circles to strengthen socio-environmental governance in Brazil.”

The Initiative believes in working with all of the diversity present in Brazil’s social fabric. For this reason, it does not discriminate in any way and has managed to establish processes of dialogue and learning with leaders across the religious, ideological and political spectrum, supporting processes of dialogue and interaction with scientists, activists and public officials. 

“Here in Brazil, environmental issues face great resistance from economic and political power. We need to create an environment in which these issues can be understood as something of vital importance, which rise above political disputes, economic interests and ideological conflicts. We need to use the language of the heart, of emotion, of ethics and values so that we can all realise that we have no time to lose, that we cannot continue to repeat old ways that destroy the foundations that sustain life on the planet.

“I hope our work can help people develop a love for nature, for the forest, especially the Amazon rain forest, and for the Indigenous Peoples who have suffered for more than five centuries, who face a lot of prejudice. Most religious leaders, who defend laws and social justice, are not involved in protecting the rights of indigenous groups, so we are trying to create this link.

“I don’t want to do anything in the next few years apart from this work, I think it’s the most important work of my life. In June I turned 60, and I have at least 15 or 20 productive years ahead of me, and I’d like to dedicate those years to this mission.” 

Considering the incredible achievements throughout Carlos’ career, his belief in this initiative emphasises its importance.

“I could have opted for a stable job with the comfort and security it brings. I passed the exam for Embrapa, the agricultural research company when I returned from Costa Rica, but I resigned as a researcher because I felt that life was calling me to other missions. Every job I’ve chosen brings together what is important to me: contributing to reducing social injustice and conserving biodiversity, especially in the Amazon. Of course, not having stability means constantly living with risks, but for those born into the poorest strata of society, dealing with difficulties, threats and adversity are skills that are learned from childhood.”

Carlos’ story highlights the power of belief, in humanity, spirituality and life itself.

“I am the fruit of dreams, persistence, solidarity and faith. My family lacked food, but not examples of love thy neighbour, compassion and solidarity. God gave me some friends who helped me in critical moments. These people helped me in different ways, rarely with money, but by giving me affection, words of encouragement, inspiration, solutions and contacts. That’s why I often feel the heart of people who are suffering from invisibility, indifference and feelings of not belonging. The situations I experienced have given me this ability, and I’m very grateful to God to be able to be a support for someone, just like people have been for me.

“I think that’s why I’m here, life has given me the opportunity to experience suffering so that I can recognise it in other people and other creatures, to help eliminate or minimise pain. To contribute to someone’s happiness is one of the greatest pleasures I have in life. I know this is love, and it is this value that orientates my way of being in the world and the work I do.”

It is the essence of reciprocity, and the ever-present need to support and believe in life itself. 

“We are part of a web of life, and we can only enjoy a meaningful life if we love life in all of its manifestations.”

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer.

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Back in 2020 I read an amazing book that I have constantly reflected upon: Wilding, by Isabella Tree. It was covid lockdown, and I was lucky enough to be spending it in the Swiss mountains. Every morning, rain or shine, I would do a hike through what I thought was a corner of Switzerland’s pristine forest. After reading Wilding, it hit me. I wasn’t hiking through forests, I was walking in a pine plantation. Let me explain to you why.

In the West the difference between a forest and a plantation isn’t taught in school. The fact that the UK was home to a temperate rainforest, has been conveniently forgotten, replaced by the idea of the English countryside being “beautiful” rolling moores. In Germany and Switzerland every tree is numbered by the government. Most rivers in Europe are channeled, the fact that salmon used to migrate up them to most sounds like a long-lost fantasy. European bison used to criss-cross the plains of Belgium and Germany, while beavers naturally dammed the rivers. Deforestation in Europe happened so long ago, that culturally we don’t even know what our primary forests looked like, which animals roamed and what plant medicines our ancestors foraged.

What I find even more troublesome, is what we interpret as “nature.” We can easily recognise agricultural land, but many still confuse a plantation for a forest. Right now, as wildfires ravage central and northern Portugal, experts are finally pointing the finger to Portugal’s paper and timber industries that dominate the area with eucalyptus and pine plantations. Did you know that eucalyptus is now the primary tree species in Portugal, despite being native to Australia?

“Eucalyptus covers 845,000 hectares in the Iberian countryside, or 26 percent of forests. Technically these are cultivations that feed the paper and cellulose sectors, with eucalyptus grown exclusively for pulp, which is used to make various paper products.”

Monocultures are highly flammable, you can imagine matchsticks being planted next to each other. This is why, when a fire starts, it can quickly spread across hectares and hectares of land, from one plantation to the other, creating monstrous human-made disasters.

In 2017, northern Portugal suffered similar wildfires in Pedrogrão Grande area, the fires killed 66 people and burned through 50,000 hectares of land. Many of the remaining pockets of native forests survived through those fires. Since then the local community has started to question the government’s plan to increase eucalyptus plantations, looking for an economic alternative to paper production in this rural area.

Just last week, seven firefighters lost their lives trying to quell the wildfires. When will justice prevail against the culprits of these disasters? 
A local NGO, Quercus, that has been active in the area since 1985, is highly critical of the paper industry’s destruction of native flora, and has been working hard to restore and maintain what’s left of Portugal’s diverse biome.

“The pulp industry depends on eucalyptus plantations in this area. Together with the pressure on the government to expand eucalyptus acreage in Portugal, this means that there is no meaningful promotion of a diverse landscape that is more resilient to fires. When such landscapes are planted, or at least experimented with, it is in small areas near watercourses. There is nothing being done at scale to reduce the risk of fires.” says Domingos Patacho, director of Quercus.

We hope after this last two weeks where Portugal officially declared a state of calamity, the government will listen to Quercus’ pleas and finally support the regeneration of native forests and put an end to the paper domination of the Iberian coast.

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Neocolonialism refers to the indirect control that powerful countries exert over less developed nations, primarily through economic, political or cultural pressures (rather than direct military or political domination). The effects of neocolonialism are visible in environmental and conservation efforts, as foreign entities often initiate and control conservation projects in developing countries. These projects typically prioritise global environmental goals over local needs, sometimes displacing indigenous communities and imposing western conservation models that may not be sustainable or beneficial for local ecosystems.

After centuries of Portuguese colonial rule, Cape Verde, an archipelago of 10 islands in the central Atlantic Ocean, gained independence on July 5, 1975. Sal, one of the islands in the archipelago, historically thrived on salt production, but in the late 20th century an Italian investor purchased the salt mines and began building hotels and resorts, effectively controlling the island’s economy. This transition from salt production to tourism altered Sal’s economic landscape, highlighting the impact of foreign investment on local communities.

“Sal has always been marketed as a sun-and-beach tourist destination, as if there was nothing else, portraying it as a desert island with nothing more to offer. Our goal was to challenge and dispel this notion, to show that the island holds much more ecological significance than previously acknowledged.”

In 2011, Albert, a biologist born in Catalonia, Spain, arrived in Cape Verde along with Berta, a marine biologist, to volunteer with a local conservation organisation.

“We continued to gain responsibilities until 2014. There were already other people who had also started working on the different issues endangered sea turtles face in the country: habitat loss, poaching, light pollution, plastic pollution, among others. With some locals, we decided to found a NGO, Projeto Biodiversidade. It was 6 of us when we started.

“The conservation NGOs that started here in Cabo Verde were mostly outsiders who came to dictate what needed to be done, and there was a missing element of making it more community-oriented. So our objective was to address this gap and start working on it. We aimed to collaborate as much as possible with the local population, providing employment opportunities and training. We wanted to empower locals to take on leadership roles with the clear goal that someday the project would be 100% nationally managed.”

As of today, there are 27 people working in the permanent team, and of that group only four are foreigners. 

The project started almost 10 years ago as an organisation to protect sea turtles, but it has always been much more than that.

“I believe it was more of a result of necessity, the outcome of an urgent need the island had. It was a group of individuals who met through sea turtle conservation and realised there was an urgent need to protect the island’s natural riches, to preserve and make people aware of them.”

With the expansion of preservation initiatives across the Cape Verde archipelago, in 2009 a national marine turtle conservation network was created, TAOLA. With the need to preserve whole habitats, conservation efforts expanded to include other fauna and flora. In 2022, along with five local NGOs, Projeto Biodiversidade helped to create TAOLA+ Rede Nacional de Conservação Ambiental, a network of organisations dedicated to environmental conservation, uniting environmental NGOs into a single, bigger voice.

“Only a few weeks ago, we held the first assembly. Now we are 14. It is becoming a driving force for conservation throughout the country, and that is amazing. Now, if you go to any island, you will find a fairly large environmental conservation NGO.

“There are also groups that are not that well organised due to paperwork, who cannot yet be part of the network due to bureaucratic reasons, but we also represent them. The idea is not to leave anyone out, to include everyone, and always add more.”

Through Projeto Biodiversidade, and now with TAOLA+, the goals continue to expand and evolve.

“Having an organisation connecting the NGOs gives much more strength to everything we do. We now work with plants, sharks, seabirds, ecosystems, dune restoration… We all do so many things. We needed to create something that encompassed everyone, all the NGOs. In the end, it’s the story of a bunch of people who came together in this place and said, ‘hey, let’s try to conserve and take care of this.’ That’s really incredible. Ultimately, no matter what you do, no matter where it is, it always comes down to the power of grassroots organisations for everything.

“I remember when I arrived here in 2011, the quad bike tours for tourists used to pass right through the middle of the beach, through a natural reserve in Costa da Fragata. Nowadays, we’re already discussing how far away from the dunes they can go. The whole picture improves when you value what you have.”

Things seem to be getting better, with a growing number of people involved and the government willing to protect the precious ecosystem of Cape Verde. Yet, like elsewhere, the ocean is often overlooked when it comes to active conservation, even in a country where 99.45% of the territory is water.

