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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About a month ago I was invited by the nascent Fins Initiative to attend and contribute to their project during COP29 in Baku, Azerbaijan. Having been observing the “commitments” and “talks” for a few years I was curious to actually witness these in person at the yearly Conference Of Parties.

As many of us are aware, the convention has been held in different countries for the last 29 years. Resulting in many treaties, agreements, negotiations and so on. The most celebrated and well known was the Paris Agreement signed in 2015 that had the goal of limiting temperature rise to 1.5°C– and which no country is on track to meet 9 years later.

Many boycotted Baku calling on the hypocrisy of a petrol-state hosting the climate talks. However, my main takeaway from my Azerbaijani week was just that, in my opinion Azerbaijan itself is the country that benefitted the most from this year’s summit.

Over 60,000 delegates from around the world flew into Baku to attend COP29. Most conversations are held in the Blue Zone, where a special “political” pass is needed, and no commoner or civilian is allowed to enter. I went to the Blue Zone only one day, invited by the Azerbaijani delegation. The energy was chaotic and intense. There are pavilions for panel discussions as well as big conference rooms and of course the many break-out stalls that are rumoured to host back-door deals for fossil fuel lobbyists to mingle with high-level diplomats.

The Fins Initiative that I participated in was hosting a pavilion in the Green Zone, the area open to the public where mainly Azerbaijani and Brazilian funded pavilions and NGOs hosted panels, talks, and exhibitions. I was told Brazil was overtly present at COP29 because they are hosting COP30 and therefore needed to show what they’re working on from now.

The streets of Baku were mysteriously quiet for the two weeks of COP. With dedicated buses taking you to and from the blue/green zones into the city center. Rumor has it that the government incentivized locals to work remotely for those two weeks, in order to easily host the biggest influx of tourism in the country’s recent history.

Despite the controversies behind COP29, I find that its biggest win was exactly that it was held in a country with little environmental track record. All of a sudden, the environment was on its agenda, and as I met more and more Azerbaijanis I listened to how COP was making being “green” cool as well as opening up funding for local organisations and engaging eco talks in the school curriculums.

This made me wonder, does a country really need 60,000 international delegates, politicians and fossil fuel lobbyists to encourage conscious development? Wouldn’t a local version of COP have a larger impact on the community? Couldn’t a country-specific COP actually make a bigger difference? I’m Italian, and sometimes I feel like I know more about the environmental movement happening in remote areas of the world than I do of what’s happening in my home country. I would love to partake in an Italian-led COP that invited all of the cool organisations (governmental and non) as well as businesses, leaders, entrepreneurs and everyone in between to talk about their contributions to a more eco-friendly society. I feel that when the conference is hyper-local, the chances for impact are amplified. Imagine this: you’re an impact investor and your next-door neighbour has a bio-gas start-up. Do you really need to fly across the world to meet each other?

So, in terms of my personal experience at COP29 I’m happy and satisfied to say that Fins Initiative did have a large local impact. Fins was the only pavilion focused on ocean conservation and as it was founded by two local Azerbaijanis they knew that they needed to stir the curiosity of their fellow Bakunians that have had few experiences with the deep blue. To do this they brought a large installation of a dead sperm whale on the Baku Boulevard. This ensured that our talks were consistently well-attended by locals and hopefully inspired a future generation of marine biologists in the land-locked country of Azerbaijan.

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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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scroll down for the Italian translation

Chiara Vigo, is the last known master of the byssus sea silk. She lives in the southernmost tip of Sardinia, on the island of Sant’Antioco. She was trained as a master by her grandmother. In fact the Vigo women can trace back their lineage of byssus weaving to 500 years ago.

“A master comes, a master goes. It has been done in my family for 28 generations now.”

For millennia the secret of how the byssus sea silk is woven from the slime produced by a Mediterranean clam, the Pinna nobilis, has been passed down from grandmother to granddaughter with very strict instructions that the sea silk must never be sold and the knowledge must remain within the female bloodline. Legend says that whoever breaks this pledge will be cursed.

Earlier this year, I traveled with a few friends across Sardinia and we met with Chiara Vigo in her workshop in Sant Antioco. When we entered, we were three Italian women, following a thread: an urge to connect with the native mysticism that was buried by millennia of ecclesiastical persecution. Chiara greeted us warmly, like a grandmother welcoming her family. Her demeanour was gentle yet she spoke directly.

“Your generation is fascinating. You travel the world, to other cultures, to the Far East, to learn how to meditate, yet you don’t have to actually travel far, the knowledge is also right here in your home country. Do you know how to weave?”

She asked us simply. No, we replied in unison. Her workshop is home to her 200-year-old loom, an imposing and beautiful wooden structure that seems incredibly complicated to maneuver.

