You’ve got to graze it to taste it, she said, and I couldn’t understand, my hooves still on the tender side
of stone. Then after the blue-cold nights came the blue nights. I nibbled hard,
as hard as she had said. A thousand rumblings in my stomachs reminded me of rain, and how it greens
turf until it tastes of fresh mornings and her milk —microbes and bacteria ferment and sing
of change. I grazed on, like she said. Perhaps we are like rain. Our movement onwards
is warm and smells of yellow flowers rotting. My hooves become rocks, and now I understand.
Our food feeds from loss like us, the last herd.
Andrea Ferrari Kristeller wrote this poem after taking Creature Conserve Master Class: Writers Respond to the Science of Animal Migration, as a Scholarship recipient. The workshop, delivered by Christopher Kondrich, Susan Tacent, and Dr Lucy Spelman, provided concrete scientific data concerning several migrant species and writing skills-oriented presentations. The mission of Creature Conserve is to grow a creative community that combines art with science to cultivate new pathways for wildlife conservation.
What’s your quintessential Bangalore experience? For me, it’s coffee, ghee podi dosa, and a long stroll by a lake on a balmy Sunday morning.
Lakes are ubiquitous in the sprawling Indian city and synonymous with the Bangalore experience. If you’ve lived here even for a short while, there is a very high chance that you have benefitted from these lakes in one way or another—their water is used for irrigation, groundwater recharge and flood control most commonly. Whether you’re a stressed IT professional looking for some respite from staring at a screen, an athlete looking for a jogging track, or just someone who wants to get away from the incessant honking and traffic noise, Bangalore’s lakes are open to all. And they should be, as they hold a deep connection with the history of the city and its people.
But these lakes are in danger. As of May 2024, 125 out of 800 lakes had dried up (and of the remaining, 25 lakes are threatened). This was also the year the city faced a heatwave and severe water shortage. If you ask an old-timer, they might go off on a tangent about the unplanned development, skyrocketing population and degradation of Bangalore’s lakes. We may be inclined to brush off these complaints as frustrations with the current generation, but there is some truth to these rants.
Historic connections
Lakes are integral to Bangalore’s groundwater reserves, agriculture and overall security—to understand this, we must begin with the geography and elevation of Bangalore. Of all the major metropolitan cities in India, Bangalore is situated at the highest altitude, with an elevation of 920 m (3,020 ft) above sea level. That already makes it tricky to capture rainwater, given the slopes and inclines that make up most of the city’s topography.
You may think of the Cauvery and many other rivers flowing through Bangalore and wonder —shouldn’t water from these sources be sufficient to meet the population’s needs? It turns out that’s not enough. The topography and elevation of Bangalore call for a different system of water management, namely (you guessed it) lakes. Mostly human-made, these water bodies have been a safety net for the city for centuries, especially during the dry summer months.
In the 16th century, the governor of Bangalore, Kempegowda I, invented a system of linking the city’s lakes to ensure optimal water conservation. They were interlinked through canals, known locally as rajakaluve, ensuring that water in lakes at a higher elevation flowed to lakes at a lower elevation. Water in the lowest lake would then empty into connected valleys. However, people were needed to maintain this system and in came the caste-based designation of neeruganti—roles held by local families from the eponymous Scheduled Caste, who were entrusted with the management of the lake, including the release of water through sluice gates and maintenance of the rajakaluves.
Over decades and centuries of ancestral management, the neerugantis developed a robust system of experiential and indigenous knowledge of Bangalore’s water networks. These families would decide when and to where they would release the water, advise farmers on the appropriate crops to grow depending on the water situation, and even contribute to maintaining the rich ecosystems supported by these lakes. Native species of fish flourished under the management of neerugantis and the surrounding land thrived as well. Silt from the lakes was used as fertiliser for the soil and farmers used the grasslands around lakes for cattle grazing. A self-sustaining system was in place.
However, as time passed and demands on the lakes grew, a negligent approach was adopted by the authorities. In 1962, the Karnataka state government enacted a uniform irrigation policy, taking over lakes as government property. As a result, the neerugantis of the largest lakes got subsumed into government service. But the neerugantis of the smaller lakes were not so lucky, and their knowledge was rendered unimportant. The government also implemented a few unscientific initiatives that encouraged the growth of certain crops regardless of whether they were suitable for the local environmental conditions or not.
Additionally, remuneration for the neerugantis’ services was not considered by the newly appointed village accountants. Once lake management became centralised under the government, the neerugantis faded into obscurity. The vast body of knowledge, cultivated over centuries of experiences had been discredited for ease of administration, and a whole community of people were suddenly unemployed. Consequently, Bangalore’s lakes started to fall into disarray, owing to the broad-stroke approach and ignorance of the state government.
Perhaps Bangalore’s lakes wouldn’t be in such jeopardy if it were just this single issue, but there are many other reasons for the dire situation our lakes are in today. Let’s address the elephant in the room—the IT industry.
Boom and bust
If you ever want to start a fierce debate in Bangalore, bring up the IT industry. Was the boom in the 1990s and early 2000s a good thing or was it the worst possible thing that could have happened to the former Garden City of India? Ask older Bangaloreans and they will most probably oppose the establishment of the IT industry, throwing volleys of curses at the new areas of Bangalore, the shiny (and somewhat lifeless) glass buildings, the dreadful traffic jams and the breakneck expansion of the urban sprawl of Bangalore.
Ask a younger person and they might have a slightly more balanced approach: the establishment of the IT industry brought a lot of financial prosperity to Bangalore, but the rate at which the city is expanding is unsustainable. The condition of the lakes in Bangalore stand as a testimony. For one, the city has become prone to flooding and as the city grows, the scale of the floods continues to grow as well.
The State Disaster Response Force (SDRF) staff are the first responders in any disaster that endangers human life. My climate science field group asked a sub-inspector at the SDRF headquarters about the cause for these unprecedented floods. He told us that the rate at which new construction projects and roads are coming up cannot be handled by Bangalore’s lake system. The city’s population boom puts an already at-risk lake system under heavy strain. Moreover, the centuries-old rajakaluve network is cut off or obstructed at some points in favour of construction of buildings and houses (most often for actors, politicians or other high-profile individuals). These new and ubiquitous construction projects in Bangalore often have poor and disconnected drainage systems.
The SDRF official had a firsthand account of a flood call he had to attend to in June 2024-a brand new, upscale building was under duress from rainfall-related flooding, and his team had to clear the area of water by using a pump that removed 6,000 litres per minute. Despite this, the inspector told us that it was a resource-intensive job, in terms of personnel and time. And according to him, such situations are only going to increase in frequency and severity.
What’s more is that as we restore a select few lakes, we rebuild them with different structures. In general, lakes have a gradient-like structure, gradually sloping into deep waters, but Bangalore’s lakes are shaped like soup bowls. We simply don’t know enough about them to predict how any changes to the structure might impact their environment in the future.
Unfortunately, financial investment will continue to be Bangalore’s priority for years to come. The city will continue expanding and take on more and more people. But does this mean that we should simply brace ourselves for a painful combination of heatwaves, water shortages, and floods? Perhaps not. Perhaps there’s a solution to our lake issue by going back to our roots.
Shining examples
Let’s take a look at Puttenahalli and Kaikondrahalli Lakes in south Bangalore. They are lush and green, hosting a variety of birds, plants and fish. Although surrounded by high-walled, posh apartment complexes, the residents of these apartments collaborate with local indigenous communities to maintain the lake, which is usually open and accessible to everyone. The lake boards actively work to maintain the lake and also hold the municipal government accountable. There are several signposts detailing the biodiversity of the lake, as well as clearly defined jogging tracks and walking paths. These lakes have been replenished and maintained through active community involvement, and the result is clear in the thriving urban biodiversity and a regular water level.
The solution to Bangalore’s lake situation is thus clear: bring back the indigenous knowledge of the neerugantis, involve them in the maintenance and decision-making processes for the lakes. It might help to reduce government involvement in lake maintenance and transfer the responsibility to local custodians. It is also imperative to keep lakes open for people of all socio-economic backgrounds–the knowledge of otherwise marginalised communities is exactly the need of the hour.
The issues arising from Bangalore’s lakes affect all its citizens, regardless of whether you live in an unplanned settlement or a luxurious mansion—when a lake dries up or if there’s a flood, we’re all going to be in the same boat (quite literally in the latter case). Everyone needs to be involved in restoring our lakes, and we, as citizens, need to realise the power we have in holding those in charge accountable. If we continue to adopt a community approach to lake restoration, there’s hope for our city.
Feature image: Wikimedia Commons formulanone from Huntsville, United States, CC BY-SA 2.0
Roads claim the lives of millions of animals each year. Research has focused on identifying mortality hotspots and minimising the negative effects of roads. However, the damage extends far beyond individual casualties. A species’ regional extinction can trigger cascading effects that ripple through the food web. Therefore, research should not focus exclusively on the individual effects on species, important as they are, but also address the secondary effects rippling through the network of biotic interactions.
Our study, which examined over 550 species across Europe, found that regions with high road density and near major cities, could lose up to 90 percent of their ecological interactions. This means that not only are species disappearing, but the entire structure of ecosystems is shifting in ways we are only beginning to understand.
Using the information on species ranges and verified trophic interactions across Europe, we estimated regional food webs for potential predator-prey interactions across the continent. Then, we defined thresholds for each species of how dense road networks could be before that species’ population would potentially face regional extinction. With these thresholds, we simulated species extinctions across these food webs to evaluate the effects on the network structure.
The results were stark: species at the foundation of the food web were the most directly affected by road mortality. Meanwhile, top predators, such as wolves and golden eagles, faced indirect threats as their prey dwindled in road-heavy areas. In some regions, road density resulted in the near-total collapse of food webs.