“The fishing agreement that Cabo Verde has with the European Union is the same as the one the EU has with the Canary Islands, the closest archipelago to Cabo Verde, yet the EU pays the Canary Islands millions, but here in Cabo Verde they give a pittance and come and empty the sea. There’s a lack of management of the fishing industry, due to lack of financial support and a lack of State strategy. There’s a lack of Marine Protected Areas and a lack of a clear vision that can guarantee the survival of the ecosystem.”

Marine Protected Areas (MPAs) are designated regions in oceans, seas and large lakes where human activities are managed and regulated to protect marine ecosystems and biodiversity. They are essential tools for conserving marine habitats and creating more MPAs is the key to the survival of ocean ecosystems.

“Here, there are Marine Protected Areas, and when we go there, the seabed is clean, they’ve wiped everything out, there’s nothing, nothing! Only in the places they can’t reach is where there’s quite a significant wealth, like the shallow coral reefs. But if we go a bit further away from the coast, we can’t find any life. Why? Because the existing MPAs are not managed. There’s a lack of a state strategy and the conviction to carry it out to the end.”

MPAs can significantly vary in their level of protection and the types of activities allowed within their boundaries, but Albert has a clear vision for Cape Verde’s waters to once again be a thriving, biodiverse ecosystem. 

“We have a large project with the objective to create new Marine Protected Areas and extend existing ones. The government didn’t want to know anything about it at first… but in the last year, they have become more enthusiastic.

“We are practically managing protected areas. We continue to monitor, fight against hunting, we place signs, restore dunes and carry out a kind of management of these areas. The difference is that we don’t do it with the government. There’s no document that says, you are the managers of the protected area. It doesn’t exist. But I believe that now, over time, we will move in that direction, NGOs will start to gain more relevance. We don’t talk so much about protecting turtles anymore, we don’t talk so much about the patrols themselves, we talk about beach management. We’re not just patrolling the beach anymore, now we’re managing it.”

The key to their success goes beyond the organisation, it’s something bigger.

“We need to change the paradigm a bit. We need to understand that the locals have been here all their lives, and now we or other people from outside are coming, and this is important. I believe our role here is about accompanying the development in the country to make it as sustainable as possible, rather than opposing or hindering it.

“We’re moving away from the conventional conservation idea of years ago, where you protect a species to the end and that’s it. We’re focused on the ecosystem level, the whole. It’s been an ant’s work, a constant effort and of always being present, not creating something with a start and end date, but something more permanent.” 

This is Projeto Biodiversidade’s biggest achievement thus far.

“Things change through persistence, laws don’t get created overnight. Laws have to be in place for a while, convince the government, then they make the law, then they implement the law. You have to be there and maintain it. And that’s what I believe our biggest achievement is, that people don’t see us as just an environmental issue, they see us as intellectual authority.”

Albert is proud of what they have achieved — as he should be — but more importantly, he conveys an idea that all activists should share.

“I arrived here as a volunteer, and there was an opportunity to help protect this ecosystem, we took it and now, well, we have something that is very big, that’s much bigger than ourselves. I believe what sets us apart is the conviction that we don’t do things for our own benefit, we do things for the common good, for something greater.”

What does the future of Cape Verde hold? Albert’s focus remains the same, to protect the archipelago often referred to as the Jewel of the Atlantic.

“I would love to see the organisation play a significant role in the management of protected areas, of no-fishing zones. I would like to see more reserves in a tangible way, because right now it’s all theoretical, isn’t it? I want to see this in action.”

Helena Constela is a photographer, videographer, producer and activist. She works in the media team on Sea Shepherd’s ships, while also managing social media for both eco-nnect and Seaspiracy.

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The post The Power of Collective Action appeared first on eco-nnect.

My interest in learning and collaborating with indigenous communities in Mexico came from personal experiences as a migrant woman of indigenous heritage.

I am a third-generation Oaxaqueña living in the United States with ties to Mexico City, Mazatlán, Tijuana and most recently, Tepic. My family from both paternal and maternal sides come from a long history of circular migration, moving from one place to another and returning to the original homelands. On my paternal side of the family, my grandfather is from San Juan Sayultepec, a pueblo in Nochixtlán District in the southeast of the Mixteca region of Mexico. On my maternal side, my grandmother, as a young teenage girl, came from the Valle of Oaxaca to work in the field of Mochis, Sinaloa. Due to traumatic and painful disconnection, my mother never met my grandmother and my maternal lineage is still in the process of healing, but through my academic studies and research in anthropology, I have been able to study in Mexico to connect with local communities and indirectly connect with my cultural heritage. 

In 2011, I was invited to participate in a gathering with native communities in Tequepexpán, Nayarit. In this gathering, I met Wixárika women and I was invited to visit their community of Las Piedras in Compostela, which led me to visit the Wixárika community of Taimarita and later Y+rata, on the outskirts of Tepic in Nayarit. Every year, I returned to the community to learn with other mothers and their children. By then, my daughter Ixchel was born, and I brought her with me for every field trip. I was a student of Culture and Performance at the Department of World Arts and Culture/Dance at UCLA, working in their PhD program. Through my research I shared most of my time with other mothers, young Wixárika and caregivers in the family. In many of my interactions with the community, I was taught how to be a “good mother” by very young Wixárika girls, which initially felt uncomfortable, I didn’t believe I could learn from younger, inexperienced girls about motherhood, but I was wrong as the best lessons about Wixárika motherhood came from young girls. It was my very first ethnographic lesson: to learn and not impose my ideas. With time, I made kinship ties with the Y+rata community and began to learn about the Wixárika connection with the so-called natural world. It was then that my research evolved to a multi-species approach as I learned from more-than-humans in a meaningful, reciprocal and sustainable way.

Academically, I am in training to be a so-called expert on Corn, but personally I am a devotee of the teachings of Tatéi Niwetsika, Our Mother Corn. I cultivate native seeds from Northern Mexico in multiple ecosystems (Great Lake Region and El Gran Nayar) to enter kinship relationships with Tatéi Niwetsika. I follow strict principles and protocols of coexistence guided by ancestors and Elders to maintain and sustain a relationship with Corn outside of colonial logic.

Many people ask me about this other logic and to put it in simple terms. In many indigenous communities in the Americas, the environment is an extension of kin, land is our relative. Once we understand this and position ourselves as human beings in the same plane as land, we can understand our place in a complex network of relationships.

In many indigenous communities, plants are also viewed as relatives. The Wixárika’s way of knowing Tatéi Niwetsika as a plant person, offers community members a framework to understand human and more-than-human relationships. In Mexico, settler colonialism and its effects disrupted how indigenous communities relate to plants. For Wixárika families in urban spaces, maintaining ties to their homelands have relied on language to sustain relationships with the land. Language has been a way for communities to maintain ties to their indigenous identity.

For humans, language is a code for exchanging information based on a system. While we have a very clear understanding of human communication, inter-species communication is not easily understood. In our society, inter-species communication is often limited to what humans perceive as communication through the use of phonetics, yet plants communicate in several ways using a language that can be understood if we pay attention. 

A plant sees light through phototropism, which refers to the growth of a plant towards light and how a plant responds to light. A plant can emit odours and sense the odours of other plants. As Daniel Chamovitz discusses, a plant uses a “nose-less process” to perceive odour or scent through stimuli. For instance, the molecule ethylene found in Chinese incense induces ripening in lemons. Plant communication exemplifies the type of information they are capable of transmitting using their intelligence and their actions within an environment, like how mushrooms communicate with the root system of a tree through complex networks; or how flowers and the colours of leaves communicate different maturity stages of a plant; or how a plant may release a scent during an inter-species encounter; or a plants’ movement towards the sun offers a story of how it responded to its local environment.

Our Mother Corn for example, grows vertically to maximise its absorption of light during the day. Their stalks require wind to form strong stalks, to reach greater heights. These behaviours are crucial in ensuring its survival. Our Mother Corn also communicates with humans by transferring energy through consumption. Eating the nutrients of Corn, like all vegetables and foods, is a process of ingesting the properties of a plant, which is another way to communicate with them. 

In the Wixárika community of Y+rata — which means “a place to grow greener” — communicating with plants is both a practice and cultural process. The women continue the labour of husking, selecting the best Corn seeds while also planning the next trip to the Yeturita (the field for cultivation). In Wixárika ways of knowing, Tatéi Niwetsika is central to the life of families. According to the ethnohistory of the Wixárika people, Tatéi Niwetsika gifted daughters to the Watakame (the first farmer) to begin planting. Yuawima (blue corn) became a human person to live with Watakame, beginning Wixárika genealogy. Throughout their life, Wixárika families exchange offerings and devote their labour to maintain right relationship with Tatéi Niwetsika. Teukarita ceremonies (naming ceremonies) — which usually occur in Autumn during the harvesting of Corn — when newborns receive names connecting them to their ancestors. According to Saul Santos García and Tutupika Carrillo de la Cruz, professors at the Universidad Autónoma de Nayarit, Teukari — grandparents with dream interpretation abilities — name the newborn after an interaction with an Elder Ancestor in a dream.

When Wixárika speakers utter personal names related to Corn, they act and impact the lives of people by embodying the properties of the plant. Mamachali, the name giver in Y+rata family, dreams of personal names related to Corn and assigns names to express how she wishes her grandchildren to grow in relation to the plant. In Wixárika language, some children’s names are indices of the life of Corn: Y+ra or Y+rama, to grow greener; colours of Corn Yuawima (blue corn), Tuxame (white corn); and roles of people in the cultivation Watakame (male farmer or first farmer) and Etsima (female farmer). By uttering personal names related to Corn, members of the community reconnect to the plant and remember their responsibilities as part of the family. 

Ceremonial language is a particular form of communication that connects with ancestors. Though not completely understood by many members of the community, the chants performed in ceremonial spaces evoke the presence of the ancestors. Corn names and vocabulary are generally indexical of the associations with Tatéi Niwetsika . When children receive their name,  it becomes an active reminder of the importance of offerings in devotion to Tatéi Niwetsika in exchange for health. Names also act mnemonically, reminding individuals of their responsibilities to their ancestors, as well as ontological connections with Kaka+yarite and Kaka+ma (elder ancestors).