“In every culture across the world, women’s connection is through the art of weaving.”

Chiara only unveils the teachings of the art of byssus sea silk to her nine year old granddaughter, however she teaches weaving to everyone. Her door is always open as long as you’re not in a hurry, a sign on the door reads.

“A few years ago, it was about creating the thread that connected women. Which is neither given by the flashy dress, nor by showing off your brain. We don’t need to prove anything. As long as we are what we want to be. But what’s missing in my opinion right now is the essence, people just do things, but they don’t do it consciously.”

I asked, what makes byssus sea silk special?

“Byssus can never be traded, it can only be gifted. In the Old Testament when King Solomon says ‘the king went out at the door and at the sound his clothes were covered with gold’, He is talking about the byssus. There is no other fibre that changes with sound, how the vibrations hit the material the silk captures the light and makes it its own. This is why the byssus is placed in a sacred situation and how it becomes golden.”

Little is known about the Nuragic civilisation (1600-750BC) from Sardinia, yet the island is full of archeological sites from that era: from the tombs of the giants, to fairy portals and water temples. The Nuragic people were an oral culture, and no written accounts of their tradition have been found, only paintings and small bronze sculptures.

Every Spring, protected by nightfall on a full moon night, Chiara dives in a secret cove on the island to retrieve the pinna nobilis’ slime. It will take her about 100 dives to retrieve only 200g of slime, which becomes about 30g of yarn and 21 meters of thread.

The pinna nobilis is a species endemic to the Mediterranean. In 2016 a parassite known as Haplosporidian endoparasite spread to the Mediterranean via surface currents, which killed over 99% of the mollusc’s Spanish population. Since then, the disease has been slowly spreading across the Mediterranean. Today, it is a critically endangered species in desperate need of protection.

“The pinna lives for 25 years, reaches heights of one metre and ten, is the largest Mediterranean bivalve, and is stuck in the seabed for two thirds of its height. He has a jokester enemy: the octopus. If the octopus finds it open, it sticks out its tentacles, eats it and makes its home there, therefore she defends herself equipped with a sieve gland that is connected to her orifice. When she feels threatened, she swells the gland and closes the entrance with the slime.”

It’s thanks to the symbiotic relationship between the octopus and the pinna nobilis that we get the byssus, as without the octopus the pinna wouldn’t secrete the slime.

Chiara showed us a ball of byssus yarn, then told us to close our eyes and hold out our hand. She then asked us if we felt anything. No, we replied. When we opened our eyes she had placed a fist-size ball of byssus yarn on our hands. It is weightless, as thin as a string of hair.

“Once cleaned, it no longer has the weight and you can no longer feel it. Just cleaning this small ball of byssus can take 90 years, because when it comes out of the fin it is liquid, then as it touches the substrate it solidifies and becomes silk. To turn it into thread, you need to first clean it delicately with a brush. Imagine how much work goes into making a ball like that. So imagine how much work goes into making a shawl. What are we talking about? It takes years, unless you destroy half the Mediterranean, which is why I took the Water Oath.”

Chiara took the Water Oath in 1983. Her grandmother used to fish for the pinna nobilis by retrieving the slime and then eating the flesh, back when the Mediterranean was abundant with life. However, Chiara has had to adapt to the reality of the emptying seas, and with her oath she promised to retrieve the slime without killing the animal.

“Instead I chose to maintain through the Water Oath what it already was without modifying its essence. Naturally I have all the byssus of my grandmothers and my great-grandmothers to clean still. This ball is 300 years old.”

This makes me realise what a true Master Chiara is, she dives each year to retrieve byssus that she most likely will never weave. She is retrieving it for her granddaughter, just like her grandmother did before her, leaving behind a method that does not interfere with the ecosystem.

“Now I will use sound, I will change the fiber and make it capable of capturing the light, making it its own and becoming gold in light.”

Chiara walked over to her loom and began chanting a deep chant, in a mysterious unintelligible language. It reminded me of Buddhist monks, and I realised what she meant when she told us that we didn’t have to travel to the East to find truth.

“To me, making byssus is not using a spindle and it is not weaving. It is preserving for those who come what already was, without modifying it in the manufacturing and delivery ritual.”

Throughout Italy, a country synonymous with textiles and fashion, Chiara’s mastery has become a legend. Directors of large fashion houses have descended upon Sardinia ready to pay fat cheques for the mysterious golden thread. Yet if anyone else tries, the slime will not turn to thread, and the thread will not become golden. Chiara is a true testament to ancestral Italian wisdom, despite the contemporary capitalist and patriarchal Italian culture that surrounds her, the silk is not for sale, her mastery is only for her granddaughter’s ears. Yet her door is always open for those willing to listen to her wisdom, her integrity is as rare as the sea silk. She is a true master in a world where almost everything is for sale.