Conservation implications
Food webs are the backbone of ecosystem stability. When they are disrupted, essential ecological processes such as seed dispersal, pest control, and nutrient cycling suffer. The ripple effects of road-driven biodiversity loss extend to humans, threatening the very services nature provides.
Conservation strategies must consider the impacts of roads on ecological interactions. Wildlife corridors, road overpasses and underpasses can help mitigate the effects, allowing species to move freely and maintain their roles in the ecosystem. Planning road networks with biodiversity in mind is not just an option—it is a necessity to preserve the intricate balance of nature.
As road networks expand, we must ask: how can we build infrastructure without dismantling the ecosystems that sustain life? Our findings highlight an urgent need for policies that integrate conservation science into transportation planning, ensuring that roads serve people while safeguarding wildlife.
But, and this is key, we should not address solely the direct effects on wildlife, such as mortality, habitat loss, and fragmentation. It is essential to have a broader view of defragmenting roads strategically to allow the maintenance of ecological interactions, such as predator-prey relationships.
Further Reading
Grilo, C., E. Koroleva, R Andrášik, M. Bíl and M. González-Suárez. 2020. Roadkill risk and population vulnerability in European birds and mammals. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 18: 323–328. http://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2216.
Maiorano, L., A. Montemaggiori, G.F. Ficetola, L. O’Connor and W. Thuiller. 2020. TETRA-EU 1.0: A species-level trophic metaweb of European tetrapods. Global Ecology and Biogeography 29: 1452–1457. https://doi.org/10.1111/geb.13138.
Mestre F, V.A.G. Bastazini, and F. Ascensão. 2025. Effects of road density on regional food webs. Conservation Biology. Conservation Biology: e70007. http://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.70007.
Although beautiful, with colourful stripes and fan-like fins, lionfish (from the genus Pterois) are among the world’s most successful invasive species. Originally from the warm waters of the Indo-Pacific, two of the 12 species of Pterois—the red lionfish (P. volitans) and the common lionfish (P. miles)—have rapidly colonised much of the western Atlantic, including the Caribbean. Here they are known for outcompeting native species and disrupting local ecosystems, with the lack of natural predators in their new environments allowing their populations to grow uncontrollably.
Rising ocean temperatures in the Mediterranean are mirroring conditions of the Indo-Pacific, allowing lionfish to thrive in places they couldn’t before. It’s believed that they got here via the Suez Canal, an artificial waterway connecting the Mediterranean with the Red Sea. It’s one of the busiest and most important marine trade routes but also serves as the primary pathway for marine bio-invasions into the Mediterranean.
Lionfish were first documented in the eastern Mediterranean around 2012. Within three years, they spread to Tunisia and Greece, and by 2021 they had reached Croatia, over 1,000 km away. Another factor aiding their spread is ‘prey naïveté’—native species, unfamiliar with lionfish as predators, fail to recognise the danger, making them easy targets.
A recent study by Emma Mitchell and Victoria Dominguez Almela, from the University of Southampton, assessed the distribution of the common lionfish (P. miles) in the Mediterranean and how far they might spread in the future. To do this, they used two key methods: (1) Spatial Distribution Models that predict the current range of lionfish using data on known lionfish locations, combined with environmental factors (such as salinity and temperature) to predict where else they might be found (2) Ecological Niche Models that identify environmental conditions that make an area suitable for the species and use climate predictions to forecast where lionfish are likely to thrive in the future.
The study authors used two climate change scenarios, called Representative Concentration Pathways (RCP), to predict the likelihood of lionfish invasion under future climates. RCPs show how climate could change based on different levels of greenhouse gas emissions. For example, if emissions continue to rise at the current unprecedented rate, we could face extreme global warming (RCP 8.5), while cutting emissions could lead to more moderate warming (RCP 4.5). They used machine learning techniques to map out potential areas at risk of lionfish invasion under each scenario.
An emerging threat
The models predicted that lionfish are likely to spread widely across most Mediterranean coasts, except Libya and northern Egypt. By 2040–50, their distribution could expand into the southeastern Mediterranean, with some spread into western areas. In the worst-case climate scenario (RCP 8.5), nearly the entire Mediterranean could become suitable for lionfish by the end of the century. High-risk areas include southern Greece, Turkey, and the Strait of Sicily. Predictions show a shift north and east by 2090-2100, especially in the RCP 8.5 scenario.
Lionfish have already caused considerable damage to ecosystems in the western Atlantic and if left unchecked, will do the same in the Mediterranean. However, the Mediterranean invasion is still in its early stages, meaning there’s time to act before lionfish become established and harder to control.
The good news is that Cyprus is already leading the charge. More than 35,000 lionfish have been removed from their waters through spear fishing. Combining these efforts with natural processes that keep lionfish populations in check, including predators and pathogens, could make an even bigger impact. This might involve protecting natural predators of lionfish that help control their populations. And creating markets for lionfish in the seafood and jewelry industries could ultimately make removal efforts more sustainable.
Entirely preventing this invasion in the Mediterranean may be challenging. However, accurate species distribution and prediction models can help manage their spread and are the first steps to slowing it down. Cyprus’ actions show that these conservation management efforts will pay off.
Call to Action: If you notice a lionfish or another unusual species, it might be invasive—report it to local wildlife authorities or upload a photo to iNaturalist. Citizen scientists play an important role in collecting biodiversity information and could even help detect new invasions in time to take action.
Further Reading
Mitchell, E. and V. Dominguez Almela. 2024. Modelling the rise of invasive lionfish in the Mediterranean. Marine Biology 172: 18. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00227-024-04580-6.
It was a bright and sunny morning and the air was filled with birdsong. A baby deer (fawn) walked close to its mother, its tiny hooves making the leaves rustle. The fawn’s eyes were fixed on a few children nearby, who were eating mangoes under a large rain tree in their school. These children were accompanied by their environmental science teacher, Miss Rosie, who told them they were being watched by a baby spotted deer (or chital).
Unable to resist the fawn’s eyes, they threw the leftover mangoes for it to snack on, when something unexpected happened. Two bonnet macaques jumped down quickly and ran away with the mangoes. The disappointed fawn walked away, and so did the children, who went home and shared their experience with their parents.
Bonnet Macaques jumping down to pick the mangoes (Illustration credit: Harshitha)
The next morning, the children were back in school, waiting patiently under the rain tree. However, they did not carry any food with them as their parents had told them that it is not good to feed wildlife. While the animals may eat the food because they are hungry, the food that humans give them can cause harm. Instead, the children were instructed to observe the animals, learn what they eat and how they find food in the wild.
While they were still discussing what their parents had taught them, the deer walked by with the fawn hopping beside her. “Look, it’s the baby deer again. Why don’t we give it a name?” asked Derrick. “Why not Bambi?” exclaimed Faheem. “Hush! Why? Are you trying to scare the deer away?” Poorna whispered as she tried to calm the others. “Why don’t we simply call it ‘Pretty’? The tiny white spots are pretty indeed”. There was silence for a moment and then everyone else signalled with just a thumbs-up. And from that moment on, the fawn was called Pretty.
Pretty and her mother (Illustration credit: Harshita)
Pretty and her mother were seen almost every day inside the school premises. There were other deer as well and some of them had long and sharp antlers. The children learned from their parents and teachers that they should not go close to the deer with antlers. So, they stood at a safe distance and just watched Pretty hop and play.
One morning, as the children stepped out of their classroom there was a lovely peacock. It suddenly shook itself, spread its long feathers like a fan, and started dancing. Right behind him were a few females busily feeding, unmindful of his dance. The children watched the show for a while before the next class with Miss Rosie was due to begin.
Annie told Miss Rosie what they had witnessed a few minutes ago. It was the right moment to teach the enthusiastic children a few things about nature. “Children, you are really privileged. You are inside a large city and yet close to nature. You are fortunate to see deer, macaques and peafowl inside your school. Our school is in the lap of nature and we should learn to live with all these animals without troubling them. Now children, let us go back to where the last class ended,” Miss Rosie said, as she turned towards the blackboard.
“Today’s lesson is about animal diversity in India. There are different kinds of animals in our country. Yet, the peacock is our national bird because it is not only gorgeous but also sacred to many. The spotted deer is not only found in India, but also in Sri Lanka and Nepal. The bonnet macaque is, however, found only in southern India which makes it endemic.”
Annie stood up and said, “Miss, please tell us what is endemic.”
“Children, how many of you know kangaroos? Where are kangaroos found in the wild?”
“Australia” the class roared. “Good,” replied Miss Rosie. “Kangaroos are found in the wild only in Australia, so they are endemic to Australia. A plant or animal that is naturally found only in a particular geographical area is called endemic to that place.”
The following week, the class greeted Miss Rosie with the loudest “Good morning, miss!”
“Good morning to all of you, children. Today let us learn another new term: ‘ecosystem’. Does anyone know what it means?” There was silence. “Okay, let me explain. In nature, there is a system in which plants and animals interact with each other whereby one cannot live without the other. Together, they depend on the sun and rain. We are all part of an ecosystem along with the deer, peafowl, macaque and hundreds of other plants and animals that inhabit our school. The ecosystem is like a large machine and we are all its different parts. The sun provides energy to keep the machine running and rain keeps the different parts fit and free from fatigue, through the supply of water,” said Miss Rosie as the children looked at her in awe.
“Children, come outside with me. I will show you how an ecosystem works”. As Miss Rosie walked out and the children followed, they saw Pretty right next to the large rain tree. Her mother was resting in the shade. “Well children, can you see the deer resting under the rain tree? The tree not only gives oxygen but also shade that protects the deer from the heat. The fruits of the rain tree are eaten by the deer and the seeds are dropped farther away, where new rain trees grow.
“This is called mutual support,” she continued. “In an ecosystem, plants and animals mutually support each other. We are also animals and we cannot live without the support of other plants and animals. We are a part of the ecosystem that our school supports, just as it does the rain tree and deer.”