Throughout my research I maintained a “Corn Diary” where I noted my observations of how Our Mother Corn communicates, like the sound of the stalks when the wind moves them and makes a tura, turaaa sound. My process of observing and learning from the Corn connected with how knowledge of the plant developed within Wixárika culture, as Corn interacted with natural forces providing behavioural cues of her being. In dreams, these behaviours are also important. Mamachali confirmed this with me when she elaborated on how the plant communicates in her dreams to indicate a name. The name is recognised through interaction with the elements, like how it interacts with rain when the thunder strikes the land and makes a tura, turaaa sound.

Through my observations, and through conversations with the community, I learned the language of plants by analysing how Corn behaves and interacts in the field. I documented in my Corn Diary how Our Mother Corn communicates through the colour of the leaves, the size of her body, and how the vertical structure of the plants provides support for other crops, such as beans, to grow in co-existence. Wixárika families create in the coamil (a field) a space for multi-species interaction, from edible and medicinal plants to predators. Some families cultivate beans, squash, chillies, tomatoes and herbs. Wild medicinal plants grow around Corn, such as Dandelion, Epazote, Malva and Chiclacayote. Additionally, the coamil serves as an ecosystem for many other species such as worms, fungus (huitlacoche), ants and pollinators.

I also noted in my Diary the acoustics of Our Mother Corn when her leaves (known as ear shoots) moved with the wind. In this moment, Our Mother Corn communicated that she grew tall and green. Our Mother also communicated when the roots of the stalk grew under the ground and expanded, like K+iwima (roots of squash), with the bean roots growing alongside it. Another note was how Our Mother Corn communicates through the different stages of reproduction when the stalk grew a spike, Zit+ama or Xitakame, indicating she was ready for reproduction and Corn cobs would soon arrive. We prepared to protect the Ikú (Corn cobs) while other families prepared for the necessary ceremonies. Later, when the silks began to form, the plant communicated the colour of Maize.

Tatéi Niwetsika teaches the Wixárika principles of coexistence and reciprocal relationships between people and plants. Wixárika people involved in cultivation practices and cultivation ceremonies become cognizant of Our Mother Corn through a plant’s life. From cultivation to harvesting, the levels of interaction between people and plants increase, as well as the levels of intimacy between the two species. In the science of Our Mother Corn, Wixárika families gather the knowledge and the wisdom to continue practices that become vital to Wixárika identity and health. Our Mother Corn becomes a relative to maintain Wixárika humanness. During the cycle of Corn, people maintain close ties and dietary restrictions from the time of cultivation to harvest. In the harvesting ceremony, families devote the entire celebration to Tatéi Newetsika. Through chants, storytelling and dances, members of the family maintain inter-species relations with Corn. Later, families use the offerings presented in the ceremony and take them to key geographical locations across Mexico. In this exchange, families make kinship, learn from inter-species interactions and strengthen relationships with their ancestors. 

The knowledge I am sharing through this article was possible due to the collaboration and the labour of many humans and more-than-human species. This work is possible because of the trust and the continuous community engagement through my years of fieldwork in Tepic.

I teach in the Critical Ethnic Studies department at Kalamazoo College and my commitment to my students is to challenge their way of thinking. I do this work not just in my department but within the wider academic institution. Two years ago, my “Plant Communication and Kinship” course adopted a laboratory model to teach theory in praxis. This was an effort to learn how to approach plants in  an ethical and responsible way. I teach about different indigenous communities and their understanding of the natural world both practically and experientially. We follow principles and protocols that we as a class come to as a consensus, as well as other principles that Elders come and teach us. Part of my work is to continue collaborating with the Wixárika community and we invite individuals from Y+rata to participate in our community garden and to share teachings at Kalamazoo. Personally, this lab has become more than just a place to collaborate with the students and visitors, it is a space to reconnect with land and the teachings of ancestors.

I teach about how plants listen when we speak to them and how they speak in a language that we humans can understand. From our human-centric perspective, plants communicate in simplistic ways to function and serve specific purposes in their local ecosystems. However, plants also communicate in a poetic way to captivate our attention. Humans have been socially constructed to think rationally, in objective and scientific terms making it difficult to show how other species communicate through complex relationships. For many, the divide between society and science has made it almost impossible to comprehend other systems of communication. However, for non-western communities, this cognitive orientation to conceive the more-than-human world is a common practice, even for those families in the diaspora living with the influence of Western political, economic and cultural forces. 

The anti-colonial genealogies of Our Mother Corn within the Wixárika serve as a poetic model to envision the relationship between humans and plants. This relationship is consensual, reciprocal and manifested through the embodied practices of community members who live in constant interaction with the natural world, without the scientific divide or hierarchical approach of academic studies.

Cyndy Margarita García-Weyandt is a mother, a poeta, an immigrant, and an assistant professor in the Department of Critical Ethnic Studies at Kalamazoo College. She is also the coordinator and co-founder of Proyecto Taniuki in Zitakua, Mexico.

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Depending on how you define it, activism has a long history in so called Australia. 

When Arthur Phillip — a former whaler and longtime servant of the British Navy — attempted to establish a colony on Gadigal land, he was resisted by Bennelong, Pemulwuy and the many Eora people who fought beside them. The Colony was established in the settlement of Sydney Cove, and early settlers invaded the nearby land of the Dharawal, Dharug, Awabakal, Darkinjung, Gandangara and Wiradjuri peoples. The fifth Governor of New South Wales, Lachlan Macquarie, effectively declared war on the “hostile natives”. Communities were massacred and native forests were felled, as settlements spread with the support of British agriculture and grazing methods that were imposed on the land. The Original Peoples of the Sovereign Nations that criss-cross the Australian continent and its surrounding islands, resisted an onslaught of violence and terror for over 100 years through a series of conflicts commonly referred to as the Frontier Wars. Musquito, Yagan, Windradyne, Tarenorerer, Tunnerminnerwait, Maulboyheenner, Truganini, Jandamarra and Dhakiyarr are some of the many figures of resistance who fought alongside their respective communities.

Eventually the colonies of New South Wales, Van Diemen’s Land, Port Phillip, Swan River, South Australia and Queensland united to form the Commonwealth of Australia. Resistance continued as communities lived in the face of the restrictions imposed on their culture and connection to Country by the newly formed state and federal governments. Foreign settlers also resisted British rule and imposition, reflected in the Rum Rebellion of 1808 and the Eureka Stockade of 1854, as well as the development of labour unions throughout the colonies in the 19th century.

Unionism also influenced the development of the first politically organised Aboriginal activist group, the Australian Aborigines Progressive Association (AAPA), formed in 1924, campaigning for rights to land ownership, citizenship, control of their own affairs and an end to the removal of Aboriginal children from their families. The AAPA was renamed the Aborigines’ Progressive Association and along with the Australian Aborigines League, they organised the first Day of Mourning on January 26 1938. It was the culmination of years of work, encouraging Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander activism across Australia, which led to the Yirrkala Bark Petitions, the Freedom Ride, the Wave Hill walk-off, the campaign for the constitutional referendum of 1967, the Aboriginal Tent Embassy and the Mabo Case.

The worldview and cultural practices of the Original Sovereign Nations of Australia, particularly their connection to Country, is well documented, and the outcry for civil rights was intrinsically linked to the protection of their territories. As the Australian population increased through waves of migration, the native landscape was destroyed to make way for industries that supported the growing number of settlements, particularly agriculture and grazing, the extraction of natural resources, and the eventual privatisation of land. Despite the ongoing desecration of the environment across the continent, it took time for settlers to develop a connection to the landscape and thus develop an awareness of the need for its protection, as well as the rights of the indigenous peoples who have always called it home.

Although many settlers campaigned for the rights of the Original Sovereign Nations of Australia and advocated for the protection of native plants and wildlife, the history books suggest the Australian conservation movement began with the creation of National Parks in the late 19th century. It was with the near extinction of the thylacine — also known as the Tasmanian Tiger — that environmental awareness spread through the dominant colonial culture, leading to koalas being declared protected species in 1937 and Tasmanian Devils in 1941. 

The thylacine population of Lutruwita (Tasmania) was around 5,000 when the British settled there, but they were known to attack sheep and thus hunted by farmers. As the thylacine population dwindled, sightings became significant news, as standards at the time stated an animal could not be declared extinct until 50 years had passed without a confirmed sighting. In 1968, zoologist Jeremy Griffith and local dairy farmer James Malley conducted what has been described as the the most extensive recorded search for the thylacine in the history of Lutruwita. In 1972, they formed the Thylacine Expeditionary Research Team with Bob Brown, which concluded without discovering evidence of the thylacine’s existence.

“I’d read about the Tasmanian Tiger and its alleged extinction, and then I saw a black and white television program, I think it was Four Corners, on Lake Pedder.”

Nestled amongst the peaks of the Frankland Range in Lutruwita’s southwest, Lake Pedder was a once glacial lake adorned by a pink quartzite beach. It was often referred to as “the mirror of heaven”.

“I wanted to know more about what was going on, so I kept my eye out for a job in Tasmania. I was working on ships in the Pacific as a doctor, and I was reading a medical magazine, and there was an ad for a three month position in Launceston replacing a doctor who was travelling to England. So I came, applied, got the job and within a year, I ran into two guys who were looking for the Tasmanian Tiger.”

The search for the thylacine inspired Bob’s early explorations of Lutruwita’s famed wilderness. He travelled into the Tarkine and the island’s northeast, to places where the thylacine had allegedly been sighted.

“The sightings always led to some other animal which may or may not have looked like a Tasmanian Tiger. But this presumption that if you couldn’t identify something that you saw in the night, it must be a Tiger, needed to be met with a fair degree of clarity of mind, but the Tiger is extinct.”

