Cover photo by Saffu
Plunging into earthy brown, green, and yellow-toned waters on a hot day, collecting shoots of wild vegetation to enliven home gardens, and extracting ‘mashi’ for Eid festivities. These are a handful of memories that might color in the nostalgia of a lucky few when it comes to the mangrove forests — one of the most biodiverse areas known to our islands.
Scattered across 150 islands, mainly concentrated in northernmost and southernmost regions, these wetland forests shelter 15 out of 17 mangrove species found in the Indian Ocean. Although research on these eco-rich sanctuaries is limited, Maldivian mangroves are homes to impressive biodiversity. Crabs and nerites, along with numerous species of reef fish, seabirds, sharks, and rays depend on mangroves as nesting sites.
Our ancestors have coexisted with these primordial ecosystems since they first arrived on these shores. This proximity weaved the mangroves into our culture, economy, and history. Kuredi or ironwood from the mangrove species pemphis acidula was historically used in shipbuilding and construction. This was the timber source used to build the Kalhuohfummi, the fabled ship that carried Muhammad Thakurufaanu as he rebelled against the Portuguese invasion in the 1500s. Marine and floral ecosystems offered lifesaving food reserves to islands like Neykurendhoo and Kelaa during leaner seasons. Small leaf-orange mangroves or Kan’doo helped citizens of Kelaa survive Bodu Thadhu, the famine that hit Maldives during the Second World War.
While Maldivians reaped commercial benefits from resources like timber and edible plant species since antiquity, I believe that the imprints left by mangroves on our folklore and culture deserve to be honored. Beloved bird species from Maldivian folk literature like the Maakana and Fidhana nest in mangroves. In one idiom, ancestral wisdom urging us to finish what we start is neatly wrapped in the metaphor of Kan’doo and the painstaking process required to prepare it. The cautionary tale of Kuhlhavah Falu Raanee is still well-loved today — a reminder of our roots and humble beginnings.
In contemporary Maldivian society, the innate and deep significance attached to mangroves are overshadowed by more ‘Instagrammable’ locales like coral reefs, blue lagoons, and pristine beaches. Though these places iconify the Maldives in their own right, this trend speaks to how mangroves are often viewed as dark, overgrown, unpleasant, and even unnecessary. It hints at how several wetlands face issues from communal waste dumping and suffer ill effects from poor agricultural practices. Interferences from human activities like these can wreak havoc on mangrove species which exist at the edge of their tolerance limits after having adapted to extremely harsh natural conditions. This vulnerability was underscored by the mass mangrove die-off observed in 11 northern islands in 2019. Even though the phenomenon was linked to an overgrowth of a particular bacteria, state research has yet to be incorporated into a targeted effort to address the problem.
These mounting threats are only the backdrop of the Maldivian mangroves’ plight. The final manmade nail in the coffin manifests as large-scale development projects seeking to pave over these eco-rich areas with concrete. One of the most horrifying examples is the 2017 ecocide of the vast mangrove in Kulhudhuffushi — an island named for its expansive wetland area. All concerns raised by a collective of NGOs, the local public, and international organizations were swept under the rug to construct an airport, summarily ignoring EIA recommendations to safeguard the surviving mangrove.
The shift from idyllic coexistence with nature to the present-day status quo makes more sense in the context of our economic metamorphosis. In the past decades, the political machine has engineered immense public demand for lifting the Maldives into a ‘middle-income’ status within the timeframe of only a few decades. This desperation to haul Maldives into the 21st century’s hyper-capitalist geopolitical theater as a so-called “emerging” market economy has muddled our priorities and definitions. “Progress” (i.e., tharaggee) is often viewed by policymakers — across all political parties and their myriad representatives — in terms of tangible infrastructure and financial inflows. This “tharaggee” paradigm has led to a dire economic reality in which eco-rich areas are paved over with concrete while several islands remain, to this day, without adequate sanitation systems. In 2017, it was this obsession that displaced 200 families living in the vicinity of the Kulhudhuffushi mangrove and destroyed a traditional coir-rope industry valued at approximately 9.3 million rufiyaa per annum. The displaced families and female rope weavers who utilized the mangrove for coconut husk preparation were neither consulted nor compensated.
The price of “tharaggee” continues to be paid with our biodiversity, environmental heritage, and the human lives connected to them. The Maldivian economic machine has propelled its masters into the geopolitical stage’s “emerging” markets, but the machine’s failure to acknowledge the sheer ecological and monetary value represented by healthy reefs, seagrass beds, and mangrove forests is a fatal flaw.
The price of “tharaggee” continues to be paid with our biodiversity, environmental heritage, and the human lives connected to them.
“There is no benefit to destroying our ecosystems,” aptly stated Humaidha Abdul Ghafoor, a volunteer for Save Maldives. She emphasized the vital ecosystem services provided by mangroves that are collectively valued at up to 57,000 dollars per hectare every year. These services range from boosting soil nutrient content to fortifying coastlines against erosion and supplying freshwater lenses. This is not to mention their central role in defending numerous islands from the brunt of the 2004 tsunami, and the fact that mangroves are highly efficient carbon sinks that could represent the Maldives’ most impactful act of resilience against the climate crisis.
Amid poor implementation of already meager measures to safeguard mangroves, I am left wondering whether my grief over not having experienced these sanctuaries before their degradation or complete destruction has any relevance. As we move through the day-to-day tedium of grappling with bigger concerns, I wonder if my sorrow has any value — and if it does, what currency could I possibly measure that with?
If our existentially validated advocacy for climate concerns as a nation — combined with an understanding of the mangroves’ irreplaceable environmental value — has failed to materialize meaningful protection, perhaps the solution lies elsewhere. Placing our fingers on the deeper pulse that connects mangrove forests to the core of our ancient societies, cultural lineage, and bittersweet memories might serve as more potent fuel for our endeavors to safeguard them. Generations of coexistence with these ecosystems has left an imprint on Maldivian traditions, folklore, and identity — a cultural heritage our descendants have the right to inherit and experience.