Miss Rosie left, but the children were still watching Pretty. Pretty knew she was being watched, so she twisted, turned and even jumped over her mother as though excited. “I am so happy to be in this school. Are we not blessed?” exclaimed Jennifer. “Yes, indeed” replied Poorna “Where else can we find someone like Pretty?”
The bell rang and it was time for the children to leave school. As they picked up their backpacks Sanjeev said, “It’s like a large family. A part of it is in school and the rest, at home. Bye little deer, we don’t feel like leaving you and going home, but we will be back tomorrow. We are one and we belong to the same ecosystem.”
Spending time in nature has a unique way of revealing the connections between natural ecosystems and the diverse communities we live in. In June of 2023, eight high schoolers of colour identifying as girls and gender non-binary youth gathered in the mountains of Colorado to explore these ties in the great outdoors. From hands-on outdoor activities guided by leaders of colour during a three-day event, the students learned to look closely at ecosystems, racial diversity and themselves.
As a research assistant for this project, I (Morgan Murphy) had the chance to weave together their insights on what they learned during this event. These eight students, also the co-authors of this piece, discussed how social and environmental systems relate to one another. I share their insights below.
Building community in nature
In the same way that biodiversity contributes to healthy ecosystems, human diversity contributes to healthy social systems. This event bridged the two by teaching us about diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice (DEIJ), and about how biodiversity and outdoor experiences can be symbolic of human diversity.
As the bus rumbled out of the city, the landscape began to shift. With each mile the hum of city life gave way to the silence of nature, creating room for us to connect with each other in new ways. The changing views mirrored our conversations, as we started to reflect on the links between our own communities and our shared identities. As we hiked along rocky trails, watched birds flit through the trees, and sifted through river sand in search of tiny insects, those connections deepened. Together, we found our place in nature and in each other, realising that we are as much a part of these ecosystems as they are a part of us.
Shobha shared the photo below, explaining “I was sharing a moment with others who are like me, in a place where I felt so small compared to the mountains, and yet felt like I belonged with the group I was with.”
The group hiking toward a river while conversing and bonding
Personal growth through adventure
During one of the event’s activities, a ropes course, we faced challenges both individually and as a group. Climbing high above the ground, swinging across wide gaps, and balancing on thin ropes brought a rush of adrenaline unlike anything we had felt before.
The fear of slipping or falling was real, but so was the exhilaration of pushing through it.
Each step we took, though wobbly at first, brought a growing sense of accomplishment and confidence. As we caught our breath at the end of each challenge, it became clear that these moments of fear and triumph mirrored the struggles we often face in life with marginalised identities. The uncertainty and the vulnerability echoed the challenges of navigating a world that isn’t always built for us. But just as we did on the ropes, we found strength in ourselves and in each other, learning that perseverance through fear can lead to new heights, both on the course and in life.
In the group ropes course activities, we experienced firsthand how mutual support and collaboration can elevate our collective strength. As we tackled obstacles high above the ground and navigated tricky balance beams, we realised that our success depended on more than just individual skill; it required our collective effort and encouragement. This dynamic mirrored the way certain animal species, like bees or ants, work together in cohesive groups to thrive, each contributing its unique role to support the community’s well-being.
The stream macroinvertebrate survey activity deepened our awareness of the parallels. As we examined the myriad of tiny bugs that live in the river’s sand, we were struck by how their collective work contributes to the health of the aquatic environment. This small yet crucial part of the ecosystem highlighted a powerful metaphor for social diversity. Just as these bugs, though often unnoticed, play an essential role in maintaining the river’s balance, so too do individuals within a community contribute to its overall health and resilience. Kaleena, for example, explains:
“I didn’t know how one little has such an impact on the entire ecosystem. And it can be applied to almost anything with diversity, equity and inclusion. Just because they’re small, they still matter. They’re pretty much invisible if you’re not looking for them, which doesn’t mean they’re not important. You still need that diversity to have a healthy ecosystem.”
The group searching for macroinvertebrates in river sand samples
Nature as a metaphor
Soup, the group’s lichen lover, shared a special moment from one of our hikes that resonated deeply with the group. They recounted:
“I found that had been on my bucket list for so long. I’ve been wanting to see it, but I never had any opportunities to go places as far as the Mountain Campus to see lichen that I wouldn’t usually. And when I saw it, it made me so happy. I was in this place where I felt really safe and really good, and I found this lichen. And I was like, this is a metaphor for a change in my life.”
A symbiotic lichen that was on soup’s bucket list
Soup’s experience illustrates how this trip allowed each of us to immerse ourselves in new environments and forge connections with one another. This journey didn’t just offer a chance to explore nature but also to reflect on our own lives and aspirations. For some of us, it opened doors to new ways of thinking and possibilities, inspiring us to pursue new interests or see aspects of our lives through a fresh lens.
Spending time in the mountains provided us with a sense of beauty and belonging, revealing how environments can foster self-discovery and mutual understanding. In just three days, we gained insights into the natural world that not only amazed and enlightened us but also empowered us. We see this experience as a microcosm of what inclusive and supportive communities should look like. By nurturing our shared curiosity about nature, we can create spaces where everyone feels valued and inspired, fostering both individual growth and collective care. This sense of inclusion and mutual respect is essential, whether in the context of wildlife conservation or any field we choose to pursue.
Further Reading
Bailey, A. 2022. Black Outside: Transformative outdoor leadership. Journal of Outdoor Recreation, Education, and Leadership 14(2): 85–98. https://mcnultyfound.org/impact/stories/black-outside. Accessed on July 29, 2024.
Gress, S. and T. Hall. 2017. Diversity in the outdoors: National Outdoor Leadership School students’ attitudes about wilderness. Journal of Experiential Education 40(2): 114–134.
Stern, M. J., R. B. Powell and B. T. Frensley. 2022. Environmental education, age, race, and socioeconomic class: An exploration of differential impacts of field trips on adolescent youth in the United States. Environmental Education Research 28(2): 197–215.
Feature image: A colony of painted storks in Kokkare Bellur village in Karnataka, India (Photo credit: Green Panther Club, Bengaluru)
Off the busy Bengaluru-Mysuru highway in southern India is a nondescript village called Kokkare Bellur. We reached it at the crack of dawn, when the people were busy going about their morning activities. Just like in any other village, we saw dogs, cows, hens, and buffaloes. At first glance, Kokkare Bellur didn’t look any different.
However, as we walked through the narrow lanes of the village, a spectacle unfolded—and that is when we realised that Kokkare Bellur is no ordinary place. We saw its winged children—young painted storks. Hundreds of nests were bustling with activity. We heard the loud cackling of hungry chicks whose parents were away looking for food. When we looked up, we saw many painted storks flying high in the sky. The whole place was bustling with activity.
Kokkare means stork in Kannada (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)
In Kannada, kokkare means stork. This village is a traditional nesting site not just for painted storks, but also spot-billed pelicans. Thousands of birds come to this village every year to breed and raise their young.
Why the birds chose this particular village to nest is still a mystery. The story goes that Kokkare Bellur was on the banks of the Shimsha River. In 1916, a plague forced the villagers to abandon their settlement and relocate a few kilometres away. To the surprise of the villagers, the birds followed them—even though there was no major water body.
Long ago, the people of the village collected the birds’ droppings (guano), which were rich in nitrogen and phosphate, to use as a fertiliser. The birds seemed to feel safe amidst the human settlement, so they continued nesting there—an example of a symbiotic relationship, in which each species helps the other. Although the villagers are no longer dependent on guano for fertiliser, they continue to provide a safe haven for the birds.
Did you know that Kokkare Bellur is the only community reserve in Karnataka? For decades, the birds were protected by the villagers themselves. Now, thestate Forest Department and organisations such as WWF are actively engaged in conservation efforts alongside the villagers.
Juvenile painted storks have a dull, brownish plumage (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)
A series of thoughtful gestures and actions ensure the well-being and protection of these birds. Nets are fixed under the trees to protect any chicks that fall out of their nests. The trees are numbered and monitored by the Melukote Wildlife Range Forest Officer as well. Accidents can happen, therefore there is a rescue centre where injured birds and chicks are taken care of until they can fly. The Forest Department has also provided special rescue bikes with a basket in the front in which the injured birds can be carried.
In 2016, the power lines throughout the village were insulated to prevent bird deaths by electrocution. Although some 30–40 birds used to die each year, none have been electrocuted since the power lines were modified. The Wildlife Wing of the Forest Department also offers compensation to people who are not able to harvest fruit from their tamarind trees while the birds are nesting there.
Kokkare Bellur is a great example of villagers coming together to care for a species that is Near Threatened (populations are decreasing) as per the IUCN Red List. Even though the relationship between the birds and villagers started off with the villagers benefiting financially from the birds, the storks stay on as part of the heritage now.
Hopefully, generations of children and grandchildren, both human and avian, will continue to enjoy this spectacle!
The painted stork get its name from the adult’s distinctive pink tertial feathers (Photo credit: Green Panther club, Bengaluru)
What I learned about painted storks
During my visit to Kokkare Bellur in 2024, there were about 1,600 painted storks in the village. Each tree had about 30–40 birds with their chicks.
Painted storks are large, majestic birds that are 3–4 feet tall and have a wingspan of 5–6 feet. Given their size, the birds pick sturdy trees such as tamarind to make their nests. The male and female birds contribute equally to parenting and raising their young.
The baby storks are whitish grey with black beaks, while the juveniles are a dull brown with beaks starting to show signs of colour. Adults are black and white with colourful feathers at the edge of their wings. They also have colourful yellowish-orange beaks and orangish-pink legs.
Through my window, I gaze and see, The world is changing rapidly. Buildings growing big and tall, While nature never seemed so small.
Concrete stretches far and wide, Steel and stone steal nature’s pride. Engines roar and tires scream, Leaving trails of exhaust like a bad dream.
But through your window, wild and free A world of wonder lives carefree. Where trees stand tall with roots dug deep, And rabbits in the gardens sleep.