Bob also became involved in the campaign to protect Lake Pedder. The Lake and its surrounding wilderness was protected by National Park status in 1955 but it was then revoked in 1967, as the Tasmanian government wanted to flood the Gordon, Serpentine and Huon Rivers as part of a hydro-electric generation scheme, which was pushed forward through the avid support of Premier Eric Reece (who was nicknamed “Electric Eric”). The eventual dam obfuscated Lake Pedder’s unique natural beauty, creating a sprawling reservoir that provides extra “storage” to Lake Gordon, where the power station is located.

“I took out a big ad in The Australian, it was over $1,000 at the time, saying Lake Pedder is another disaster for Tasmania… It was sort of a cry in the dark but it also alerted the Lake Pedder campaigners to the fact that this unusual doctor had arrived in Launceston, and I quickly got asked to stand for Parliament. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

The newly formed United Tasmania Group (UTG) is acknowledged as the world’s first environmental political party to contest elections. The party was formed during a meeting of the Lake Pedder Action Committee to field candidates in the April 1972 Tasmanian election. The founder of the UTG, a senior lecturer in botany at the University of Tasmania, Dick Jones, asked Bob to stand, as they needed a candidate in the north of the state. 

“I stood with him on a Senate ticket, I think I got 112 votes statewide. But I quickly learned that environmentalism is off the agenda in politics, even more so back then… This was a period of nascent organic farming, permaculture, a lot of things happening in Tasmania, and it was all viewed with disdain and arrogance by the Hydro-Electric Commission, which had no trouble running ads against the UTG to say our policies would lead to higher power prices and the loss of jobs and so on. So we learned from that for the Franklin campaign, which came a decade later.”

Wild “from source to mouth”, the Franklin River is in Lutruwita’s southwest, and the Hydro-Electric Commission coveted it to create another hydro-electric dam. Bob gathered a group of activists in his home — all of whom were either members of the UTG or had campaigned for Lake Pedder — to discuss the Franklin’s protection, and together they formed the Tasmanian Wilderness Society (TWS). 

“We discussed peaceful direct action. Some of the group had considered it but had decided against it because they didn’t want to lose public support by sitting in front of bulldozers. But we invited some Quaker activists from New Zealand to talk to us about the theory of direct action and communal direct action, and while some individuals amongst us hated it, it nevertheless was enormously important in the blockade that saved the Franklin River.”

The TWS coordinated the massive campaign against the Franklin Dam, which lasted seven years from 1976 through to 1983. The campaign was initiated by a film that screened on Tasmanian television stations, and was followed with blockades on the Gordon and Franklin Rivers, many public rallies, letter writing, widespread door-knocking and significant political actions. In 1980, 10,000 people protested on the streets of Hobart — more than three times the size of any public rally to that moment in Lutruwita — demanding the wild Franklin be saved. Through the strength of the campaign, the Tasmanian government backed down on its initial plans for a new site for the dam, but the Wilderness Society did not back down from its call for “NO DAMS” in the southwest of Lutruwita. Their stance was supported by the uncovering of cultural artefacts at Kutikina Cave, located on the Franklin River, which led to the creation of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area in 1982, strengthening the position of TWS and the protestors. After a deadlock in the Tasmanian Parliament and an eventual referendum, the sitting Labor government was defeated in a state election.

“It was then that the strong man of Liberal politics arrived on the scene, Robin Grey, he won the election over Labor in 1982. In every seat of that election we stood ‘Save the Franklin’ candidates, and in every seat they lost. Although Norm Sanders here in Hobart, in Denison, had been an advocate for the Franklin’s protection, he was, to my knowledge, the first environmentalist elected into a parliament anywhere in Australia, he was a trailblazer. But he resigned his seat in Parliament because of the mistreatment of the Franklin Blockaders that got tougher and nastier as time went on, it was a very clear the government was calling for harsher treatment.”

Bob was one of 1500 people who were arrested during the Franklin campaign and was one of 600 jailed, when he spent 19 days in Hobart’s Risdon Prison.

“The day after I came out of jail, I was elected to Tasmania’s House of Assembly on a countback. So I was suddenly in Parliament on the side of the Franklin ticket, while also being director of the Wilderness Society, helping to run the blockade that was happening on the Gordon and Franklin Rivers. But I said at the time when the Franklin is saved, that’ll be my political career.”

Through the support of the newly elected Prime Minister Bob Hawke — who had promised to save the Franklin in the lead up to the election — and intervention from Australia’s High Court, construction of the dam was stopped and the River was saved, yet Bob Brown remained in politics.

“We had parallel campaigns to stop wood chipping and the marauding of Tasmania’s forests, and it was accelerating at a great rate, and there were social justice issues that I wanted to attend to, because nobody else in the Parliament was giving them voice, so I stayed on.”

He stayed for ten years. During his tenure, Bob proposed legislative initiatives on gay rights, nuclear regulation and euthanasia (amongst others).

“In the 1989 election, we ended up with five Greens seats that allowed us to double the size of the World Heritage area and to get new National Parks. You could say I became a relentless driver for the environment, but to me it was just about relentless common sense, it was a priority that looked to the future. And in retrospect, I would have regretted greatly backing off when that opportunity arose. But after ten years, I’d had enough, so I resigned from the Greens and took three years out.”

Bob went on holiday, travelling the world until he was pulled back to land he loved. He was drawn back to politics, initially to campaign for the newly created Australian Greens, and eventually standing for election in the Federal Senate in 1996 with the provision that he could continue to be an activist. 

“It included, if necessary, breaking the law, even though under the Constitution that loses you a seat in Parliament, and the Greens were happy to accept that condition.”

He was the first Greens’ candidate to be elected to the Australian Senate.

“When I arrived in Tasmania and found this nascent Greens Party, I felt at home with their politics that was based on a humility for nature and a concern for all human beings, and that includes all human cultures. So taking that on and helping to develop it was important. Labor will always grab kudos for social justice, Liberals will always grab kudos for economic innovation, but what they don’t have is any kudos on the environment, except when it’s manufactured here and there, and so the Greens Party grew.”

Bob Brown was a sensible voice in the Senate, often opposing the conservative Liberal government of John Howard. He introduced bills to block radioactive waste dumping and to ban mandatory sentencing of Aboriginal children, he was vocal of Australia’s involvement in the 2003 invasion of Iraq and he famously told John Howard to “relax and accept gay marriages as part of the future’s social fabric“. When four Greens senators were elected in 2004, Bob was formally named the first Federal Parliamentary Leader of the party. In 2007, he stated that coal was the energy industry’s “heroin habit” and suggested the ban of coal exports. He said it was an “appalling and disgusting failure” when Kevin Rudd failed to commit to strong carbon reduction targets in 2008. He also suggested tax revenues from the excess profits of the coal industry should be set aside for future environmental catastrophes in Australia.

In the 2010 election, the Greens achieved a historic result attracting 1.6 million votes, with the election of nine senators and one member of the House of Representatives. It meant that the Green held the balance of power in the Senate and Bob used this position to negotiate.

“We brought in probably the most advanced climate change legislation, of regulation and offsetting. We got it through with Julia Gillard as Prime Minister because we drove a very hard bargain. You might remember she’d said four days before the election, there’ll be no carbon tax under a government that she runs. Well 18 months later, they not only had a carbon trading scheme, but one of the best in the world.”

In April 2012 Bob stepped down as leader of the Australian Greens and then he retired from the Senate in June 2012. This time he stepped away from politics for good. 

“I endlessly quote Abraham Lincoln in 1857 saying that the corporations are coming to steal the throne of democracy from the people, and it happened. I watched our democracy become usurped by the wealthy and the corporate sector. That influence spreads right across the spectrum and there’s no greater example of that than the Murdoch ownership of the media here in Australia, which is corrupt and perverting of democracy. But one thing they all have great difficulty with is peaceful activism, and history shows that to be the case.

“I had seen that through the Pedder and Franklin campaigns, and our forestry campaigns — which I continued to be involved with while I was in politics — but a large component of the environment movement, which I love dearly, was trying to influence politicians by going to see them. I was very well aware they are no match for the corporate lobbyists who infested our parliaments, banging on people’s doors every day, particularly ministers doors, leading to this absurd situation we have now where 80% of Australians want native forest logging stopped and 80% of politicians want to subsidise it with even more public money. So getting out and focusing on activism was important, because politics doesn’t know how to deal with it. It cuts through.”

Along with Steven Chaffer, Bob decided to form an organisation with activism as its focus.

“I was in my late 60s and I recognised that it was a big thing to take on, but I had people like Steven. We started with nothing except a good idea, but we knew we had a lot of public sympathy out there.”

Their first employee was Jenny Weber. Jenny had grown up on Dharawal Country in Wollongong and experienced a lot of her childhood at the beach.

“I had this sense of awe about the ocean being bigger than I am, and the need to be careful in the ocean, it’s not something I took for granted, I had to learn to swim with the waves pummelling in. I was totally immersed in nature as a child.”

Jenny also grew up with the political leanings of her father, who was a member of the Australian Labor Party. He was also a teacher and part of a union.

“He was an organiser. I have memories faintly of my Dad organising or the teachers going on strike or always handing out how to vote cards on voting day. So really early on I was aware there was something going on with politics, to the extent there were politicians that for some reason were on the bad list. There was always a conversation about politics in my life, which was really influential in my childhood.” 

She liked punk music and helped organise concerts of visiting international bands at the local youth centre. 

“I think we were like 14, 15. It was a fabulous life, and it introduced me to a DIY style of working and giving back to your community, and it set the groundwork for the belief that if you want to get stuff done, you just need to get a few people to get together and do it.” 

At 17 she met her current partner, Adam, who was involved with the Wilderness Society and opened Jenny’s eyes to activism and the possibility of dedicating her life to the environment. Adam was living on Bundjalung Country near Byron Bay and took Jenny to a logging area in the Whian Whian State Forest when she was 18.

“I just could not believe it. And then I met the North East Forest Alliance, who were a bunch of activists pulling off blockades. It was a whole new thing, I was like who is this community of people who are getting together to resist the destruction of the environment? So I just immersed myself into that space entirely.”

