The Brutalization of the Green Island

The waves wash upon the shore, where herds of tiny crabs scatter in response and the water marks its territory as it retreats back into the sea. The breeze is strong and carries with it the smell of the pervasive ocean. There are depressions on the wet sand from those who walked along the evolving border that pushes farther up the island with the rising tide. Looking closely, you might even see the tiny tracks left by the hermit crabs that roam these shifting sands; all this evidence soon to be erased by the tide in favour of a clean slate. A grey heron majestically rises into the air and flies over the island. It arcs past coconut palm trees, water still dripping from its feet, and disappears into a complex network of branches sprouting from Funa (ball nut) trees; here lies the island’s last bastion of greenery more than a century old, the largest green space on the island. And all of this is soon to be destroyed to pave the way for capitalistic expansion.

It is also worth noting that the Funa trees — Floydia Praealta — are rare trees, designated “vulnerable” by conservation organisations around the world. It is listed under “threatened species”.

It was always on borrowed time. We took the peace for granted, the vehicle-free and walkable streets, relatively healthy tree population, and clean beaches – protected by reef structures that would, unfortunately, soon start to lose their integrity. Situated just 2 kilometers from the hyper-dense Male’ so deeply entrenched with and brutalized by the capitalist modus operandi, Villingili has the allure only found in dreams. The locals walk,  the buildings are low, trees provide shade all over the island, , and except for select cases (utilities, some licensed taxis) there is a ban on motorized vehicles. The air does not choke you and the roads are not actively hostile towards pedestrians; a truly walkable island right next to the urban and industrial reality of Malé.

The “Thilamale” Bridge

The Malé-Thilafushi Link Project or more commonly known as the “Thilamalé” bridge is a USD 500 million project that would connect Malé, Villingili, Gulhifalhu, and Thilafushi; USD 400 million is financed on credit from Exim Bank of India, and USD 100 million is free aid from India. As the biggest infrastructure project in the country, it has gained bilateral support across the political spectrum, unsurprisingly too, since it is expected to primarily benefit businesses. Even Muizzu, who came to power on an anti-India campaign, fully supported the project and only lamented the slow pace it progressed at under Solih’s government. Perhaps the saving grace is that we can say that this project alarmed a good portion of the population, though by then, corruption was already so pervasive that virtually all citizens of conscience were silenced or intimidated – or even convinced that the island’s way of life can remain unperturbed despite the tether to the infectious urbanization of the nearby concrete manifold.

The idea is simple: motorists would be required to park before entering the island, a laughable idea even at first glance. A true solution would have required the deliberation of this issue and community engagement on how such projects might affect the local way of life. The Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) noted that the locals would like their way of life preserved. But there is a contradiction here. It cannot be preserved because the Malé culture, the allure of which is convenience and speed at all costs, was slowly being imported. The rise in EVs globally was certainly an opportunity that was not missed by local businesses, and EV bikes were surely imported en masse, and the people were then convinced that they should do away with the bicycles and legs in favour of these – often low-quality – EV bikes. The walking culture was dying before the arrival of the Thilamalé bridge, the streets quickly littered and clogged by these hunks of plastic and steel. How is it possible to preserve this way of life when the incentives were being removed and the people were getting conditioned to embrace a culture of demise?

Nothing was shocking about the EIA that was used to approve the project despite noting the possibility of damage to the shoreline, for the same report even recommended dredging more land just beside the proposed area to counteract erosion due to the proposed dredging and consequential wave deflection. Complicity extends to those who signed the approval, while they asked very little in the ways of management to ensure this damage does not last. If EIAs were effective, and in light of which a project could ever be rejected, then EIAs would not be legally necessary. The totality of processes that could even marginally inhibit unfettered, capitalist growth is null; EIAs are no longer required for housing projects, trees have lost any relevance they once possessed in the eyes of project managers and politicians, and so they have been fully commodified along with our reefs and lagoons as a means to make profit – a means to wrought power and dehumanize the rest of us.