Branches twist and stretch up high, Their leaves like dancers in the sky. Birds sing sweet, and bees take flight, A symphony of pure delight.
As you grow, you’ll come to know, How nature thrives when people sow. Wildflowers bloom along the way, Perfumed breezes softly sway.
Watch butterflies dance to and fro, Listen to frogs sing songs in the moonlit glow. The world is full of wonders new, Each one waiting just for you.
Cherish Mother Earth, both old and new, For she will always care for you. Look beyond and you will find, The beauty waiting, unconfined.
As you grow, you’ll come to know, the beauty hidden in the shadow Of the world outside your window.
Further Reading
Alberti, M. 2015. Eco-evolutionary dynamics in an urbanizing planet. Trends in Ecology & Evolution 30(2): 114–126.Potts, S. G., J. C. Biesmeijer, C. Kremen, P. Neumann, O. Schweiger and W. E. Kunin. 2010. Global pollinator declines: trends, impacts, and drivers. Trends in Ecology & Evolution 25(6): 345–353. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tree.2010.01.007.
Tzoulas, K., K. Korpela, S. Venn, V. Yli-Pelkonen, A. Kaźmierczak, J. Niemela and P. James. 2007. Promoting ecosystem and human health in urban areas using green infrastructure: A literature review. Landscape and Urban Planning 81(3): 167–178. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.landurbplan.2007.02.001.
Feature image: Wild boars near Basistówka Street in Kraków (Photo credit: Jakub Hałun/Wikimedia Commons)
Imagine the wild boar—a powerful, muscular, and hairy creature—helping delicate, endangered butterflies. These ungulates search for food by using their snout to excavate the soil—known as ‘rooting’—to find plant roots, invertebrates, and fungi. In this way, wild boars act as natural ‘gardeners’ and, unintentionally, create microhabitats that are crucial for some plants and animals.
Butterflies are one group of animals whose habitat could benefit from, or be harmed by, the wild boar. Butterflies require specific host plants, humidity conditions, and sunlight during their life cycle. For example, the Italian festoon (Zerynthia cassandra), whose population is declining, relies on host plants from the Aristolochia genus. It also has a limited flight range, making the species vulnerable to changes in the microhabitat, which could potentially be altered by wild boar activity.
Researchers Rocco Labadessa and Leonardo Ancillotto assessed the impact of wild boars on these butterflies. Specifically, they examined the impact of wild boar activity on the growth, density, and flowering of host plants, and on the selection of sites for egg-laying by the butterflies. The sampling was carried out on the Murgia plateau in the Apulia region of Italy. From 2018–21, Labadessa and Ancillotto studied forest clearings that were important for the butterfly and its host plant, where boar activity was detected, and without human or livestock disturbance. The impact of wild boar rooting on vegetation and butterflies in these clearings was compared with undisturbed control plots with similar environmental conditions.
Their study revealed that plots disturbed by wild boar had a higher cover of plant species that provide nectar for Italian festoons compared to undisturbed plots. Specifically, the presence and abundance of Aristolochia clusii was positively influenced by wild boar rooting. A. clusii often grows in clusters derived from tuber fragmentation. Wild boar rooting creates favourable conditions by altering soil structure, boosting nutrient availability, reducing the cover of competitive species, and increasing the chances of fragmentation and dispersal of A. clusii tubers. With an increase in host plants, an increase in occurrence of butterfly eggs and larvae was recorded. Hence, wild boar rooting activities have a direct positive effect on the occurrence of butterfly eggs and larvae.
Additionally, A. clusii. is typically shorter compared to surrounding grass and herbaceous plants. Wild boar rooting leads to a reduction in grasses leaning against these host plants, allowing for greater sunlight exposure. This in turn creates warmer microclimatic conditions around the plants, which supports larval development by enhancing metabolic processes, leading to more rapid growth—further demonstrating that rooting also has a direct positive effect on the development of butterfly larvae.
While the study emphasises the benefits of wild boar rooting for the Italian festoon and its habitat, the increasing wild boar populations across Europe necessitate a careful assessment of the wider ecological implications, including potential conflicts with native ecosystems and agricultural interests.
Further Reading :
Labadessa, R. and A. Leonardo. 2023. Beauty and the beast: multiple effects of wild boar rooting on butterfly microhabitat. Biodiversity and Conservation32: 1189–1204. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10531-023-02545-7.
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Shiv Kumar who lived in a small town in the Lahaul Valley of Himachal Pradesh, India. Shiv was a kind and curious kid who loved the natural world and all its inhabitants. Everyone in the snowy mountains of his valley knew him. He was calm and friendly, and his excitement for exploring the mountains was infectious.
Shiv loved to trek, explore new places, learn about the wildlife in and around his village, and share stories about his adventures in the wild. People admired how much he cared for wildlife, especially the secretive snow leopard, which was his favorite animal. They said Shiv had a special gift—he could find clues in the snow that no one else could see. Whether it was animal tracks or a tiny feather, he always figured out the story behind it.
Shiv had many friends in school who came from nearby villages and valleys. Almost all of them had seen the elusive snow leopard, often called the ‘grey ghost of the Himalayas’. But Shiv had never spotted one in the wild and dreamed of the day he would. His friends often suggested that he visit the nearby valleys where snow leopard sightings were common. But Shiv always insisted, “No, I want to see the snow leopard near my own village.”
He often thought to himself, The mountains and valleys here are just like those in other places. There’s plenty of food for a snow leopard to survive here. So why haven’t I seen one yet? Deep down, Shiv was sure he hadn’t searched carefully enough. He believed that if he kept looking, he would eventually find one. He wasn’t ready to give up. Shiv knew that nature had its own secrets, and one day, his efforts might just turn out to be fruitful.
It was a cold winter evening. Shiv and his friend were walking through the snow-covered landscape, enjoying the peaceful silence. As they explored their surroundings, Shiv suddenly spotted something unusual—pugmarks in the snow and a trail leading upslope, as if something had been dragged. The next morning, Shiv woke up early, eager to solve the mystery. At 5.30 AM, he returned to the same spot.
As he walked down the slope, he noticed signs of a struggle—blood on the snow and bits of fur scattered around. He climbed upslope, following the drag marks, and soon found out what had happened. He noticed that an animal resembling a goat had been hunted by a predator. As he moved closer, he realised it was the remains of an Asiatic ibex—one of the largest mountain goat species with huge, curved horns, and a favorite prey of the snow leopard.
Shiv felt a rush of excitement. Could there be a snow leopard around? he wondered. He knew these big cats often returned to their kill. He wished he could stay there, but he had to return home as it was getting dark and it wasn’t safe to stay there alone. Later that evening, Shiv returned to the spot with his friend Aman, an adult named Guddu, and a camera. They sat quietly, waiting for the snow leopard to appear.
Time passed slowly, and the sun began to set. Just as they were about to give up, Shiv glanced around one last time.
And there it was—a snow leopard, standing tall and proud, like it was on guard duty.
It looked directly into Shiv’s camera, almost as if it knew it was being watched. Shiv held his breath, amazed by the beauty and power of the big cat.
“This is a moment I’ll never forget,” Shiv whispered to his friends. The snow leopard disappeared into the shadows, but Shiv’s heart was full. He had seen one of nature’s most elusive creatures, and it felt like a gift from the wild. This was a life changing moment for Shiv. He decided he will spread awareness and educate everyone about the importance of conservation, and guard these animals and plants till his last breath.
Authors’ Note: This story is inspired from life experiences of a Deputy Forest Ranger named Shiv Kumar, who lives in Lahaul Valley, Lahaul-Spiti district of Himachal Pradesh. He has been a part of the Himachal Pradesh Forest Department for more than 20 years. Everyone, from forest guards to the Divisional Forest Officers know him and appreciate his work. Even the locals of the region talk about his love for wildlife. He has worked with various institutions including the Wildlife Institute of India, Zoological Survey of India, Nature Conservation Foundation, and several foreign researchers for conservation of wildlife in his region, especially the snow leopard. He is calm, down-to-earth and always excited for new adventures. Shiv Kumar is an inspiration for many.
We often pay little attention to grassland environments—perhaps thinking of them simply as ‘weedy fields’ or agricultural spaces. When we worry about climate change, we tend to think of habitats stereotypically portrayed as ‘wilderness’ in popular media, such as forests and mountains. However, grasslands cover over a third of all land, provide vitally important ecosystem services, and support vibrant biodiversity.
Grasslands are home to the majority of insect pollinators, and provide habitat for many unique grassland bird and plant species. They also protect soils from erosion, and sequester an underappreciated share of the world’s carbon stock. This is because grassland plants evolved to grow in places where water is scarce, and consequently, these plants invest heavily in extensive and hidden root systems that eventually break down into rich organic matter. As a result, grasslands produce many of the world’s most fertile agricultural soils and provide livestock forage, supporting much of the meat and dairy production globally.
Climate change threatens grasslands
Despite their value, grasslands have received little attention from researchers trying to understand how to best manage natural resources under climate change. This neglect is troubling because climate change vulnerability and conversion to agriculture makes grasslands among the most endangered ecosystems. With adequate water, grasslands are boom and bust environments capable of immense productivity during a short growing season. However, they are vulnerable to severe drought because they occur in regions where rainfall is too scarce and irregular to support trees.
Further, grasslands tend to occur at lower elevations and lack the shade of forest canopies to moderate extreme temperatures. High temperatures and more frequent and severe drought, punctuated by extreme precipitation events, may affect the structure and function of grasslands in many ways. For example, drought may kill vegetation and reduce livestock forage capacity as well as floral resources for pollinators. Likewise, higher temperatures can negatively impact grassland wildlife causing the nests of birds to fail, for example. Combined changes in precipitation and temperature may also affect nutrient cycling and carbon sequestration in grassland soils, and exacerbate invasive plant threats.