Jenny was about to complete her university studies when Adam said to her, “I’m going to Tasmania, do you want to come? I was like, ‘not really, there’s no live music, I can’t swim in the sea. I thought that it would be freezing cold all the time. And then he was like, ‘I’m going to go anyway.’ So I had to choose between doing whatever I might have ended up doing in New South Wales and coming here to Tasmania, so I asked, ‘can we do a deal that it’s just for six months?’”

They drew a circle on a map between Hobart and the southern forests and they decided to move to Huonville.

“It’s a logging town in the middle of nowhere, we didn’t know anyone, it was a completely bizarre thing to do.” 

They initially volunteered with the Wilderness Society in Hobart, but Adam was inspired by his time with the Byron Environment Centre and the North East Forest Alliance and was keen on creating something similar in the southern forests of Lutruwita. 

“We set up this little place called the Huon Valley Environment Centre, which became our life for about 15 years. Being a forest activist, taking action, doing lots of blockading and forest protests. We had two beautiful children, we were living off-grid on 60 acres of wildlife reserve in a straw bale place we built, and we were there resisting non-violently in a town that hated us, being right there with the logging community.”

Jenny and Adam were living on the frontlines.

“I was shopping once with my little ones in Woolworths, and this woman just screamed at me and was like, ‘I’m going to lock-on to your trolley, that’s what you do to my husband,’ and it was a bit shocking. The same thing happened at the laundromat, people getting angry at me. I think it’s just being calm and trying to state your place or ignoring the situation completely. In the laundromat, the woman was a bit more aggressive and so I just tried to de-escalate and say, ‘look I’m just here for the forests.’ I also had a death threat against me. They said, ‘I saw her on the street, I should have run her down, I’m going to kill that bitch.’ So I went to the police, and the police handled it okay. But I never truly feared for my life. I’ve spent a bit of time in Sarawak, we have a company here in Tasmania that’s from Sarawak, and it opened up my life to the indigenous people there fighting for their forests, and my time with them made me realise I’m a white, privileged, educated woman who lives in a democracy, and I am so far from being threatened in my life because of what I do. So I’ve had a reality check a number of times.”

In 2012, the Tasmanian government struck a supposed peace deal with environmentalists and the logging industry, the Tasmanian Forest Agreement. 

“We didn’t agree with the deal, it compensated this Sarawak logging company to stay in Tasmania. And this was after we had achieved some great gains in the Japanese markets, and Ta Ann was going to leave Tasmania, and these environmentalists went into those markets and said, ‘no, keep buying from Tasmania, don’t leave,’ which was shocking, and so we lost, a lot of activists were disillusioned, they felt they had been sold out. We had a beautiful community of people who were all volunteers and hanging on by a thread. It wasn’t like they had paid employment, they were all dedicating their lives to the forests. And I witnessed when you have a tipping point like that, where you feel sold out or disillusioned, that’s all that needs to happen and it’s over. Why would I give my life up if I’m not going to be, you know, effective?

“So at that time I was really frustrated because not only did we have success and gains in unsettling a major company, we also had environmentalists who were working against us. Anyway, I saw Bob at an art exhibition in town. We used to run these art exhibitions where the activists would tell their stories through art and they were beautiful and confronting and intense. And so we had an exhibition and Bob came along and he asked about the Centre closing and I was like, ‘I’m so angry, I’m going to leave Tasmania, Adam and I are just done, we’ve had enough.’ And he said, ‘if you’re angry and you haven’t been angry until now, imagine what you could do if you keep campaigning, why don’t you come and work for the Bob Brown Foundation?’ And I was blessed in that very moment of my life, I had a blessing that people would love to have across this planet, to have Bob Brown take me under his wing and say, ‘let’s campaign together.’”

Tony Abbott had just become Australia’s Prime Minister, and he wanted to remove Lutruwita’s forests from their World Heritage listing. 

“Insane. So my first task here was to resist that and say, ‘no way.’ Incredibly it meant I went to Doha to the World Heritage meeting and was part of a team of people who were lobbying to not have the forests delisted. I thought I was just here at the Foundation for that little stint to make sure Abbott didn’t get his way. And we were successful, there was no appetite in the World Heritage Committee for that to happen. And when I returned, Bob said to me, ‘okay, now there’s a window of opportunity to have the Tarkine protected, so let’s dedicate you to the Tarkine campaign.’ Bob had been trying to get the place protected for 20 years, but it’s just so powerfully dominated by the mining industry and a little bit by the logging industry. So I was like, ‘yeah I’ll stick around with the Foundation.’”

There are now around 20 employees at the Bob Brown Foundation, supported by a dedicated community of volunteers whose activities include sending out merchandise, gathering petition signatures or, if they’re involved in frontline demonstrations, they might be locking-on to a tripod or in a tree sitting. 

Dr Colette Harmsen has been a consistent presence at the Foundation’s many protests and blockades. Colette was born and raised in Lutruwita to a Tasmanian mother and a Dutch father. They lived in the bush, so Colette lived a “sheltered and isolated” life immersed in the surrounding natural environment.

“As long as I can remember I was into insects and plants. I spent hours watching ants, building nests and doing that kind of stuff. I used to smear honey on the walls in my bedroom so the ants would come in and eat it. It’s funny, I haven’t seen that species of ant since I was a little kid, the insects seem to be diminishing.”

Her parents were part of the activist community of the time, attending protests all over Lutruwita, so it seemed normal to want to protect nature, “like it was normal that you didn’t want people to come out and kill the animals or pollute or destroy.” Colette eventually moved to Yuggera Country, to Brisbane to study veterinary science, but returned to her homeland to join the Save the Tasmanian Devil Program, where she worked for eight years. 

“My job was as a field veterinary officer, so I had a pretty good time of it working with the program, which felt worthwhile up to a point when I realised I needed to step up again, like just going to protests didn’t feel like it was enough. So I started locking-on to stuff. I think the first time I was arrested I didn’t even lock-on to anything, I think I stood with a group of other activists and we stood in front of a primary school and refused to leave. They were having a meeting inside about the pulp mill, politicians and local people and councillors, and we all got arrested.“

Since then Colette has been arrested 23 times. 

“Most of those times I have been chained to things like machinery gates, drill rigs, that kind of thing. I was up a tripod at one stage. When I do that I feel that it doesn’t matter what people say, I’m there and I’m not going anywhere, and they’ve got to physically come and cut me off and remove me, and if that doesn’t make people go, ‘why are people doing this, this doesn’t make sense,’ then I don’t know what will. 

“I guess the reality is that people don’t pay much attention, but the more we do it, I can see it’s making a difference, every step of the way it is making people ask ‘why are they arresting these people for? Like they’re trying to protect the planet,’ and at some point, someone’s going to make a decision and just say we need better environmental laws or we need better protection of forests.”

Having lived in Lutruwita for most of her life, Colette has seen firsthand how the forests are constantly threatened with destruction.

“The first time I flew to Melaleuca, which is in the southwest of Tasmania, to do a walking trip, we flew south from Cambridge Airport and we flew over Hartz Mountain and a lot of the southern forests and out towards the southwest wilderness. And when I looked down from the plane in the southern forests area, I could see a patchwork quilt underneath you: it was all the forests that were being logged and then regrowing at different stages. And basically Forestry Tasmania has all the forests available to them that aren’t in the Southwest Conservation Area or the National Parks, and all of that is just a patchwork of logged areas that are regrowing at different ages. And it’s devastating that we go in there to save one little patch, and it’s like the last old growth patch in the whole bloody area, and everything else is a bunch of plantation trees. And it just really hurts me to think that all of that would have been a continuous forest of absolutely pristine mosses and fungi and all the wildlife living in there, but now it has been chopped up into tiny pieces.”

It’s the loss of this natural heritage that pains Bob too.

“People need to recognise that the planet is finite, and that it’s amazingly intricate in the way in which it has evolved and supports life. There is a spiritual dimension to that, which I often shortcut for people by saying if you give a person a bunch of flowers, which is from wild nature, they feel good about it, but if you give them a bunch of plastic flowers, which look exactly the same — because they’re amazingly contrived these days — as they slowly realise they’re not real, it’s often a sign of insult. Why is that? You could write books and books and books on it, but it’s because we are creatures of the forest and the wild planet, and that’s where our soul as well as our body comes from, and we’re still linked to it, but we’re divorcing ourselves artificially, or cutting ourselves from it and destroying it at a great rate. 

“As a boy, there was a book called ‘The Big Snake Hunters’ that came out of England about the Amazon, and while it was the typical beagle stuff of those days, I was nevertheless imbued by this idea, which was then still true, that there were large realms of forest that we from the developing and invading world didn’t know about, and people lived in all of them and were completely encompassed in body and mind by them. That’s almost gone in my lifetime. And when I hear from the World Wildlife Fund that 70% of the mass of wildlife has gone since 1970, or the other statistic that 94% of the mammals left on the planet are human beings and what we eat, and 6% is wildlife, you get a picture of the complete desecration of the planet. 

“The thing about it is, while more and more people are becoming alarmed about it, it’s increasing in rate. And when you talk about a road going through the Amazon or the felling of ancient trees here, it’s all part of this onrush of materialism, capitalism if you like, which is quite absurd. It’s working in a finite system, which is the planet, and yet there’s not a government that I know of that doesn’t adhere to growth as being a central pillar of good management. And growth means increased exploitation of nature in a world in which we’re already using twice the renewable living resources of the planet. So every morning we wake up to fewer forests, fewer fisheries, less arable land, fewer species, more human mouths to feed, and generally more devastation and anxiety.”

These words relate back to pre-colonial days, when Tasmania was always referred to as Lutruwita, and the island was populated by Palawa people and was covered in the world’s tallest flowering plants. But it wasn’t just Lutruwita, it was all over the land called Australia that was covered in its native vegetation and teeming with ancient wildlife coexisting with the diverse and vibrant cultures of the continent’s Original Peoples. Can we ever know how much has been lost now that so much is gone? To paraphrase the Revolutionary Proclamation of the Junta Tuitiva, most of humanity maintains a silence that closely resembles stupidity. But fortunately there are still giants like Colette, Jenny and of course the great Bob Brown, who protect the giants of our ancient past so they will still remain as part of our future.