“If each of us followed what he has in his soul, there would be no climate crisis. If you love without ifs or buts, time passes peacefully. Masters of the arts should simply love and do nothing, love everyone as they are. Just take the beauty of each individual. We try to make the ugly become beautiful.”

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Chiara Vigo è l’ultima maestra vivente di bisso, la seta del mare. Vive nell’estremità più meridionale della Sardegna, sull’isola di Sant’Antioco. È stata iniziata come maestra di bisso da sua nonna. Infatti, il suo lignaggio risale al 1500.

“Un maestro viene, un maestro va. Nella mia famiglia si fa ormai da 28 generazioni.”

Per millenni il segreto di come si tessesse la seta marina di bisso, prodotta dal muco di un mollusco mediterraneao, la Pinna nobilis, è stato tramandato  da nonna a nipote attraverso istruzioni molto rigorose: la seta marina non deve mai essere venduta e la conoscenza deve rimanere all’interno della linea di sangue femminile. La leggenda narra che chiunque infranga questo giuramento sarà maledetto.

All’inizio dell’anno ho viaggiato con delle amiche attraverso la Sardegna e abbiamo incontrato Chiara Vigo nel suo laboratorio di Sant’Antioco.

Tre donne italiane all’insegna di una trama: l’urgenza di connetterci con il misticismo nativo sepolto da millenni di persecuzione ecclesiastica. Al nostro arrivo Chiara ci ha accolto calorosamente, come una nonna che accoglie la sua famiglia. Il suo atteggiamento era gentile ed il suo esprimersi schietto.

“La vostra generazione è affascinante. Viaggiate per il mondo incontrando altre culture, in Estremo Oriente, per imparare a meditare, ma in realtà non dovete viaggiare lontano, la conoscenza è anche qui, nel vostro paese. Sapete tessere?”

Ci ha semplicemnte chiesto. No, abbiamo risuonato all’unisono.

Il suo laboratorio è la sede del suo telaio centenario, una struttura bella ed imponente che sembra incredibilmente complicata da manovrare.

“In ogni cultura del mondo, il legame delle donne è sempre stato attraverso l’arte della tessitura.”

Chiara rivela gli insegnamenti dell’arte del  bisso solo alla sua nipotina di nove anni, ma insegna a tessere a chiunque. La sua porta è sempre aperta, purché non siate di fretta, recita un cartello sulla porta.

“Un po’ di anni fa, la mia intenzione era di tessere il filo che collegasse le donne. Questo non è dato dal vestito appariscente, né dal cervello che non funziona. Non abbiamo bisogno di dimostrare nulla. Basta essere ciò che vogliamo essere. Ciò che manca, secondo me, è l’essenza. Le persone fanno le cose, ma non lo fanno consapevolmente.”

Ho chiesto, cosa rende così speciale il  bisso marino?

“Il bisso non può mai essere commercializzato, può solo essere donato. Nel Vecchio Testamento quando il Re Salomone dice ‘Usciva il re sulla  porta ed al suono le sue vesti si coprirono d’oro’, sta parlando del bisso. Non c’è altra fibra che cambi con il suono, come le vibrazioni colpiscono il materiale, la seta cattura la luce e la rende sua. Ecco perché il bisso è collocato in una situazione sacra e diventa dorato.”

Poco si sa della civiltà nuragica (1600-750 a.C.) della Sardegna, eppure l’isola è piena di siti archeologici di quell’epoca: dalle tombe dei giganti, ai portali delle fate e ai templi dell’acqua. La leggenda narra che questa civiltà fosse un matriarcato molto evoluto, simile agli Etruschi nel Mar Tirreno, e con connessioni fino ai Fenici e agli antichi Egizi. Le Somme Sacerdotesse alla guida di questa società erano conosciute per indossare abiti con fili d’oro di bisso. La seta è menzionata in diversi testi sacri, incluso un’iscrizione sulla pietra di Rosetta tolemaica che risale al 196 a.C.

Ogni primavera, al calare della notte protetta dalla luna piena, Chiara si immerge in una baia segreta dell’isola per recuperare il muco della pinna nobilis. Le serviranno circa 100 immersioni per recuperare solo 200g di muco, che diventeranno circa 30g di gomitolo e 21 metri di filo.

La pinna nobilis è una specie endemica del Mediterraneo. Nel 2016 in Spagna, il parassito Haplosporidian endoparasite ha ucciso oltre il 99% della popolazione spagnola del mollusco. Da allora, la malattia si è diffusa lentamente attraverso il Mediterraneo. Oggi è una specie gravemente minacciata che ha bisogno urgentemente di protezione.