Mitigation strategies
To address the challenges facing grasslands under climate change, our recent study developed a ‘Climate Adaptation Menu’ for grasslands. An adaptation menu is a scientifically vetted list of strategies with specific practices meant to provide natural resource professionals a diversity of options to mitigate climate change in grassland ecosystems. The menu was developed by systematically reviewing existing scientific recommendations and soliciting input from management professionals. We identified eight broad strategies with many specific actions associated with each.
Many of these strategies can be enacted across entire regions while others reflect practices that can be implemented at individual grassland sites. For example, strategic conservation investments in topographically complex areas could help bolster grassland resilience to extreme temperatures. Locally, changes in grassland management could also be implemented, such as shifting the timing of essential prescribed burns as springs become hotter and drier.
Ultimately, climate adaptation is the science of adjusting to a new climate reality. It is important to recognise that our grasslands and the managers tasked with their conservation will need support to maintain the many services that grasslands provide. The Grassland Adaptation Menu is intended to serve as a starting point for climate adaptation and provide much needed guidance for our grasslands in a changing world.
Illustration by Valerie Doebley
Further Reading
Bernath-Plaisted, J. S., S. D. Handler, M. Ahlering, L. A. Brandt, S. B. Maresh Nelson, N. D. Niemuth, T. Ontl et al. 2025. A climate adaptation menu for North American grasslands. Conservation Science and Practice: e70017. https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.70017.
The Indian Ocean is hot stuff and one can’t say this enough; though being ‘hot’ is great until it’s not. Despite the fixing of maritime and territorial boundaries across its waters, Indian Ocean countries—lined up from African to Antipodean shores—remain connected, bustling multicultural sites, reminiscent of its ancient markets and trade routes. However, the imaginaries of souk-style easy cultural mobility and intermingling have given way to modern, specialised and elite gatherings, symposia, and seminars, where new inequalities and configurations replace the old. Legitimate mobility is no longer the defining feature of this part of the world; rather, it is distress migration from the deltaic and degraded ecosystems of the Indian Ocean that has gained notoriety in our times.
Information, strategy, and capital are traded and reproduced in exclusive networks of Indian Ocean blue economies. Subjects range from security, terrorism, tourism, ecology, mining, undersea exploration, carbon conservation, illegal, unreported and unregulated fishing, disasters, and echoes of oceanic (dis)connected histories. The literal heating up of the Indian Ocean with rising global temperatures affects all of these sectors and conversations. Two aspects mark this new interest in climate discourse—there are few voices from where climate impacts the most, and there is little plain speak on the inconvenient truths of climate, such as differentiated responsibilities for climate impacts (or simply put: who is going to pay for saving the Indian Ocean).
India is a good case in point. Marine systems receive limited attention and there is a need to mainstream ‘real’ issues into conversations about climate. The changing climate dynamic of the Indian Ocean entails a range of consequences from perturbations to the monsoon to cascading impacts on fisheries, agriculture, and the people dependent on them. Despite these looming threats, most of the recent press on the subject discusses little else other than extraction and harvesting resources under the blue economy umbrella. However, this extraction-focused mode is still in its early stages in some sectors, and there is potential for course correction even if we start now.
While countries should of course benefit from fish and other marine resources, planning needs to have an eye on future scenarios—not only in terms of continued availability of resources, but also in terms of inclusion, equity, and justice. Some geographies need special attention. In the Indian mainland, these can be states dealing with overfishing and distress migrations. On the other hand, with their large Exclusive Economic Zones and their remoteness, Indian island systems such as the Lakshadweep Islands and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands are more comparable to Small Island Developing States, which have their own peculiar set of challenges. These regions need new approaches that simultaneously integrate the blue economy with the challenges to blue justice.
One way to get climate action going is the arena of communication. Experts point to some unhealthy trends in this domain too, across the globe. On the one hand, there is little attention to solutions related to meaningful adaptation or feasible green energy transitions. On the other, an excessive focus on doomsday scenarios inures the general public into numbness, akin to doom scrolling or watching daily war reports on the news. Finally, there is a slow closing within the public sphere of marginal streams of knowledge that could transform on-the-ground and policy practices in controversial areas such as aquaculture, merely on account of communication capture by powerful actors.
Local governments in maritime nations struggle with the capacities to address the nuances of climate impacts in coastal areas. Preliminary enquiries in our areas of work in Odisha and Tamil Nadu, for instance, reveal inconsistent state funding for adaptation, absence of expertise within state Climate Cells, and an equation of climate adaptation with disaster management. Virtually none of the socio-technical infrastructure for climate in local and regional governments is sensitive to fisheries declines or marine ecosystem degradation (such as through marine plastics). The plethora of multinational projects that seek to address climate impacts largely rely on conventional disaster management techniques such as shoreline reinforcements, bunding, etc., that have proven poor track records. Other projects simply include plantations, often without attention to community tenurial arrangements over coastal commons.
Climate change strategies across the Indian Ocean lack a coastal-marine focus, specialist knowledge, and community engagement. Marine and coastal issues are often neglected in the larger narratives surrounding development, conservation, and climate change. Recentering coastal communities and ecosystems will require the building of capacities, but also investment of energy and diverse knowledge in strategic communications.
Several examples exist across civil society spaces, led by non-governmental organisations, universities, student groups, and individual actions. Some of these efforts are described in the articles in this issue. Not all efforts result in positive feedback for the system as a whole. The commercial interest in blue carbon sequestration against all odds, highlighted by Sisir Pradhan, is an example of negative implications of climate action. Surya Prabha and Sunil Santha’s work on seaweed farming draws attention to the difficulties inherent in crafting simplistic win-win solutions, where winners are few and losses multiple.
Climate change interventions also need funding and appropriate philanthropic engagement—and there is very little of that, at least for the oceans. When it comes to environmental issues, we find that marine issues receive only a fraction of the funding that terrestrial systems receive. Climate change with its imperceptible shifts (at least in its early years) as opposed to sudden visible catastrophes has been perceived as more of a benign risk, if at all. The few philanthropic dollars and rupees that actually do overcome climate deniers and their ilk often find their way into mitigation rather than adaptation projects.
Two oceans away in New York, each year Climate Week comes together as another bustling gathering. Drawing the world’s strongest advocates, innovators, and investors in climate action, the irony of its existence and performance did not escape us. In September 2024, we joined the ranks of participants who struggled to navigate Manhattan traffic and narrow streets across the dispersed venues of Climate Week. We entered and exited promising climate conversations, only to have the wind knocked out of us each time we encountered Manhattan’s glass towers of pure capital. Day 1 was a shocker, Day 3 almost comical, and by the end of the week, we longed for a space of less violent cognitive dissonance.
The Indian Ocean has been a space that wove in difference along with tumult. Whether in (climate) action or thought, between its unequal peoples and plans, the future imaginaries of the Indian Ocean must be guided by greater harmony and accord; features that make it an ocean that’s hot, for the right reasons.
Coastal communities along the Indian Ocean are among the most vulnerable to climate change. Rising sea levels, intensifying cyclones, saltwater intrusion, and erratic weather are no longer distant threats—they are unfolding now, threatening homes, health, and livelihoods across the region. These changes are already disrupting food systems, freshwater access, and the economic foundations of coastal life.
The Indian Ocean is more than a geographic feature—it is a vital, life-sustaining force for millions across South and Southeast Asia, East Africa, and island nations. It supports marine biodiversity and underpins both small-scale livelihoods and broader regional economies. Yet despite its centrality, climate communication often fails to reach the communities that depend on it most.
Addressing climate change in the Indian Ocean region demands more than scientific data—it requires communication that is clear, locally grounded, and actionable. When communities understand the changes unfolding along their coasts and within their marine ecosystems, they can adapt, participate in climate governance, and build resilience. Bridging the gap between climate science and lived experience is essential—so that those most affected are also the best prepared.
Coastal realities
For climate communication to be effective, it must begin with an understanding of the audience. Coastal communities bring deep-rooted knowledge, observations, and lived experiences that shape their understanding of the environments around them. Their perspectives are influenced by generational wisdom, cultural beliefs, and practical knowledge of coastal ecosystems. However, these insights are often overlooked in climate discussions, as communicators (such as trainers) sometimes assume they are starting with a ‘blank slate’.
Instead of seeing coastal communities as passive recipients of scientific knowledge, climate communication should recognise and build on what they already know. Coastal communities have observed shifts in fish migration, changes in monsoon patterns, and worsening coastal erosion. Linking these first-hand observations to broader climate trends and technical notions can make climate communication more relevant, relatable, and actionable, effectively bridging the gap between scientific discourse, policy actions, and lived experiences.
Translating climate science
One of the major challenges in climate communication is the complexity (and sometimes incommensurability) of scientific language, particularly when discussing climate governance and adaptation strategies. Concepts like ‘carbon sequestration’ or ‘global warming potential’ often have no direct equivalents in the regional languages spoken by maritime communities along the Indian Ocean. Instead of relying on simplifying these concepts alone, climate communication could focus on how these changes are experienced in daily life.
For instance, rather than explaining ocean acidification with technical jargon, communicators can discuss its impact through observable changes in shellfish like oysters and mussels, whose weakened shells or declining numbers may signal environmental stress in coastal ecosystems, which in turn threatens the livelihoods of small-scale fisherfolk. These stories can open up discussions about possible causes and help relate these changes to broader climate processes like the carbon cycle in non-technical, accessible terms.
Another significant challenge in climate communication is the disconnect between abstract climate projections and the immediate priorities of coastal communities, who often focus on daily survival rather than long-term environmental risks. To make global climate debates locally relevant, it is essential to connect them to proximate problems such as changes in weather patterns, declining fish catch, saltwater intrusion into drinking water sources, and the increasing frequency of cyclones—while explicitly linking these to changes in global climate.