“We are so fortunate in this country but it is so easy to be complacent. I learned early on that we’re just passing patterns here, all species are a relay of life, and we’re part of a community. Capitalism, of course, makes the individual all important, but as human beings, we’ve always lived as communities, with the spirits of ancestors before us and the hopes of future generations in front of us. And it is incredibly important to honour those past ancestors, but to also be active, to put ourselves on the line for those coming after us, who can’t come back and undo what’s happening now. 

“Although the idea that there is no time, that we can do nothing else but be planet savers, can be self-defeating. It’s important that people find good companionship, have good relationships, have parties, have holidays, complete their studies and assume that there is time. You have to take time. And it’s very, very important for people to look after themselves. The idea that you can have fun in such a desperate and daunting planet seems contra intelligent, but nevertheless we are just human creatures, we do like happiness, and we have to find that in amongst this very fraught life we’re leading, waking the planet up and converting it against all odds into a global community that, above all, respects the planet and life on it and works to ensure that it’s here forever.”

As they say in parliament: hear, hear!

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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Toitū te marae a Tāne-Mahuta, toitū te marae a Tangaroa, toitū te tangata.

This is a whakatauki, a Māori proverb widely known in Aotearoa (New Zealand) that means “if the land is well and the sea is well, so too are the people”.

The literal truths of this proverb are obvious: our lives are reliant on clean water, healthy soil, and fresh air. More and more research highlights how our mental health is connected to the natural world, as it reduces stress while inspiring creativity and joy. This reflects the spiritual beliefs of the Māori people, who have deep relationships with the land and the sea, as well as the plants and animals who also call these lands home. If our native species are threatened, so is the wellbeing of Aotearoa’s people. One of these species is the smallest and rarest dolphin in the world, the Hector’s dolphin, with one of its subspecies, the Māui dolphin, critically endangered with only 55 individuals left.

The Hector’s dolphin has different Māori names, depending on the region. Tutumairekurai and tūpoupou are common, while pahu is often used and has been adopted by Sea Shepherd New Zealand in their campaign to protect these dolphins. An old Māori belief is that spirits that have passed may come back as tutumairekurai, so they are viewed as extensions of the family, worthy of deep respect. Historically, these dolphins were so common that it was laughable to think that they would ever be classed as endangered. Now only 10,000 remain in the waters surrounding Aotearoa, meaning they are “nationally vulnerable”.

Naturally curious and highly intelligent, pahu are coastal dwellers, not known to travel more than 20 nautical miles from shore, so they are commonly seen by swimmers, kayakers, and recreational boaters. They live in small familial pods and generally remain in one region, a behaviour known as site fidelity. It is easy to see why they are viewed as spiritual creatures by the Māori and how they have become a national icon, known as the “kiwi of the sea”.

The first time I was lucky enough to interact with them, I was swimming at Waikuku beach as a child. The other swimmers around me evacuated the water having mistaken these dolphin fins for shark fins, whereas I felt like swimming out further to see if they’d play with me. It was a few years later when I finally got my chance to interact with them while on a friend’s recreational boat in Banks Peninsula, where there is a high concentration of Hector’s dolphins due to its many small bays creating protection for breeding and a range of fish species for their food. While the engine had stopped and we were enjoying the scenery in silence, we heard a soft breathing noise — which is where the dolphins get the name pahu — and we saw their distinctive black fins approaching us slowly. Up close, Hector’s dolphins often roll sideways underwater to get a good look at you while passing your boat, or they stick their heads up out of the water to watch you from a distance. When I saw one of those bright, intelligent eyes looking straight into mine, my love for these beings deepened. Now I relish every opportunity to get out on the water and spot them, while also helping to monitor their population and threats as a volunteer for Sea Shepherd New Zealand.

The curiosity and social nature of Hector’s dolphins make for a great tourist attraction, especially around Banks Peninsula. Companies offering dolphin tours are usually well-instructed in how to approach the dolphins, always careful to minimise the risk of striking them, and to not make loud noises or feed the dolphins when spotted. However, research has indicated that an increase in boat traffic over time has displaced the number of Hector’s dolphins in the Akaroa region. Furthermore, one company offers a “swim with dolphins” tour, despite the fact that swimming with the dolphins can disrupt their natural behaviours, and increase the risk of humans touching and damaging the dolphins’ sensitive skin. Although I believe that Aotearoa’s wildlife and natural beauty should be shared by all, and that tourism raises awareness of the plight of the Hector’s dolphins, if tour boats are part of the problem, I wonder whether we should cease their operation to provide safer and quieter habitats?

Swimming with Hector’s dolphins remains legal — unless there are calves in the pod — although many companies have ceased providing “swim with dolphins” tours due to concerns over the reduction of numbers of dolphins in particular areas. To combat the amount of marine traffic disturbing the Hector’s dolphin population, the government issued a moratorium on new permits and expansions for tour boat operators in Akaroa harbour in 2016, which is due to expire in 2026. Whether they will extend the moratorium is unknown.

Earlier this year, the international sailing race SailGP took place in Lyttelton Harbour, the largest commercial harbour on the Banks Peninsula. Lyttelton Harbour is a marine mammal sanctuary and home to a pod of Hector’s dolphins. The organisers of SailGP knew this area was a sanctuary and that significant protection measures would be in place, however they chose to go ahead with the race despite pressure from environmental NGOs to hold it elsewhere. Protection protocol required that if any Hector’s dolphins were seen near the course the race would be stopped until the dolphin had not been seen for 20 minutes. This was agreed to by the SailGP representatives, yet when dolphins were seen in the race area on the opening morning, and the entire day of racing was subsequently cancelled, their response turned to calling the protection measures “extreme” and “disappointing” instead. It was inappropriate to hold a race with boats that travel at such high speeds within a marine mammal sanctuary, yet this is not the only threat the Hector’s dolphins of Lyttelton Harbour have experienced.

In 2018 the Lyttelton Port Company (LPC) wanted to build a new cruise ship berth so that bigger ships with more passengers could enter Lyttelton. The methods they proposed for construction involved noisy pile driving, which was expected to cause adverse effects on the wildlife populations over time. In particular, it would have decreased the dolphins’ ability to echolocate and possibly led to permanent hearing damage. The project was halted while the LPC continued research into the potential harm to the local dolphins, then construction began in 2019 with a “marine piling management plan” including fewer piles used, along with “soft start” construction that would give the animals time to leave the area, and a pause on work required when any dolphin was seen near the site. Construction continued in the face of extensive protest from local communities and the concern of scientists, who proved that the number of Hector’s dolphins dropped in areas with smaller-scale construction, which disrupted their normal breeding and feeding behaviours.

Despite the significant presence of boats, they are not the biggest threat to Hector’s and Māui dolphins. Every year, fishing nets kill between 100 and 150 Hector’s dolphins, the most common being set nets, while Hector’s dolphins have been bycatch in trawl nets and drift nets too. A threat management plan was introduced in 2008 outlining ways to minimise threats to the dolphins, and was most recently revised in 2020 with further bans on fishing gear at certain distances from the shore. 

Through my work with Sea Shepherd New Zealand, I have observed how using fishing gear further out to sea isn’t enough. I have seen vessels trawling in the middle of a large pod of Hector’s dolphins who were gathering to eat the fishers’ desired catch just outside the two nautical mile ban limit. If there is fishing happening anywhere within that 20 nautical mile habitat range, the dolphins are threatened and will be until there is no more commercial fishing in the areas they populate. It may seem like an extreme measure, but fishing nets pose the greatest risk to the dolphins, and therefore need to be a primary focus of regulation. Fishing gear is also a primary source of plastic pollution, another significant threat to marine wildlife. 

It is a legal requirement that commercial fishing boats report any accidental bycatch of Hector’s and Māui dolphins, with this information then published on the Department of Conservation website. However, this assumes that commercial vessels willingly and accurately volunteer this information. In the experience of most NGOs and individuals campaigning for Hector’s protection, this is rarely the case. To minimise the risk of misinformation, NGOs and dolphin researchers long suggested the use of cameras onboard fishing vessels, yet they were not implemented until the Labour government in late 2023. Since the cameras were installed, the number of “reported” deaths of Hector’s and Maui dolphins increased, particularly deaths due to bycatch. This indicates that dolphin deaths were not previously reported, rather than not occurring at all. 

Although the cameras were a positive step by the government to protect native marine species, Aotearoa’s most recent elections resulted in a new government that prioritises economic growth over the wellbeing of the environment. The Oceans and Fisheries Minister has indicated that although the improvement of fisheries’ sustainable practices was a priority, the use of cameras was not determined a necessary precaution.

Toitū te marae a Tāne-Mahuta, toitū te marae a Tangaroa, toitū te tangata. This whakatauki is used on the website of the Department of Conservation, in a section that talks about their desire for thriving ecosystems and a dedication to preserving our Aotearoa’s resources. If Aotearoa is to maintains its global image of being a clean and green country that prides itself on its natural beauty, difficult decisions and sacrifices need to be made to protect native species, which is both a governmental and individual responsibility.

Although there is generally a lot of education around dolphins in Aotearoa, many recreational boaters aren’t aware of the research around the protection of Hector’s dolphins, particularly in regard to safe boating behaviour. Constant reminders would be helpful, like warnings posted at boat ramps and marinas reminding boaters of safe speeds and the importance of keeping an eye out for dolphins. These are a few of many possible steps that could be taken by the government, but the ugly truth is that profit, pleasure and convenience are often put ahead of other species, native vegetation and thus collective interspecies wellbeing.

