The article below appeared in edited form in the
Huffington Post for Earth Day 2012. Kommol tata to Brook Meakins for making it possible.
When it hits home...
By Mark Stege
Around ten thousand years ago, while
a group of 29 high volcanic islands crumbled back below the surface of the
Central Pacific Ocean, tiny polyps banded together to form massive coral reef
colonies, today known as the coral atoll nation of the Marshall Islands.
My parents kept a small retail store on one of the 29
atolls when I was very young, and from breakfast to dinner without stopping for
lunch, I would swim and play with my cousins on the old bullet-ridden Japanese
pier, beside manta rays jumping clear out of the water and Taroa, Maloelap’s
signature Terushima Maru listing to
port. I still remember falling to sleep imagining that sunken WWII freighter
guiding itself closer to dock.
Last week, after sixteen years away, I returned to my
childhood playground, normally about 25 minutes by plane but this time 14 hours
by boat. I plan to make at least two more trips this year, largely because the
people who live there have given me a tremendous gift by electing me to
represent them on the Maloelap Atoll Local Council. The first trip will be to
collect different varieties of pandanus seedlings to plant on the urbanized capital
atoll of Majuro, 100 miles south of Taroa. The pandanus is a deep-rooted tree
with nourishing fruit, and is part of our limited arsenal to preserve both
culture and coastline.
You see, the earth’s climate is warming, causing incremental
increases in sea level sufficient enough for some of my Marshallese friends to
liken today’s warning of sea level rise to God’s warning for Moses to “make
thee an ark of gopher wood.” As a result, Moses was prepared when sea levels
shot up within 40 days and 40 nights. Will there even be a Majuro or a Taroa to
speak of in 40 years?
Both my homes are now disappearing. Last week on Taroa, I saw
the beaches have begun to creep inland, particularly during king tides. Coconut
trees have fallen sideways, and even the Y-shaped pandanus branches now lean
seaward, the sandy soil beneath inundated by the expanding ocean.
Climate change has become an all too familiar term for me these
past several years. It has altered certain parameters of my imagination,
introduced others, even put human existence into perspective. A recent visitor,
an oceanographer from the University of Washington who has been studying
climatology for the past two decades, told me climate change hit home for him
when his airplane touched down on Majuro. Even after an entire term studying
and preparing for his upcoming expedition to a place that sits just a foot
above high tide, it only struck him how vulnerable places like Taroa actually
are upon seeing up close these atolls for the first time. “Are you familiar
with the term ‘a canary in a coal mine’?” he asked. All too familiar, I
thought.
Thinking of it now, I’m transported back to one youthful day
on the Japanese pier on Taroa, when pink and orange clouds bedazzled the
horizon. A few of us still remained after another full day swimming alongside
manta rays, reluctant to go home. I sat transfixed by the fleeting sun, when a
bright green flash of light suddenly burst out just as the sun sank below the
waves. I was unsure of how refracted light could emit green amongst such
different colors as orange and pink. I’ve only seen the green flash that one
time, so I know it is rare.
It may be too late for the people of Taroa to hold back inundation,
storm surges, erosion and other natural processes that are now amplified by
climate change. But for now, the way I see it, climate change for Taroa will
boil down to ensuring healthier coastlines, more sustainable methods of
existence, and preparing our children to articulate their own imperiled future
on or off these fragile islands.
I’m reminded of plans raised last week on Tarao to
establish a community-based Marine Protected Area, specifically to protect a
school of mackeral there that traditionally could only be harvested by scooping
them out of the water with a special basket made from pandanus roots. Legend has
it this school is magical and will never be depleted. It is of little interest
to a burgeoning sea cucumber and reef fish trade now under the Marshall Islands
government’s oversight, so potentially a good foot in the door for bigger MPA
regulations down the road.
My thoughts turn next to how we might possibly convert our
sea transport services to wind-and-solar-powered vessels; and how the women who
serenaded me as their prodigal son last week requested bicycles for hauling
their goods, knowledge to combat an invasive pest that threatens their food
supply, and a market for their exquisite woven handicrafts. I think of the
teachers’ request at Taroa Elementary School’s for a 2-year substitute teacher
so that they may take the time to finish their degrees in education on Majuro.
I think of all these things, and how they all add up to the enormous
amount of work we must do, both because of and irrespective of climate change –
us on Taroa, the 53,000 others in the Marshall Islands, and the billions with
whom we share this earth. There is so much work to do together. I think again
of the old bullet-ridden pier, the green flash of my youth. Somehow, I know it
will always be within my people’s sight, and our home will not stay gone
forever, but someday rise again, polyp by tiny polyp, for the manta ray to play
once again.