“La pinna vive per 25 anni, raggiunge altezze di un metro e dieci, è il più grande bivalve mediterraneo e si infissa nel fondale per due terzi della sua altezza. Ha un nemico monello: il polpo. Se il polpo la trova aperta di notte infila i tentacoli, la mangia e ci fa la casa. Per questo si difende con una ghiandola a setaccio collegata al suo piede, una valvola che attraversa il mantello e si appoggia nell’orifizio esterno. Quando si sente minacciata, rigonfia la ghiandola e chiude l’ingresso con la bava. Quando il polpo si rintana, spruzza il muco all’esterno che come tocca l’acqua si solidifica e diventa seta purissima, imprigioando tutto ciò che incontra”

È grazie alla relazione simbiotica tra il polpo e la pinna nobilis che otteniamo il bisso, perché senza il polpo la pinna non secernerà la bava.

Chiara ci ha mostrato un gomitolo di bisso, ci ha chiesto di chiudere gli occhi e tenere la mano tesa. Ci ha chiesto poi se sentissimo qualcosa. No, abbiamo risposto. Quando abbiamo aperto gli occhi, aveva messo un gomitolo di bisso nelle nostre mani. È talmente leggero da essere impercettibile, sottile come un filo di capelli.

“Una volta pulito, non ha più peso e non lo si sente più. Solamente pulire  questo piccolo gomitolo può richiedere 90 anni, perché quando esce dalla pinna è liquido, poi quando tocca il substrato si solidifica e diventa seta. Per trasformarlo in filo, devi prima pulirlo delicatamente con una spazzola. Immagina quanta fatica ci vuole per fare un gomitolo del genere. Quindi immagina quanto lavoro ci vuole per fare uno scialle. Di cosa stiamo parlando? Ci vogliono anni, a meno che non distruggi metà del Mediterraneo, ed è per questo che ho fatto il Giuramento dell’Acqua.”

Chiara ha fatto il Giuramento dell’Acqua nell’anno 1983. Sua nonna pescava la pinna nobilis recuperandone la bava e poi mangiandone la carne, quando il Mediterraneo era ricco di vita. Tuttavia, Chiara ha dovuto adattarsi alla realtà dei mari che si svuotano, e con il suo giuramento ha promesso di recuperare il muco senza uccidere l’animale.

“Invece ho scelto di mantenere attraverso il Giuramento dell’Acqua ciò che già era, senza modificarne l’essenza. Naturalmente ho ancora tutto il bisso delle mie nonne e delle mie bisnonne da pulire. Questo gomitolo ha più di 300 anni.”

Questo mi fa capire che tipo di Maestra sia Chiara, pura ed integra, si immerge ogni anno per recuperare il bisso che probabilmente non tessera mai. Lo sta recuperando per la sua nipotina, proprio come sua nonna fece prima di lei, lasciando dietro di sé un metodo che non interferisce con l’ecosistema.

“Adesso userò il suono, cambierò la fibra e la renderò capace di catturare la luce, farla sua e diventare oro nella luce.”

Chiara si è avvicinata al suo telaio e ha iniziato a cantare un canto profondo, in una misteriosa lingua incomprensibile. Mi ha ricordato i monaci buddisti, ed ho capito cosa intendesse quando ci ha detto che non dovevamo viaggiare verso est per trovare la verità.

“Per me, fare il bisso non è usare un fuso e non è tessere. È preservare per coloro che verranno ciò che già era, senza modificarlo nel rituale di produzione e consegna.”

In tutta Italia, un paese sinonimo di tessuti e moda, la maestria di Chiara è diventata leggendaria. Direttori di grandi case di moda si sono recati in Sardegna pronti a pagare grosse cifre per il misterioso filo dorato. Ma chiunque altro provi non riuscirà a trasformare la bava in filo ed il filo non diventerà dorato. Chiara è un vero esempio della saggezza ancestrale italiana. Nonostante sia circondata da una cultura capitalista e patriarcale la seta non è in vendita; la sua maestria è solo per le orecchie della sua nipotina. Eppure la sua porta è sempre aperta per coloro disposti ad ascoltare la sua saggezza, la sua integrità è rara quanto la seta marina stessa. È una vera maestra in un mondo in cui quasi tutto è in vendita.

“Se ognuno di noi seguisse ciò che ha nell’anima, non ci sarebbe la crisi climatica. Il problema non si risolve perchè non ci si vuole mettere insieme e collaborare. Se ami senza se e senza ma, il tempo scorre serenamente. Il Maestro dovrebbe semplicemente amare e non fare nulla. Amare tutti così come sono. Basta cogliere la bellezza di ogni individuo. Cerchiamo di rendere bello ciò che è brutto.”

Scritto da/ Written by: Isabella Cavalletti, tradotto da / translated by Carola Rovati

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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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