In my perspective, the sea is not well, and Aotearoa cannot be well until it protects  vulnerable marine species like the unique Hector’s dolphins. They deserve better. As individuals, we cannot control the government’s decisions more than passionately lobbying for what’s right, but we can make everyday choices to improve the wellbeing of animals and their habitats, and sacrifice our own pleasure for the future of a species. Is a sailing race, cruising around in a rental boat or having a piece of fish on our plates worth the risk of harming the Hector’s and Māui dolphins? For the curious and intelligent mammal that captured my heart all of those years ago, I say no.

Lauren Duke is a seafarer, activist and writer. She lives in Aotearoa (New Zealand) close to the sea.

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Willem van Aalst worked in finance.

“I met a commodity trader with EF Hutton. I thought his lifestyle was interesting and exciting, so I decided that’s what I want to do.”

His career began with an internship in Chicago, which led to work as a correspondent at the European Options Exchange in his hometown of Amsterdam.

“I spoke French fluently, so I was responsible for selling seats on the exchange to French speaking countries.”

Although he enjoyed his job, Willem missed the USA and wanted to return. Eventually, an opportunity emerged through a training program with Bankers Trust.

“It was a lot of fun, I spent time in New York where I met my wife Kathryn in 1980. We were engaged in 1981, and we got married in 1982 in New Orleans, which is where she grew up.”

After the training program, Willem was offered a job with a posting in either Jakarta or Amsterdam. Again he chose to return to his hometown, this time to be close to his father who was sick with lung cancer. After his father passed, Willem left his role with Bankers Trust, enrolled in a MBA, and eventually took a job in London where he moved with his growing family.

“Kathryn was pregnant with Sasha, my daughter” — she also gave birth to two sons, Nicholas and Philip — “and we lived in London for the next 12 years. I worked for Smith Barney first as a bond trader and salesman, and then with Salomon Brothers, where I was a bond salesman to Dutch and Scandinavian insurance companies, pension funds and the like.”

Willem was then offered a job with Lehman Brothers.

“It was when the structured finance business took off and I got heavily involved in that, which was extremely profitable.”

In layman’s terms, structured finance refers to the sector of the financial industry that is concerned with leverage and risk. 

“Basically, if you are a fixed income investor, a bond investor, and you’re only allowed to buy bonds, but you also want equity exposure, then a bank can create a bond and its redemption or its coupon is linked to an equity market. So essentially it’s an equity, but you’re allowed to buy it as a bond investor, because it’s structured as a bond.”

Does this make sense to you? It didn’t make sense to Willem.

“It is totally bogus and that’s what the financial industry is all about. The financial industry is essentially a big bunch of lies” and structured finance, and specifically the mortgage backed securities market, is what led to the Global Financial Crisis of 2008.

“What got us into the financial mess of 2008 is greed, basic greed. I mean, the financial industry is a very, very greedy environment. People were paid ridiculous amounts of money, including myself, and when that happens things go awry. I was working for Lehman Brothers in 1999, which led to a personal burnout caused by being responsible for a large sales force, about 45 people, which was extremely stressful.“

Willem quit and he returned to Amsterdam with his family. After a few years of running a radio venture with a friend, he was pulled back into the finance industry.

“I started working for a very small investment bank here in Holland, simply because I wanted to go back to something I knew. I was talking to my old clients, old institutional investors, and they were talking a lot about hedge funds and that they wanted to invest in them. So I said to this small company, ‘we ought to start a hedge fund because it’s what our investors want.’” 

After a few years working for that company, Willem received a phone call from an old friend. 

“We used to work together at Lehman Brothers, he was a trader and he asked, ‘can you help me set up a hedge fund, because I’m sick and tired of working for Lehman Brothers, I think the world is going to hell in a basket, we’re going to have a huge credit crisis, and I don’t want to be in dollars, I want to be in emerging markets, I want to protect my own wealth and that of others, so I need a fund.’” 

They started a hedge fund in London in 2003. 

“It was a very successful, very large fund, and I was splitting my week between London and Amsterdam. Then in September 2007, when the first cracks of the credit crisis started to appear, when the Bear Stearns hedge funds went belly up, we lost quite a bit of money, around 6.5%, which is not enormous in hedge fund land, but it was twice what we had lost before in any given month.” 

He and his business partner discussed the position of the fund and felt to make different choices, which ultimately led to them parting ways.

“People took advantage of a system based on trust. Trust was put in the rating agencies believing they were doing their job correctly, rating all of these instruments according to the true quality of the underlying assets in those structured transactions, but they weren’t. And people were buying three, four or five apartments financed by mortgages, which they never should have gotten, but the salesmen who sold those mortgages were making so much money on commissions they would have sold them to their dying grandmother. It was a market on steroids. It was fraud.

“In splitting from my business partner, I realised how ruthless the financial market is and how little it actually adds to anybody’s wellbeing, other than making a lot of money for people that are thus motivated. The finance industry, for me, was not an end, it was a means to an end, it afforded me to live a certain lifestyle, to do certain things. I was running after money for money’s sake and I think that’s basically how the financial industry works. If you are not motivated that way, I don’t believe you can actually function in that environment, because it’s eat or get eaten, it’s not pretty, it’s not good. So I became very, very disenchanted. I mean, what do we need a bank for? We need a bank to lend us money when we need it, or transfer money to different accounts, that’s it. We don’t need banks to speculate, we don’t need banks to make huge amounts of money of their own accord.”

In 2008, Willem left the finance industry. 

“It was the second time I quit, but this time I decided it was going to be for good, which meant I had to find something else to do. I had made a fair bit of money in the hedge fund business, so I could afford to take time to think about what I wanted to focus on. I thought if I do something that I’m passionate about, that I really care about, it would probably be alright.”

Willem had fished and hunted his whole life and had always enjoyed the time he shared with Mother Nature.

“I felt an enormous amount of support and trust from the environment.” 

Willem was looking online and he came across Geoff Lawton’s permaculture program. 

“I liked him as a teacher and as a storyteller, I liked his project, I like where he came from, with Bill Mollison, one of the original thinkers of perennial and permanent structures. I did two courses with him that taught me to look at land in a totally different way, to look at mountains in a totally different way, to look at valleys in a totally different way, to look at the keyline aspect of how water flows down these valleys, and how incredibly potent water is, not just potent in the sense of giving life, but also destructive if it’s obstructed by human intervention in the wrong way. Water will destroy anything that’s in its way.”

He then came across Mark Shepard, the author of Restoration Agriculture, again through the internet. 

“That was an eye opener for me. I put the system he described in his book into a spreadsheet, and I did some calculations and I asked myself, why is there anybody in the world not farming like this? Why are they all doing something different in terms of monoculture and stuff like that? It does not make sense when you look at those numbers, which is an incredibly profitable, multi-crop, multifaceted system compared to an acre of corn. The acre he describes in his book, with chestnuts and apples and berries and chickens and pigs and cows, you name it, that acre you can live off. But this other acre you can’t live off, you just have corn, you will die. And the acre of corn has all of these inputs like fertiliser, pesticides, herbicides and all the crap that you don’t need and you certainly don’t want to eat. And it is far more expensive than the acre that takes advantage of the symbiosis of interconnected nature.”

Willem travelled to San Diego in the USA to study with Mark, and on his return, he stopped by his wife’s hometown of New Orleans.

“We flew over the Mississippi Delta and I saw the lushness and the beauty of the Delta, which I’d spent an enormous amount of time in, hunting and fishing. And right on those edges where salt water meets sweet water, where forest, marsh and mangroves meet the land, in those edges of nature life is palpable, it jumps at you, it is teeming with life. And so flying in, looking over that, I thought, that’s beautiful, that’s where I want it to be.”

His wife Kathryn’s family are one of the owners of a large property on the Atchafalaya River. 

“It’s a very interesting property. You have a polder, a diked piece of land, and then you have pure marsh, it’s about 7000 acres in total. It’s a huge property, and they found oil underneath it in the 1930s, they put all sorts of pipelines under it and exploited the hell out of it. About seven families owned it, including Kathryn’s family, but the oil is now dry or at a depth that’s not feasible to actually exploit. And from the original shareholders, it now has 107 shareholders, and it’s not bringing in any money, or at least not the kind of money that they were used to through oil. So I looked at it and thought if I build a regenerative farm there, a very diverse regenerative farm, it’s going to be incredibly profitable.

“I researched it for five years. I got Mark Shepard to come over to have a look and discuss what we could develop, and we came up with a beautiful system of mounds and meadows with water in between. It was not only an incredibly beautiful system, but it was also going to be — I did calculations — it would have made millions once that system got running, because it was mostly perennial structures and animal structures that were self-sustaining. It would have been stupendous, but the shareholders didn’t want it.“

During this period, Willem continued studying, shifting focus from the restorative agriculture of Mark Shepard to regenerative agriculture with Allan Savory. It was through his friendship with Allan that he met Will Harris.

“Will was a fourth generation farmer who decided to do things differently. He says he has got 100,000 beating hearts on his property, which means he’s got beef, pigs, turkeys, chickens, geese, vegetables, you name it. In the ten years that I’ve known him, I have seen him take over neighbouring industrial farms and regenerate them and generate revenue off them. He has 154 people working for him, he inspired change in the town of Bluffton, where his farm is.  I saw the accounts and I talked to him about it and it works, it feeds people, it builds a community, it builds territory, it builds land.“

It was Will’s example of regenerating land, as well as communities, that inspired Willem’s next venture.

“I had been baking sourdough bread for 12 years. It started when I was studying permaculture and realising there is no difference between my biome and the biome out there in the fields, where healthy food grows. If it’s healthy, it feeds me and I am healthy, if it’s not healthy, I get sick. If you don’t care about the food you eat, you’ll get sick. If you don’t know where your food is coming from, you will get sick. I mean, there’s no two ways about it because the microbial fungi in the soil is no different from the microbial fungi of our intestines. And so realising that I realised that yeast is a bad thing, I realised that fermenting is a good process, I realised that fermented bread is a good thing, so I started baking for my family and my friends.”

Willem had returned from his American Dream and it was during the Covid lockdowns when his son Nicholas saw an ad on Facebook. 

“It basically said, is there somebody who wants to bake in my bakery? My son saw it and responded ‘my Dad’, and that’s how it all started.”

