Seeking Hope in a Sinking Home

Three.

Two.

One.

With a flutter of my fins, I dove into the ocean. I felt the ocean’s weight gently push me to the surface. My heart was beating slowly in my chest. Another kick, and I swam closer to the reefs curving around the island and hugging the coast.

Hirigaa (Porites corals) that withstood the ocean’s currents for over 200 years stood suffused with Christmas tree worms. A Kandu Guruva (juvenile Oriental Sweetlips) wiggled in camouflage next to it.

A broken branching coral lay hopelessly on the ocean floor on its way to become rubble. New coral larvae had settled on its surface, and the young corals were home to groups of anemone fish.

There was a small feeling in my throat — a gentle nudge to breathe.

I looked up — the ripples on the water’s surface were broken by white light. Unicornfish darted in the ripping waves at the surface. I let the water carry me up, looking around as I did so; and there, in the distance, I saw the shadow of a shark.

I was humming contently as I breached the water.

Megafauna are a sign of life, of biodiversity — a sign of hope.

Looking for hope while living by the sea is intentional. 

It is the one medicine that soothes the anxiety of living on a small island nation amidst the climate crisis. The fear that the rising tides will sweep us under the ocean is age-old; growing up, the whispered promise of relocation to Australia if our lands were overpowered by the sea seemed fantastical. 

With the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami that swept across the Indian Ocean, the country had its first climate refugees: islanders resettled in higher grounds because their water reserves were salinized and their beach barriers were destroyed, leaving behind ghost-towns in atolls like Raa.

…And we did not talk about it, not really.

There were reports, sure.

Still, because our islands are geographically isolated, it was easy to forget the ones that were sinking. The ones that are sinking right now. 

In July 2022, the country experienced severe storm surges that washed away entire beaches with waves that reached far into the islands’ hearts. Among the most impacted by the storm was G. Dh. Madaveli island, where the Madaveli-Hoadedhdhoo causeway blocks proper tidal flow between the islands. The causeway, which cost $1.8 million, is mired with controversy; its Environmental Impact Assessment warned that it will cause flooding, and Hoadedhoo residents would periodically disconnect the causeway as an act of defiance. 

Despite this, the project was completed, and Madaveli’s inhabitants spent many days with their houses flooded. The water didn’t claim any lives; it just slowly lapped at their feet, destroying property and livelihood.

Nearly all of Madaveli flooded that July.

Further down south, at least 50 residences in Maradhoo-Feydhoo suffered, with some families requiring temporary relocation.

It is hard to shake off the feeling we are suffering due to something we are not fully responsible for. Small island nations’ inhabitants are not responsible for the world’s rising temperatures. Powerful and wealthy hoarders scurry across the Earth in their private jets while preaching individual action and responsibility as the cure-all for the climate crisis, despite their emissions single-handedly overwhelming smaller countries’.

Even at a local scale, we can attribute irresponsible reef and coastline destruction that alters the water-flow within atolls to the governments’ decision-making. Decisions are made by elected officials, sure; but residents are hardly, if ever, consulted. Selling islands or leasing land to the tourism industry — for the global North’s enjoyment — has continued without proper environmental regulatory framework for years. It’s hardly a choice; we are just left with the remnants. 

It is hard to grapple with how young our country really is; emigration to our islands began about 4600 years ago. 

Yet, we are caught in the thick of the modern climate crisis. Our monsoons are no longer predictable. Warmer Aprils, erratic weather patterns, and more rainbows above our stretch of blue.

As beautiful as they are, the rainbows signify a daunting fact. This is no longer our ancestors’ world. Our indigenous Nakaiy calendar predicting the ebb and flow of the ocean’s cycles are now mere suggestions.

There are islands that are slowly sinking — barely above water level, asking the government for help. “More wave-breakers,” they ask. “More development. Better harbors.”

“Mitigation measures.”

The islands are throwing out their life rafts, all in an effort to keep on going just a little longer in a sinking country.

The Maldives grew from coral larvae settling over volcanic mouths at the ocean floor. Through the ice ages, with the world mellowing and heating, the corals grew higher and higher with their arms stretched towards the skies. Started from the bottom and now we are here; years of history distilled to give us a moment on this land. A gift in the making. 

Now, a gift under threat. Facing recklessness, apathy, and destruction, there are those among us fighting tirelessly to protect this gift through various practices and studies. 

Coral restoration is a good popular example — finding ‘corals of opportunity’ that were already broken or wouldn’t have the chance to survive, and securing them on coral frames or lines to give it a better chance for survival. Coral restoration or coral gardening is practiced at nearly every resort with a vested interest in marine biology, and even by environmentalists at Villimale’ beach and V. Fulidhoo. It supports reefs under threat and gives them new life. 

Moreover, there is also new research exploring the coral’s natural resilience and ability to reproduce. In 2021, Researchers at Maldives Underwater Initiative reported six unique spawning events within a year; previously, corals were believed to only spawn twice annually. We could utilize the frequent spawning events as an intervention method to aid reefs’ recovery — repopulation through natural sexual reproduction can increase genetic diversity and abundance of corals on the reef.

The reef’s ability to bounce back with spawning events — despite increasing warming events — could mean that the Maldives is much more resilient than once believed.

… And so are the marine animals using our land and sea as their key habitats. Sea turtles can return to nest in the same general area they were born in, and their remigration takes place after 25-50 years once they reach sexual maturity. Last year, there were increased reports of sea turtle nesting across the country, which is hopeful for a species threatened with extinction. Only 1/1000 eggs laid by turtles are estimated to survive to adulthood due to their slow growth. 

This is why it is important to protect habitats long-term — and efforts to do so are underway in the Maldives. The Maldivian government is designating nesting beaches, reefs, mangroves forests, seagrass meadows, and even off-shore areas as protected areas to increase biodiversity, safeguard species, and ensure the survival of fish stock and megafauna. 

There are more and more opportunities for further research,  education, and grants. Locals are stepping up into the forefront combining cultural knowledge with modern sciences — traditional solutions with technological innovations.

Where once was anxiety, there is action.

The intentional willingness towards preservation.

It is slow-paced, just like our country’s formation. There is the fear that these efforts at rescuing our natural resources are too little too late; yet a little can go a long way, and at least paves a path. 

If you ever feel overwhelmed with climate anxiety — worrying about the next tidal wave, the next bleaching event, or the next extinction — take a moment to walk along the coastlines. Better yet, wander into the sea.

Take a breath. 

Kick down. 

Let the sea embrace you for a moment. 

There is healing in the saltiness. The aim is not just to survive this; but to find a way to live intimately in our home, connected to the more-than-human life around us. 

It helps to remember why we want to protect it.