The salty memories of Kudabandos linger stubbornly in my memories. Memories filled with a deep fondness one experiences often only with childlike eyes. Memories bleached by the unyielding sun. Memories that end with the most delicious naps after the strange ferry ride home. If I recollect some of the joyous memories of my childhood, it is often on this little island. Not long ago, residents of the congested greater Malé had a space of rest, solitude, and joy until it was taken away by the state. For thousands of people, Kudabandos was the only uninhabited island we could access with ease to escape the oppressive labyrinthine streets of Malé. The story of what Kudabandos meant, how we lost it to the tourism industry, and its fading memory into generational amnesia represents an unfortunate pattern observed time and time again in the Maldives: the pattern of a slow death of the Maldivian spirit.
What Kudabandos Meant
Kudabandos, located approximately 8km from the capital city Malé, was a small uninhabited picnic island adjacent to Bandos, one of the first resorts opened in the Maldives. Bandos and Kudabandos were owned by Mohammed Waheed Deen, a Maldivian politician who briefly reigned as vice president of the Maldives from 2012 to 2013, and an heir to the former Maldivian royal family. Islands in the Maldives were historically bestowed to the elite aristocratic families by the Sultan, and as Waheed Deen himself carries in his veins royal blood, one can only roughly speculate precisely how these islands came into his ownership. Regardless, Waheed Deen represents the highest ruling class of Maldivian society, the tourism tycoons. Waheed Deen had leased Kudabandos from the state for a humble $6000 annually and whether through goodwill or as a favor to the state, he had allowed Maldivians to exclusively access the island on Fridays, Saturdays, and public holidays. The residents of Malé made good use of it. The ferry ride to the island was affordable and for this brief period, Kudabandos was an island one could access and enjoy regardless of class or position. Families of all social classes filled the island on the weekends. Children made best friends for life whom they would never see again through the BBQ-smoke drenched air. It was an island of pure leisure.
One of the greatest losses in Maldivian society is the loss of pleasure, rest, and relaxation. There is a tendency for one to think that leisure and rest is the little reward the working class are entitled to after labour. A little extra, nothing more. Yet leisure is far more than that. Leisure is the point. The elites of Maldivian society are intoxicated on leisure and are actively taking what little is left for the rest of the working class. They have the privilege and time to stay at any of the few hundred luxurious resorts that dot the archipelago, and if that’s not enough, hop on a plane and fly anywhere in the world. This is why it is such an injustice that they, actively and willingly, took away one of the only few spaces of rest for Maldivians. Leisure is not optional, it is crucial. It is a human right as essential as food and water.
It is in moments of quietness and joy the mind can relax and wander. And when the mind wanders, it swims in vast waters where one sees clearly with unclouded eyes what truly matters. It is not the endless pursuit of wealth. It is not the destruction of oneself and one’s environment for the momentary pleasure of being just slightly richer than the other. What it is, instead, is far more simple. It is, instead, the relationships we have in this world. Kudabandos was a space for us to deepen these relationships. The relationships with our friends, loved ones, and importantly, with our home. With each structurally unsound sandcastle, with each swim, and with each coconut palm one fails to climb, one connects just a little bit closer with their land. As this relationship strengthens, one finds in themselves a sense of grounding and stability. That this land, however miniscule and insignificant it may be, is what made home what it was. And that it is beautiful and precious. The state may merely see these islands as ‘picnic’ islands, and yet the spiritual and emotional significance of these islands are completely discarded. If they were honored, we would still have Kudabandos.
How to Turn an Island into a Commodity
On November 16, 2012, the state opened Kudabandos for bids to establish tourist facilities with then vice-president Waheed Deen submitting the sole proposal and gaining control of the island for a rent of $180,582 annually. Then Minister of Tourism, Arts and Culture — and currently convicted felon — Ahmed Adheeb informed the local media that even after tourist facilities are established on the island, local Maldivians will have “full, unrestricted” access to the island. Activists and worried citizens expressed their deep dissatisfaction with this move and the Malé city council passed a resolution against the government requesting to leave the island as a picnic island for Maldivians, raising the issue that there is no other picnic island in the entire region for the hundreds of thousands of people living in the greater Malé area. Despite the backlash, access to Kudabandos was restricted and reappeared in 2016 as ‘Malahini Kuda Bandos’, equipped with beach villas, bars, a spa, a watersports and dive center.