In October 2020, Willem began baking with his other son Philip and his daughter Sasha. A longtime Ashtanga yoga practitioner and teacher, Sasha was drawn to the energy that was growing between her father and her brother. She recalls this first period of baking as “a little mad scientist’s experimental kitchen”.

“It was very spontaneous. Through my brother Nicholas, Pap got access to a little space and he remembered the bread, because my father didn’t do it for a while, he was so focused on the swamp in Louisiana. And then my brother Philip got involved and helped evolve his process into something bigger. It was during the lockdowns, and I needed something of the earth to connect to, with other people and with my hands, and it gave me that. We were just opening the garage door, baking for people and selling lots of bread. It was very playful in the beginning, it was just an experiment from October 2020 until April 2021, something like that.”

Willem had set out to understand how to nurture nature, and it seemed that nature was now nurturing him, as this small venture with his family started to expand. They decided to commit to what it was becoming and they found a bigger space, a storefront on Ceintuurbaan in De Pijp, which is now the home to their family bakery, Bakkerij Mater.

“When we moved over here, it became a whole other thing. This was much bigger and I felt like rolling up my sleeves and bringing some feminine energy into this place. And when we arrived here we just realised we could connect it back to everything, to this whole bigger story for him, but to my story too.”

Through teaching yoga, Sasha appreciated people’s need for community and had experience in cultivating it through her shala. So when the bakery started to evolve, and eventually opened to the public, she saw how her own experiences could support what she was creating with her father and her brother. For Willem, it is a continuation of his journey since leaving finance. 

“The baking is a result of the passion for nature. I see the bakery as a platform to continue to work in this transition of agriculture and to continue to work in spreading the word about how concerned we ought to be about how we treat Mother Nature. The bakery enables us to tell the story of what’s important out there, as baking is on the edge of the most destructive agricultural practice in nature, ploughing.

“If you look back in history, basically every civilisation that disappeared, disappeared because of the plough. The plough is a tool for industrial farmers to turn over the land and make it barren so that they can easily sow into it. What it does is it hurts nature, because when they plough, they plough in the early stages of spring, they turn the land upside down, exposing the biology of the land in the sun for it to bake and die. It becomes dust, and so they kill the biology in the soil, and they need to add biology to grow anything in it, so they add fertiliser, pesticides, herbicides and all that crap. Also, when they are ploughing at that same depth, continuously, year in and year out, they create a hard bed that water cannot penetrate. When rain drops on that land, it will go through the soil and hit rock, and that rain streams out to wherever it wants to go and pollutes surrounding environments with the herbicides, pesticides and all that they’ve thrown onto that land. 

“How can we produce wholesome, good food on land that does not have biology? How can that biology that feeds the plants, that creates the symbiosis through all those nematodes and all the bacteria and all those things in the soil, which bring in the sugars and the nitrate to the plant to make it grow strong and give it nutritional value, how can that happen in a ploughed field? It can’t. So what you end up having is land that, after a while, is basically no longer feasible for farming and basically the Egyptians, the Romans, you name it, they disappeared because of it.”

Willem has been collaborating with local farmers, sharing his knowledge of nature to ensure the flour and dairy used in their baking nourishes the community and the landscape in and around Amsterdam.

“Bread is the essence. If it’s there, it’s a life supporter, and if it’s not there, well, look at what happens in Gaza or any other troubled land. When they don’t have flour, they have famine.”

Bread has long fuelled healthy societies, and for Willem van Aalst, it has brought together the wisdom from his long journey in a small yet significant way.

“Bread is a commodity that is not just a commodity, it’s the essence of life.”

Anton Rivette is a writer and photographer. He leads storytelling at eco-nnect.

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For the past two decades, the legend of David, the young shepherd who defeated the giant Goliath with a stone and a sling, has echoed in Galicia, Spain. The Ensenada de San Simón is a space included in the Natura 2000 Network, a web of protected areas covering Europe’s most valuable and threatened species and habitats, and therefore theoretically protected under the European Union’s Nature Conservancy Act. But these supposed protections are often too lax, as each EU country decides how best to implement these regulations based on the understanding that each site in this network is unique, so it’s on the landowners and site managers to work together to find local solutions for each area.

The Ensenada de San Simón has, on paper, been protected since 2001, when it joined the Natura 2000. But these protections are often ignored in the face of the interests of Goliaths like Pescanova and the Port of Vigo.

“The Vigo fish market is the most important port for the commercialisation of fish for human consumption on the European continent, and it serves as a central point for fish trading at both European and global levels.”

Antonio, a resident of Rande, Redondela, Galicia, is one of the Davids who protect the entire Vigo estuary.

“I am a telecommunications engineer. I am in love with telecommunications and of course with nature. Life brought me to Rande where I met all the wonderful people who live here. We set up everything we set up because corporations and government came here to do terrible things, and something had to be done.”

For Antonio, there are always two fundamental pillars needed in the fight against Goliaths: social mobilisation and legal action.

“The Plataforma en Defensa da Ensenada de San Simón is a group composed of associations of neighbours, the sports-cultural association, associations of local fishermen and shellfish gatherers.”

It was created in 2004 by three neighbours who met while they were individually presenting allegations against a cement factory that was planned for construction in the Ensenada. 

“We found out about this plan through the press, and when we met at the town hall we started chatting, and that’s when we decided to form the Plataforma. Then we submitted the application to legally establish it, and after that, more colleagues started joining until there were 12 or 15 of us.”

When we met at a stone table under a native oak tree in Rande, Antonio and I were joined by Xurxo, another resident of the neighbourhood who is also part of the Plataforma.

“Think globally, act locally, right? Once you move to the rural environment, at least in my case, you realise that you can influence many things that affect you and your life, and you can try to change them effectively.”

The fighting spirit is undoubtedly one the best weapons of these residents to demonstrate that their land is not to be touched, but so is knowledge of the law, which they constantly study.

“As with many things, conservation law, on paper, has nothing to do with the reality we experience in our neighbourhood, as year after year, battle after battle, we have to ensure the laws that conserve this rich natural landscape are upheld,” Antonio shared.

The biggest problem, as in so many other places, is that the law is upheld by a Goliath.

“What they wanted was the same old story, comer mar, comer mar, comer mar” — or to eat the sea, which is a very common saying in Galician to describe when the shoreline is altered with sand or cement, affecting the natural flow of the water — “to make their facilities bigger.”

A cement factory was not built thanks to the pressure from the Plataforma’s efforts, rallying the entire neighbourhood through demonstrations and marches. These protests were organised in the living rooms and kitchens of the community, a group of neighbours tired of seeing their heritage destroyed and who did not stop until they reached, in some battles, the European Parliament, asking for “urgent action”. The Plataforma continued to win one battle after another for the past 20 years. With perseverance and determination, they halted seafood companies from building refrigeration plants; they won lawsuits; they protected historical buildings from being demolished; they forced the closure of an AUCOSA factory, which processed thousands of tonnes of fish to feed farms. They did all of this while creating the Museo Meirande and its surrounding parkland on an abandoned piece of land once owned by the family of Francisco Franco, which demonstrated alternatives to the typical commercial endeavours constructed at the expense of the environment.

2024 is the Plataforma’s 20th year of operating, and they are fighting to ensure the protection of an area of land, which is considered rustic land for coastal and environmental protection under the Natura 2000 Network. Rustic or rural land is a basic legal status for land in Spain. It refers to land that cannot be altered for construction, and thus cannot be used for residential or commercial purposes. Officially considered a Site of Community Importance (SCI), the Plataforma is seeking greater protection of this land, not only by the local government, but also by the Port of Vigo. Commercial interests threaten the land and the sea of the Ensenada de San Simón. The massive seafood company Pescanova (among others) are trying to take over as much of this land as possible. The Plataforma is also waiting to see what the World Fishing Company (WOFCO) has planned, another multimillion-dollar seafood company, who have recently displayed interest in the Ensenada de San Simón.

Walking along the coast with Antonio and Xurxo is a journey through their memories and the areas they have protected, an opportunity to appreciate what was stopped, how these natural spaces may have become seafood factories or concrete ports if not for the passion of a group of humans who feel lucky to have found one another. When recounting the history of the community activism in the Ensenada de San Simón, Antonio speaks of the almost divine presence of his friend and colleague Enrique Romasanta, who is recognised and beloved by all of the activists for his effective and unusual methods. Enrique appeared in the offices of the Port of Vigo with a written appeal on a paper napkin, which eventually made its way to the Supreme Court of Spain. The management plan for the Puerto de Vigo, one of the largest ports in the world, had not undergone an environmental impact study, which was uncovered by Enrique’s research. The Supreme Court of Spain annulled the Port’s land use plan and thus halted the construction of another refrigeration area.

“That’s one person alone,” Xurxo explained. “Imagine all the capacity that one person can have in their environment and the things they can change.”

Our walk continued toward a concrete platform, originally planned to be part of a bigger project, which the Plataforma halted. Unfortunately the building of the platform affected the flow of the sea, which Antonio explained.

“Little by little it’s emptying out. It was another atrocity that was done, a tremendous land reclamation project that changed the ocean currents, and that is noticeable on the beach, which is running out of sand. It is clear that all land reclamation has an impact on ocean currents.”

This community of around 1000 residents is perpetually struggling in a tug of war with the interests of the many Goliaths facing them. Sometimes a Goliath gets his way, sometimes a Goliath destroys an entire area that was inhabited by millions of clams. Regardless of who the next Goliath is, they will encounter the Plataforma en Defensa da Ensenada de San Simón. Although, according to Xurxo, the constant battle can be tiring.

“Fighting against Goliath is very, very exhausting. You have to have brutal patience and willpower.”

But the Plataforma overcomes this fatigue and continues on. The community’s strength wins as David will always defeat Goliath.

Helena Constela is a photographer, videographer, producer and activist. She works in the media team on Sea Shepherd’s ships, while also managing social media for both eco-nnect and Seaspiracy.

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