For instance, rather than presenting sea-level rise along the Indian Ocean’s shorelines as an abstract or isolated concept, communicators can discuss how this global phenomenon directly affects everyday life. Rising global temperatures, driven by greenhouse gas emissions, are causing polar ice caps to melt and oceans to expand—leading to higher sea levels. This rise increases the inland reach of saltwater, contaminating drinking water sources and gradually reducing the productivity of coastal lands.
Similarly, declining fish catch may not only be due to overfishing but also to shifting ocean temperatures and acidification—both consequences of climate change. By clearly attributing these impacts to climate change while illustrating their immediate effects, discussions can pave the way for exploring adaptation strategies, such as salt-tolerant crops, improved drinking water access, or loss and damage support. This approach ensures that climate action feels more immediate, actionable, and directly tied to the global climate crisis.
Furthermore, a one-size-fits-all approach to climate communication often falls short. Different groups within coastal communities along the Indian Ocean—such as small-scale fishermen, women in seafood processing, or youth engaged in alternative livelihoods—experience climate change in distinct ways. A blanket message about, say, the increasing frequency of cyclones may not resonate as much as a discussion on how extreme heat affects fish storage, or how it strains women’s health as they walk long distances under the sweltering sun to collect drinking water for their households.
Engaging pedagogical strategies
For climate communication to be engaging and impactful, it must move beyond instructor-driven lectures and reports. Interactive and participatory methods are more effective in ensuring meaningful learning. Some key approaches include:
Storytelling and oral narratives
Coastal communities across the Indian Ocean—ranging from Sri Lankan fisherfolk to Malagasy coastal dwellers—have strong oral traditions, making storytelling a powerful tool for climate communication. Folktales, historical anecdotes, and personal experiences can help connect abstract scientific concepts and lived realities.
For instance, instead of explaining shoreline erosion purely as a scientific phenomenon, communicators can draw on local accounts of once-thriving fishing spots that have vanished due to coastal degradation. Along Kenya’s coastline, fisherfolk in Lamu recall how their fishing grounds have shrunk due to mangrove loss and rising sea levels. In the Maldives, older generations remember the ocean as an endless source of beauty and abundance. Today, that very ocean threatens their existence—rising sea levels have caused saltwater to seep into freshwater sources, making groundwater unfit for cooking, watering plants, or growing food.
In India’s Sundarbans—one of the world’s largest mangrove forests—where rising sea levels and increasing salinity threaten livelihoods, older residents recount how freshwater ponds once supported fisheries and agriculture but are now turning brackish, forcing communities to adapt. Meanwhile, in coastal Bangladesh, communities share stories of how tidal floods have become more frequent and intense, inundating homes, contaminating drinking water, and forcing people to elevate their homes or migrate seasonally.
Stories of past cyclones in Odisha—such as Cyclone Phailin in 2013 and Fani in 2019—and how traditional knowledge helped people prepare, can make climate risks feel more immediate while preserving indigenous wisdom. By framing climate change through familiar narratives, communities can connect emotionally to the issue, making it more relevant and actionable.
Audio-visual instructional methods
Audio-visual methods can enhance climate communication by engaging audiences more effectively than traditional blackboard-driven sessions. Tools like infographics, animated videos, and data visualisations simplify complex climate concepts, while interactive approaches— such as virtual simulations, remote-sensing images, and 3D models—make them more tangible.
For instance, along the coast of Mozambique, a participatory activity where community members sketch their village’s shoreline as they remember it from childhood, then compare it with satellite imagery, can spark meaningful conversations about disappearing beaches, shifting tides, and the urgent need for adaptation strategies.
In the Seychelles, drone footage capturing coral reef degradation due to warming seas visually underscores the impact of ocean acidification, deepening public understanding of climate-induced marine changes. Similarly, in Madagascar, where coastal erosion is a mounting concern, time-lapse videos of receding shorelines help communities grasp the gradual yet alarming pace of change, reinforcing the urgency of conservation and adaptation. These immersive approaches not only foster deeper understanding but also inspire proactive planning for coastal resilience.
Hands-on and experiential learning
Active participation could strengthen climate understanding by making scientific concepts more tangible. In many coastal settings, engaging communities in simple and hands-on monitoring activities can serve as powerful tools to connect climate variability with local realities.
For instance, in regions where fish species exhibit seasonal variation or repeated spawning visits, community-kept logs can help track ecological patterns over time. In low-lying agricultural zones affected by saline intrusion, participatory soil testing may raise awareness of changing environmental baselines. Similarly, in areas experiencing erratic rainfall or declining groundwater levels, maintaining community diaries of rainfall and water table fluctuations can support long-term understanding of climate-driven shifts in coastal water security.
These participatory approaches not only build local knowledge but foster meaningful community engagement in climate adaptation efforts. Extending this further, rather than simply explaining the role of mangroves in coastal protection, communities might better grasp their importance through direct observation and collective reflection. In contexts like Bangladesh’s Sundarbans or Odisha’s Bhitarkanika region, guided visits to areas with varying degrees of mangrove degradation could help participants observe differences in shoreline stability, water clarity, and fish presence—offering insights into how mangroves might function as natural buffers against erosion and storm surges.
Likewise, in parts of East Africa such as Zanzibar, involving coastal communities in planting and monitoring mangrove saplings—alongside dialogue on their role in the carbon cycle—could nurture deeper connections between ecosystem restoration and climate resilience.
Community-led dialogues
Climate knowledge should be co-created with local communities to ensure relevance and inclusivity. Organising discussions where fisherfolk and farmers, especially women, share their observations helps ground climate communication and adaptation strategy within lived experiences. These local insights can then be linked to broader climate science, fostering a sense of ownership and encouraging practical solutions.
For example, in Oman, Cyclone Gonu (2007) severely damaged desalination plants, leading to widespread water shortages and exposing coastal communities’ vulnerability to climate-induced water scarcity. In Somalia, rising temperatures are believed to have accelerated fish spoilage, directly affecting small-scale marine fisheries. Along Pakistan’s southern coast, women engaged in drying and processing fish struggle to preserve their catch due to extreme heat, leading to economic losses. Meanwhile, in coastal Tamil Nadu, caregivers are noticing a rise in heat-related health issues, particularly among the elderly and children.
By integrating these lived experiences with scientific knowledge, climate communicators can help communities develop locally relevant strategies—such as improved water conservation, climate-resilient fishing practices, and targeted health interventions.
Beyond external expert-driven strategies
For climate communication to be truly effective, it must be rooted in equity and mutual understanding. Often, a major constraint to effective climate communication is the perception that climate knowledge is ‘external’—originating from scientists, policymakers, or NGOs, rather than being grounded in the lived experiences of the community. This disconnect can lead to scepticism or disengagement from coastal communities. The way forward is through shared learning—where climate knowledge is not simply delivered, but co-created with those most affected who also possess expert knowledge of such changes and their impacts using local ecological knowledge.
To truly advance, climate communication in the Indian Ocean region must go beyond merely ‘raising awareness’ to driving meaningful collaborative action. Participatory approaches—where communities themselves record and communicate environmental shifts, share traditional knowledge-based insights across locations, and engage in collaborative solution-building—help ensure that responses are both locally relevant and scientifically accurate.
By fostering trust and prioritising collective learning, we can bridge the dichotomies of knowledge systems, transforming climate adaptation into an inclusive, sustained effort rather than an imposed directive. Ultimately, when climate action is embedded within community-driven knowledge systems, adaptation becomes not just a response to change, but a pathway to resilience, autonomy, and long-term empowerment.
But first, what is a COP? The Conference of the Parties (COP) is an annual meeting of all countries that are parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC). And the UNFCCC is an international treaty adopted in 1992 to address climate change. It provides the framework for international cooperation on climate action, and the COP is the “supreme decision-making body of the Convention”.
The COP’s main goals are to assess global progress in reducing greenhouse gas emissions, adapt to the impacts of climate change, and provide finance, technology, and capacity-building support to help countries reduce their emissions and build resilience to climate change. I work on technologies that help with the first two goals, as well as being active in the climate change literacy space.
The annual conferences are an opportunity to review Parties’ progress against the overall goal of the UNFCCC to limit climate change and to negotiate new measures. In my time, I have attended several climate COPs and have often faced this question: is it really worthwhile attending these meetings?
Reality check
Civil society representatives register for COPs as ‘observers’. The original idea behind the concept was that civil society would act as a watchdog in these annual review and planning meetings and bring the voices of vulnerable and disenfranchised communities from across the world to the negotiations table.
There exist civil society networks with the sole purpose of following and trying to positively influence the UNFCCC negotiations. They do this all year round, not just at the time of the annual COP. Grassroot NGOs often do not have the bandwidth to do this, but try to convey their challenges and asks through such networks.
COP17 held in Durban, South Africa, in 2011 was the first one I attended. At the time, I headed a cooperative of NGOs that were spread across Asia and trying to bring carbon finance to grassroot level projects in the region. It was while representing this international organisation that I encountered and connected with COP-attending Indian civil society for the first time. In 2011, the Indian government and civil society were on the same page about the international discourse on climate change. Every evening one of the Indian negotiators updated the Indian observers about the ongoing discussions.
In hindsight, I now think this was perhaps the first COP where civil society members across the board started becoming disillusioned with the UNFCCC process. A couple of years earlier at COP15 in Copenhagen, Denmark, global civil society representatives were present in large numbers, filled with positivity and hope. Barack Obama had recently become the US president and was bringing the country back into climate action. The COP attendees fervently believed that he could and would motivate all developed countries to take bolder actions to solve the climate crisis and fulfill the commitments under the Kyoto Protocol—which was adopted in 1997 (but entered into force only in 2005) and set binding targets for industrialised countries and economies in transition to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.
But the COP15 declaration just contained platitudes with no real action agenda, and civil society members across the world felt betrayed. The next COP in Cancun, Mexico, in 2010 also did not reach any consensus on the pathway post-Kyoto Protocol, although a green climate fund did get established.