The transformation of picnic islands into tourist resorts was not merely restricted to Kudabandos. Other alterations include Maadhoo Finolhu Island turning into ‘Ozen by Atmosphere at Maadhoo’ and the picnic island of Kodhipparu turning into ‘Grand Park Kodhipparu’. The state, together with the elite ruling families, deliberately decided that it was not important for the residents in greater Malé to have a real uninhabited picnic island. As a compromise of sorts, the state developed a reclaimed stretch of sand called Kudagiri as an alternative. Yet to assume that Kudagiri can, in any conceivable universe, be a replacement for Kudabandos is an insult to billions of years of geological formation and the ineffable underwater dramas that lay behind a Maldivian island. And so I will write no more of Kudagiri. No longer can one hear the laughter of local children in Kudabandos. An island brimming with joy becomes yet another Maldivian resort with its invisible and segregatively expensive barriers for the local people.
A parlour trick lies behind this injustice. A concealing and transformation act performed by politicians and business tycoons. The millions of small memories are concealed. This act is performed in every local and picnic island transformed into a resort. The island’s indigenous name is often hidden. The stories of the people who lived there, their joys and losses, do not find themselves even on the footnotes. Marketeers and product designers then perform the transformation act in which an island, some with thousands of years of history, is magically transformed into a product. An island is no longer an island. It is a resort. A product. And in this transformation, the worth of a local person is only in their ability to contribute to the further commodification of the island either as an employee or a person to ‘showcase’ the ‘indigenous’ traditions one way or the other. The very simple unprofitable act of allowing a local person to enjoy the island for its sake is unthinkable during this transformation.
Yet that is also precisely where we stumble upon the politicians and the tycoons inability to see beyond immediate profits. Access to nature for urban-dwelling communities is incredibly significant in promoting both physical, mental, and spiritual health. What is the purpose of a quick few immediate profits if these are then redirected back into treating communities with the physical and mental ailments from having little to no access to public spaces and nature? Not to mention that much of this money is pocketed by politicians and tycoons anyway, and would not go to the people at all. What of the potential centuries-long health impact this could have on our communities? It begs the question why the state could not see the importance of leaving one, and the emphasis is on one single island for the health and wellbeing for all people. Not just the few. And when the local person who does not find themselves at the income bracket of the elites realize that they have truly no space, a sense of alienation sets in. We are deeply alienated people for when we look at these islands, it is as if they no longer really exist. For what is the point, at least to us, if we can no longer enjoy its sand and salt? What is the point if we aren’t even given scraps of the share from the profits we have sacrificed it for? ‘Malahini’ matters to few.
As time passes and as new generations fight to make a living in the capital, it will become unthinkable that there indeed existed a spectacularly beautiful island for all people to enjoy. And when this memory fades, the tycoons succeed in convincing the Maldivians that these islands are not for us. And perhaps it never was for us. The magicians have performed this disappearing act for so long that they forget that ultimately, that is what it is, an act. A sleight of hand. Mere rulings passed in a court arbitrarily giving a former royal control and power over an island that in reality, belongs to none but itself. There is another mischievousness to this act. For when the mind wanders in relaxation, it wonders about the injustices it has faced, and it gains strength to fight back. Yet when a mind cannot wander no longer in peace and rest, it finds itself in a perpetual cycle of facing injustice yet finding itself too exhausted to fight back.
What happens then when the people are stripped off their right to spaces of rest and relaxation? When rest itself becomes a luxury rather than a fundamental right? We labour. We labour for the same elites who took these islands from us in the first place. We labour until our bones are brittle and until joy and rest seems too distant to behold. The story of how we lost Kudabandos is not an isolated tale, it represents a troubling narrative that has rippled across the Maldives for far too long. The politicians and tycoons may applaud and scratch each other’s back — saying that the good of the country is the good of all. Yet we know far too well that the real living conditions of Maldivians have remained stagnant for long, while the elites devise newer ways of pocketing what belongs to us all. They are deliberately severing the spiritually and socially significant bond between a people and their home. In this severance, we are forced to live in a dreaded sense of isolation. Adrift in our very own home. And we toil day and night for the simple pleasures of joy, rest, and relaxation that we once found on the sun drenched shores of Kudabandos.
Ijunad Junaid, a Maldivian environmental storyteller, inspires a deeper connection with the Earth through his writing. Exploring the interconnectedness of all life, he champions climate justice and illuminates the "more-than-human" world. Ijunad's work powerfully weaves together political realities, power dynamics, the ineffable beauty of the world, and the urgent need for climate action.