The southwest beach of Villingili largely remained the same since 2009 up until the MTL project was commenced, when the reef was subject to state-sanctioned violence and on top of which the whiteness of the sand was so wrongly deposited, the sand itself stolen from the depths of the ocean. The revetment solidified this change to the shoreline and, as evidenced by recent satellite imagery and the EMRs, led to the rapid erosion of the southwest beach. It is certainly shameful that the same reports claim that the cause of this erosion is unknown, even suggesting that it might as well as be seasonal, though the shoreline had remained unchanged all those years leading up to the reckless violence exacted upon the reef. The damage has gotten so extensive that waves inundate the beachside road regularly during high tide. Of course, this too is exacerbated by the road conditions made worse by the heavy-vehicles driving back and forth between the bridge and the construction site on the southwest of the island. This road experiences deep flooding when it rains, due to the stormwater drains being blocked by construction waste. The funa tree, with its majestic and thick canopy that provided shade to beach regulars, was unfortunately an early victim. It was soon removed by MCC. The amputated remains of the tree remain a warped memory of the beauty that once stood there through seasons hot and cold. How can the lifestyle remain, when life itself is not allowed to remain? With the changing shoreline, so do our minds – for thought emerges from the world around us. It takes intense deliberation and self-reflection to reject the common innovation of internalizing the dense concrete forestry of Malé as the only developmental framework available to us – as the only way forward.

Erosion of the shoreline shapes the erosion of our connection to the land, a land which we so strongly claim as ours, yet time and time again proving ourselves incapable of holding the lives of which in esteem. Because the presently observed erosion primarily stems from human activity, certainly those from which the majority of us benefit very little, those that shape our livelihood along the culture of profiteering and complacency, making us all – knowingly or unknowingly – complicit as people that propagate the same ideals. It is a sad fact that Maldivians have to be reminded of their heritage constantly, and even then these calls for protection are ignored or rejected. This indifference is not new or surprising. We are taught extensively about the importance of nature, but Maldivians almost never get the opportunity to practice this outside of school. What connection can we have to a land we know nothing about? What can we feel towards these sands and these lands when so much history has been erased and rolled into harmless folklore and textbook poetry? The destruction of our islands is another step in the full erasure of the Maldivian identity: the Maldivian who walks the beach and explores the bare reef during low-tide. Only when people have nothing left can they be fully subjugated. Nature provides without demand and so it should go. Nature symbolizes freedom in its ability to grow, and unity with the symbiotic relationships and the complex interactions organized between varying species. What use are these to the capitalists on a local island? Their only value has been identified in their exhibition, as is the case with Maldivian culture and heritage, and so they must be only displayed in the resorts where the rich can isolate themselves and revel in manufactured immersion.

The idea that Villingili can remain vehicle-free and uncongested despite the bridge and supplementary infrastructure is in the realm of fantasy. Such intention should be visible from policies, and the first policy to the contrary is the legalization of 10-storey buildings on the island. I think it should be here that we mention that the island’s elite turned heel precisely because these policies were promised to them; in fact, some houses were already under construction even before the bill was passed. We shall try not to dwell on the matter of how the island has immediately become a construction site, as landlords reinforce their commitment to rent-slavery in anticipation of the expected influx of people into the island due to the access the bridge would bring to those reluctant to the tradition of ferry travel. It is imperative to understand that these incentives are primarily driving the industrialization and brutalization of the island’s nature. Today, most locals take their cute EV bikes to park at the ferry terminal, to get on a motorcycle in Malé. The parking lot to be built by the exit of the bridge on Villingili is supposed to cater to these banned vehicles. This also implies that there would be parking provided for the EV crowd with access to the island. Hence, the expectation is that the banned vehicle would be parked, a barrier will be crossed, and then the EV would be used within the island. Unless the expectation is for the locals to entirely transition to the EV vehicles completely for both in-land and city transport, this does not make sense. And in the case that we fully transition to EVs, the vehicle-centric urban planning will still lead to our entrapment via congestion.