At COP17 global civil society had to finally come to terms with the facts that the Kyoto Protocol was a failure, financial commitments were being made but not fulfilled, and no global consensus seemed possible on the way forward. It was also obvious that even though the protocol was ‘legally binding’, there were not going to be any ‘penalising’ consequences for developed countries who failed to meet their commitments.
On the other hand, developing countries were now being pressured to primarily take on the burden of emission reductions. The message was loud and clear—the most powerful governments of the world were simply not interested in genuinely addressing climate change.
Alarm bells ringing
Life went on for me with my teaching and outreach work, but I got pulled into the world of global climate negotiations again, when I had an opportunity to attend COP24 in 2018. It was held in Katowice, Poland, and this time I was representing an Indian civil society organisation that had been an observer since COP1.
I noticed several changes compared to COP17. First, by this time the Paris Agreement—another legally binding treaty, with the goal of limiting global warming to “well below 2°C above pre-industrial levels” and ideally to cap it at 1.5°C—had been signed (2015) and ratified (2016), but had not yet officially come into force. However, history had repeated itself, with the US pulling out from yet another global climate agreement. Second, participants from Indian civil society no longer seemed to enjoy a camaraderie with the Indian government negotiators.
Third, I saw that observers were no longer mostly civil society, but increasingly for-profit organisations—some enterprises in the renewable energy, waste management, and other sectors, but a disturbingly large number of fossil fuel companies. It was also ironic that Katowice was a coal mine city—the COP venue was a stadium built on the site of an old coal mine, and the Polish head of state declared in the inaugural address that they would not give up coal in the near future.
I have attended the last three COPs—Sharm-el-Sheikh, Egypt (2022), Dubai, United Arab Emirates (2023), and Baku, Azerbaijan (2024). All these locations were fossil fuel-driven economies. While negotiators haggle over the emission reduction and financial targets of the Paris Agreement, the presence of a large number of fossil fuel company executives is now normalised. The Indian government delegation no longer acknowledges Indian civil society presence, but embraces representatives of the Indian business ecosystem instead. And for civil society organisations, COP is increasingly just a means to interact with like-minded people across the globe, to form new connections and possibly initiate new efforts to deal with their own climate-changed realities.
Silver lining
The 2025 meeting (COP30) will take place in Belém, Brazil. Greenhouse gas emissions have steadily increased through the past three decades, although the rise would have been more rapid without the UNFCCC process. Vulnerable communities, such as those in the small island nations and coastal regions of the Indian Ocean, are suffering more and more hardships, but whatever little financial and technical support they are getting, would not exist without the UNFCCC. While it is valid to question the relevance of UNFCCC and COPs, we also must ask—what other mechanism is there to achieve any kind of international cooperation to deal with this global crisis?
Each COP I attended exposed me to different perspectives and solutions, and ways to cope with the stress and frustration commonplace in this sector. I forged friendships with folks from different countries, and found the inspiration and strength to keep going. I came back from every COP with new ideas, and new resolve. These encounters positively influenced my own work, and therefore the lives of those touched by my work.
Climate change is a global crisis. As we grapple with climate-induced challenges locally, it helps to place these struggles in an international context, and to see ourselves as a part of a global community trying to survive. The annual COPs help keep this community hopeful. This may not ‘solve’ the climate crisis, but it does help with ‘coping’ with the outcomes of the crisis And that is reason enough for me to keep attending climate COPs.
Blue carbon refers to the carbon dioxide stored within vegetated coastal and marine ecosystems, such as mangroves, saltmarshes, and seagrass meadows. The term first emerged in the United Nations Environment Programme 2009 report titled Blue carbon: The role of healthy oceans in binding carbon.
Studies show that although blue carbon ecosystems only constitute only 2 percent of the ocean area and 5 percent of the global land area, they are significant natural carbon sinks, accounting for nearly 50 percent of all carbon buried in marine sediments. The carbon removal efficiency per unit of the blue carbon ecosystem is supposed to be five times higher and its absorption capacity three times faster than tropical forests.
Blue carbon ecosystems as nature-based solutions have the potential to address both climate mitigation and adaptation challenges at relatively low cost, while delivering a range of co-benefits for people and nature. But while there is a strong acknowledgement of the importance of conservation and governance by scientific communities, policymakers, market players, and proximate community groups, these ecosystems are fast degrading.
It is estimated that more than 50 percent of saltmarshes, 35 percent of mangroves and 29 percent seagrass meadows have been lost since the mid-20th century. The loss is attributed to climate-induced impacts, such as sea level rise and extreme weather events, as well as coastal development action. When these ecosystems are degraded, they not only fail to act as carbon sinks, but also contribute to carbon emissions by releasing stored carbon into the atmosphere. With a global annual loss of blue carbon ecosystems between 0.7 to 7 percent annually, it is projected that these ecosystems are releasing between 0.15 and 1.02 billion tons of carbon into the atmosphere each year, contributing significantly to anthropogenic climate change.
Recently blue carbon has received enormous global attention for climate action. The 16th climate COP (Conference of the Parties) in 2010 specifically accorded high importance to blue carbon ecosystems in this context. Subsequently, international and national policy instruments—including Nationally Determined Contributions, which are national climate action plans under the Paris Agreement, with the aim of limiting global warming to well below 2°C above pre-industrial levels—place stronger emphasis on blue carbon opportunities.
The recent trend is also skewed towards widespread commodification of marine resources, mainly through blue carbon markets. On the one hand, initiatives patronised by environmental conservation organisations and private sector groups, such as Blue Carbon Buyers Alliance, are advancing an exclusionary conservation agenda. On the other hand, large-scale investments through Blue Economy initiatives are altering existing social-ecological relationships within these blue carbon systems.
This article outlines two broad contours of blue carbon governance that include: (1) complexities arising out of the commoditisation1 of blue carbon areas, with an exclusive focus on carbon in global trade (2) changing social-ecological relationships in terms of distributional, procedural, and recognitional justice issues for local communities (see footnotes).
The carbon tunnel vision trap
The financialisation of ecosystem services, especially of aggregate carbon values through the carbon market, is one of the dominant pathways to promoting climate action. The product value chain approach with a buyer-centric market system is plagued with competing interests and power imbalances in favour of buyers and system facilitators, and is characterised by misuse by actors who are not the stewards of the blue carbon resources. Markets are also unclear about the true valuation of co-benefits such as coastal protection, disaster proofing, and local livelihoods associated with blue carbon systems.
“Carbon tunnel vision” also limits the capacity to design and deliver cross-sectional climate action with a holistic view of biodiversity conservation, habitat protection, human rights, and well-being considerations. It deepens the trap of scientific, sectoral decision-making which at times lies at cross-purposes with other dimensions of climate adaptation and mitigation action.
There has also been a growing interest in formulating legal mechanisms that commodify, monetise, maximise, and merchandise the marine environment’s carbon sequestration services, as well as a justified growing concern over these proposals. There are plenty of incidents where this reductionist view of climate action is generating serious social-ecological consequences. And while there is a great thrust on geo-engineering climate solutions in marine spaces, the impacts on coastal systems such as fisheries, seagrass areas, and mangrove forests are yet to be evaluated.
Greenwashing is quite common in the absence of appropriate mechanisms for proper valuation of blue carbon resources, including its co-benefits. In their 2024 study, Achakulwisut et al. state emphatically that it is time to move beyond the “carbon tunnel vision” demonstrated in widespread greenwashing through so-called carbon neutral oil and gas projects. Their scholarship highlighted the serious negative impacts of these projects on biodiversity, fisheries and blue carbon habitats, alongside the violation of human rights in Latin America, Africa, and North America.
Similarly, there is ample evidence of forest fishers in the Sundarbans facing “double marginalisation” from fortress conservation in marine protected areas, accentuated by extractive blue carbon projects. This results in increasing restrictions on local communities entering the forests for fishing and the collection of golpata (leaves of the Nipa palm, Nypa fruticans) and honey.
Equity and social justice
Blue carbon ecosystems are spread across areas where coastal communities, small-scale fishers and Indigenous Peoples live. These diverse peoples directly rely on these resources for livelihoods, food and nutritional security, and well-being. These systems are where different land and aquatic resource tenures/rights intersect and underpin the sustenance of global aquatic food systems. Despite a proclaimed ‘focus on social equity’ as part of broader Blue Economy discourse, much of the attention on blue carbon and the ocean (or blue) economy currently focuses on aspects of economic viability, ecological sustainability, and technological innovation. There is little attention given to issues of procedural, distributional and recognitional justice2 . At worst, it represents an expansion of green colonialism.
A global scan of technical guidance documents on blue carbon markets, their governance, and investment, undertaken by a group of scholars led by Sarah Lawless, reveals a superficial consideration of tenure aspects of small-scale fishers. Of the documents they reviewed, some recognise access and management rights of the local communities to certain extent. However, very few recognise withdrawal rights (the right to withdraw or harvest resources within the area to which tenure extends) and exclusion rights (where rights-holders lawfully exclude or ban others from using certain resources and accessing areas). In fact, none of this guidance even acknowledges transformation rights (the ability to change the land—area and resources—so that it has a different use).
Further market mechanisms such as the long carbon credit retirement timeframe3 , limitations of transaction length (which determines the delivery obligations placed on local communities), and ambiguity and lack of transparency in penalty clauses for protection lapse, further weaken tenure rights and tilt the power in favour of carbon market actors.
According to Global Atlas of Environmental Justice (EJAtlas), environmental defenders, especially from Indigenous and other marginalised groups, face high rates of criminalisation and physical violence across different geographies of the world. Incidents of criminalisation of non-timber forest product collection in Sundarbans, timber collection for firewood, and fishing by small-scale fishers in marine protected areas which are potential blue carbon markets, cause rising tension between traditional users of resources and blue carbon proponents.