The EV vehicles currently owned by the locals are not attractive for long-distance transport. Where is the incentive to transition? Moreover, the blatant disregard for regulation is clear in action and policy. EIAs are basically checkmarks and have never been used to stop destruction of the environment. Vehicles in Malé do not really require road-worthiness examinations to get certified. Having a parking space is not a requirement for owning four-wheeler vehicles. Pedestrian-only roads are a farce that no one enforces. Deregulation is also used as a vote-buying tactic. What’s stopping the political establishment from turning a blind eye to the future disregard for the vehicle regulation in Villingili? There’s absolutely nothing stopping them now and, without strong resistance from the community, there will be nothing to stop them in the future. There is no community strength when party politics exist purely to divide the people, when politicians compete over who could buy the most votes via money and job posts.

Housing for Whom?

Perhaps nothing elucidates this more clearly than the BML-financed 300 housing units and China-aid hospital that has garnered strong bilateral support. BML has called this an affordable housing scheme. The land to be cleared is the Funa Vaa area in Villingili. Additionally, the government also revealed plans to expand the Villingili hospital by clearing the plot behind the existing building; this expansion would be funded by China through China Aid. Immediately, two things stand-out. This is not social housing, rather, it is “affordable” housing that you must buy, perhaps supplemented by a beautiful loan from BML. Secondly, the question arises why the hospital needs expanding to include 100 beds, when the ground realities in Villingili that everyone sees can be attributed to blatant mismanagement. IGMH is just 10-minutes away. The bigger problem is VMH’s terrible record in responding to emergencies; there is no lack of beds causing this. It has also recently come out that these funds were originally meant to be invested elsewhere, not in the Greater Malé Area. Really, there is no modicum of sense in redirecting these to Villingili of all places. Even more scandalous is the problem with Adam Azim, the mayor of Malé, and him having shares in the construction company RCC via the parent company ‘Abdul Rasheed and Family Pvt Ltd – RCC being one of the companies that got awarded this project. And if we were to ignore that, there is still the fact that the president posited this as yet another example of his government’s commitment to ensuring development and housing for all. Whatever could this mean, when this is quite clearly a for-profit project? Alarmingly, and most importantly, this also spells disaster for the last remaining mature green space on the island: the Funa Vaa.

Funa Vaa is a pocket forest located on the east side of the island, next to the Edhuruvehi flats. It is the last remaining green space of such stature, with mature trees over 50-years old, and providing fertile soil for stormwater to drain into. It is an integral part of the island’s ecosystem, absorbing carbon dioxide and toxic gases, keeping the air clean and breathable, alleviating the heat-island effect, and serving as habitat for various wildlife such as the koels that fill the island with their characteristic songs multiple times throughout the day. Funa Vaa is also used as a footpath by the locals. The consequence of destroying this urban forest, this natural lung of the island, will not just be aesthetic; this will irreversibly damage the island’s ecosystem in the name of addressing the housing crisis.

Following the announcement, concerned citizens have been coming together and peacefully protesting the ecocide. Save Maldives published an open letter demanding the protection of these trees on 1st April 2026, followed by statements from other organizations. Additionally, Humaida Abdul Gafoor and Ahmed Ikram have submitted the case to the supreme court. A timeline of events can be found on Save Maldives’ website. 

The conversation around deforestation requires some re-framing, because the picture evades us when we regurgitate the idea that profit (via housing projects – or just projects) is required above all else. It’s simply not so that monetary valuation is remotely applicable to natural systems (they are invaluable), hence, it is disingenuous to claim that the solution to the manufactured housing crisis lies in the deforestation of the last remaining greenery on the island, because we are beneath these ecological systems and we depend on them almost entirely. It is also true that housing is required. How, then, do you claim one issue’s importance over the other? We know the housing crisis is the result of ages of centralization and decades of rent slavery (we live this reality). We also know that 300 housing units cannot solve this housing crisis, and we know that the allocation of these spaces are bought with votes. As such, we know there lies a solution to this problem, albeit long-term, that requires humanization on all fronts, with real human cost: decentralization and the end of rent slavery. We also know the growth of these ages-old trees can never be recovered once brutalized. We can then guess the gravity of the unknowable comparison between short-term housing and long-term forests, which immediately reveals that such vanity projects cannot take precedence over invaluable ecology. At a fundamental level, the cost of this housing crisis should be borne by those responsible, otherwise it leads to violence upon those innocent, and this leads to the subjugation of every Maldivian who participates in this system – willingly or unwillingly. And every Maldivian is participatory, willingly or unwillingly. How convenient is it that the oppressors get to fund the housing crisis and then use the consequent suffering of the people to convince them that their environment has to be destroyed to alleviate the housing crisis? 

The Capitalist Endgame

What are you going to breathe when there is no clean air to breathe? Where will you go when even Villingili starts enduring floods whenever it rains because there is no natural drainage for the stormwater runoff? How do you even remotely justify emulating the hellish trenches of Malé on this island? Step by step, community and people’s love for nature are eroded, just so the two parties can subjugate the people; so that the mahujanun can accumulate their riches while the people are herded into cages of urban density in Malé, where the air is toxic and walking is discouraged by design, where you shall own your own vehicle and engage in endless consumerism to keep yourself asleep. The beyrumeeha slaves away for you and you toil away for the resort owners and politicians, capitalism killing your soul and whatever thought and feeling you had once possessed.

For the profiteering class, nothing has value unless commodified – unless it is stripped off of its dignity and identity, and is beaten into a shape that generates money. The commodification of nature is just another step in our dehumanization, so that our subjugation comes full circle and we have nowhere to go but into the hands of capitalism and consumerism. You stare at the structure of destructive development while the trees and the reefs die silently, suddenly made invisible against the allure of the grand slum we call “Malé” and the deluded lie of a better future.

To conclude, I find it necessary to venture a glimpse into what is to come from the ongoing destruction, the brutalization of this land and its inhabitants, and our own subjugation, to which we are so willingly rushing into.

Where once the waves were met by a bank of blindingly white sand, the water now lapped against revetment, and will continue to rise in the future. The sand had once supported a mature Funa tree with a canopy that spread wide and with so many layers of branches that allowed only a small fraction of sunlight to reach the ground to form a cool dappled shade on the beach. The tree was now gone and replaced with concrete, and with its departure the contrast of light and shadow is also no longer present, though the image will forever be burned in our minds. The once silent beach now endured the constant and sporadic traffic noise that came from the bridge, a giant structure of concrete and metal that extended parallel to the shore, in both directions. It stood proudly on the reef that had been destroyed in its name. The life here eradicated; what’s left was a mass grave of corals buried underneath blankets of sand.

The smoke was in the air, the smog ever so pervasive that even children wrinkled their noses at the toxic smell – children who no longer played as their parents had, their third spaces now commercialized; a restaurant was to be built here, extending into the water to emulate luxury found elsewhere. There is nothing to worry about, you can easily drive to this commercial area on your own vehicle, no legs necessary; such convenience that only arrives with imminent death. There’s parking, though not nearly enough – more land will be reclaimed on these shores to pave the way for more vehicle-only spaces in the future.

Elsewhere, where mature trees had once arduously protected the fellow mortals below, stood large magnificent buildings. Here, there was no quietude, for the streets were spilling with people and vehicles. Congestion had replaced the spatial relations of human-nature and nature-nature, the banyan trees with their aerial roots non-existent. Every inconvenience to capitalistic development had been erased; success they talk about on TV and announce in their press conferences.

When global warming ravaged the Earth, and the economic depression following the imperial suicide arrived, the mahujanun insulated themselves with the riches generated from the destruction of the world, and you and me were left to lament the loss of any dream we had once pursued.