The literature also suggests that the complexities of blue carbon ecosystems are not simple to address. Social science scholars argue that recognition of tenure in the early stage of a blue carbon project is important. However, the formalisation of tenure—unless founded on principles of deliberation, community partnership, co-production, recognition of customary and full rights to resources, and addressing historical inequalities—may not result in fair and distributional justice in favour of coastal communities and local fishers.
While procedural, distributional and recognitional justice concerns are quite evident, there are some positive examples that are more optimistic about improved community agency in the governance of blue carbon systems. For instance the Vonga Blue Forest Project in Kenya demonstrates a collaborative approach with legislation recognising community co-management and a greater appreciation of community livelihood co-benefits and biodiversity conservation. Similarly, the community-based management of seagrass and mangrove ecosystems in the Philippines, promotes blue carbon ecosystem management through traditional governance practices and the active involvement of local communities and fisherfolk associations.
Paradigm shift
The growing interest in the transformation of blue carbon ecosystems into marketable carbon assets represents a profound shift in how these resources are valued and governed. These governance transitions are not merely technical adjustments but entail significant redistribution of wealth and decision-making power. Rather, they raise fundamental questions about who controls, benefits from, and has access to coastal resources that have traditionally supported local livelihoods through fishing, tourism, and cultural practices.
Current blue carbon market frameworks exhibit significant inadequacies with their failure to appreciate complex tenure systems intersecting with formal and informal governance arrangements, and a lack of equitable benefit sharing and the persistence of the carbon tunnel vision. The market structure often fails to account for traditional resource tenure systems and the customary rights of fishers and coastal communities. This carries the risk of disrupting existing social-ecological relationships, which often manifest as reduced food security, loss of income, cultural erosion, and even displacement from ancestral territories and increased threat to conservation.
The ethical challenges of blue carbon markets are exacerbated by power asymmetries between the global actors who design these systems and the local communities expected to implement them. There is an absolute reliance on scientific knowledge about carbon sequestration, and technical requirements for monitoring, reporting, and verification often exceeding local capacity without substantial external support. These structural inequities suggest that without significant reconfiguration, blue carbon markets risk reinforcing rather than addressing existing patterns of environmental injustice.
Like other nature-based climate solutions, blue carbon requires the transformation of social and cultural relationships—between private and public actors, local and global finance, and scientific and other knowledge systems. There is a need to move beyond superficial community engagement to concrete actionable approaches. Common phrases include “establishing partnerships”, “improving community knowledge”, and “undertaking stakeholder engagement”—terms that lack specificity regarding implementation mechanisms, power-sharing arrangements, or measurable outcomes.
The shift in market behaviour and blue carbon governance requires institutional innovation and policy reform. The academic and policy communities must also address the disconnect between blue carbon initiatives and the substantial body of knowledge on community-based natural resource management developed over decades. Effective engagement strategies should draw on proven approaches from related fields, such as community forestry, co-managed fisheries, and Indigenous conservation territories, rather than treating blue carbon as an entirely novel domain requiring new engagement paradigms.
Commoditisation is a term that refers not just to the commodification of an entity (adding a price to a product), but involves processes of its standardisation coupled with a focus on interchangeability across different producers and buyers ↩︎
Procedural justice refers to the level of participation and inclusiveness of decision-making, and the quality of governance processes. Distributional justice can be defined as fairness in the distribution of benefits and harms of decisions and actions to different groups. Merely procedural and distributional justice will not serve their purpose unless combined with recognitional justice. Recognitional justice provides for the acknowledgement of and respect for pre-existing governance arrangements as well as the distinct rights, worldviews, knowledge, needs, livelihoods, histories, and cultures of different groups in decision-making. ↩︎
A carbon credit retirement timeframe refers to the period of permanent removal from the carbon registry and restriction of further circulations. ↩︎
Atchison J, Foster R, Bell-James J. 2024. Blue carbon as just transition? A structured literature review. Global Sustainability 7: e27. https://doi.org/10.1017/sus.2024.24.
Vierros, M. 2017. Communities and blue carbon: the role of traditional management systems in providing benefits for carbon storage, biodiversity conservation and livelihoods. Climatic Change 140(1): 89–100. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10584-013-0920-3.
“Ekul bhange okul gore, Eta nodir khela” (One side erodes, one side grows, that is the river’s play)
These lines about the Bengal Delta, penned by the renowned Bangla poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, play in my mind as I walk on a mud-paved path along the salty and turbid Matla River, overlooking mangroves on one side and a flooded village on the other.
The fluvial-tidal Bengal Delta is where the 10,000-km2 expanse of the Sundarbans mangrove forest comprising about 250 islands is located, straddling India and Bangladesh. The delta was formed by the erosion and accretion of a rich load of sediments brought by the Ganga, Brahmaputra, and Meghna Rivers originating in the Himalayas.
The delta shaped by these sediments is home to the largest contiguous mangrove forest, full of rich biodiversity and endemic species like the Ganges river dolphin (Platanista gangetica gangetica), the northern river terrapin (Batagur baska), and the only mangrove forest to host a tiger (Panthera tigris tigris). The sediments settling in the Bengal Delta and those flowing out to the Bay of Bengal and into the Indian Ocean tell us about the Sundarbans’ past, present, and future.
Creating a new equilibrium
Socio-ecological changes in the recent past tell us how the geography of the delta evolved. The first mass inhabitation of the Sundarbans began in the late 1800s, leading to the deforestation of mangroves and the introduction of agriculture to the muddy wetlands.
However, at the periphery of the islands, 1–2 km of mangrove forest area was always kept intact by settlers. This helped prevent the impacts of flooding, tidal surges and extreme winds from affecting the delta’s inhabitants while providing a sustained supply of resources.
While habitations grew on some islands, most were left undisturbed for mangroves and associated flora and fauna to thrive. A new equilibrium was reached where artisanal fishing and farming developed in tune with nature’s patterns.
Disturbed equilibrium
The equilibrium of periodic erosion and accretion that Kazi Nazrul Islam recited in his poem, and that early settlers learned to live with, is now disturbed by a combination of new anthropogenic activities. Despite strict forest protection since the 1950s and being tagged as a World Heritage Site, the Sundarbans are witnessing widespread environmental degradation from maritime transportation (for industrial raw material, fishing, and tourism), upstream dams, and a range of industrial factories in its midst.
Maritime transportation causes changes in river hydrology and creates wave wake, which increases erosion and pressures on biodiversity due to noise and water pollution. This has led to mangroves—coastal protectors, key actors in climate change mitigation, and environmental regulators—losing their ability to withstand change and its impacts.
Mangroves are known to be adaptable and resilient. These abilities helped them grow in a harsh tidal environment and adapt to salt water and frequent inundation. Mangroves in the Sundarbans found a rhythm to dance to—the balanced beats of erosion and accretion; until it was disrupted by human interventions that interfered with the sedimentation processes. Once disturbed, mangroves started losing ground. The mangrove area decreased with increasing erosion and lack of sediment settlement where new mangroves could grow.
My doctoral research showed that since 1985, the Sundarbans have lost about 137 km2 of forests due to shoreline erosion alone. Additionally, increased erosion led to changes in species composition, altered biophysical characteristics, and increased vulnerability to extreme weather impacts. Today, shoreline erosion is also the second largest cause of mangrove loss globally, following deforestation for commodities. A combination of loss of mangrove cover, ecosystem degradation, and ongoing anthropogenic impacts on sedimentation has led to a reduced protective function of mangroves in the Sundarbans.
The islands’ geography responded to this disturbed equilibrium. The 1–2 km buffer of mangroves around the islands no longer existed. Coastlines exposed to the river, like the mud-paved path I walked on, became commonplace. Houses, ponds, and farmland no longer had the protection of mangroves; they were now directly exposed to the muddy river.
“We were better off. It was only after the land loss that things turned out this way. With passing generations, we are losing prosperity. We do not have much left. We are scared that one day when we have nowhere to go, we will erode just like our motherland,” said one coastal dweller and fisher in Fokirkona, Bangladesh, back in 2021.
The mud-paved path was created, repaired, and sustained using mangrove mud by the villagers for many decades. Recently, cement, stones, and bricks replaced mangrove mud, in the name of coastal protection. But these new materials contrast with the geography of the delta. In the muddy, wet and mangrove-rich Sundarbans, they could not withstand the impact of the sea and winds or match the rhythm of the tides, and eventually collapsed.
However, as they collapsed, they caused flooding of the islands and took away farmland, ponds, front yards, and parts of or whole houses with them. The cement embankments are the new age coastal adaptations, first designed in the Netherlands, for the Netherlands’ geography. Whether or not these embankments protected the Dutch coastlines, they are now being popularly marketed and funded by international NGOs to be deployed in coastal West Bengal and Bangladesh as “climate change adaptation measures”.
Climate change adaptation is supposed to be a response that ameliorates or safeguards one from experiencing the harmful impacts of climate change. To call the cement embankments this is flawed from many angles.
First, blaming an intangible notion like climate change for the recent disequilibrium hides the impact caused by locally-induced human pressures, and creates a sense of dystopia. Second, selling ‘solutions’ that not only fail to protect shorelines, but actually increase vulnerability while decreasing the resilience of both people and nature, should be termed a ‘maladaptation’.
Living in disequilibrium
I was also curious to know why the concrete embankment, which fails to protect the shorelines and causes flooding, land loss, and transportation disruption, continues to be rebuilt. The repeated rebuilding has become the favoured measure of “coastal adaptation” for several actors. While the funding to support livelihoods and disaster risk reduction in a poverty-stricken and disaster-prone area is sorely lacking, funding for such maladaptive structures keeps flowing.
Take the case of Hemnagar, bordering India and Bangladesh along the Raimangal River, where multiple cycles of embankment construction, collapse, and reconstruction has rendered the majority of its population landless. The locals recognise the shortcomings of the embankments. However, their reliance on these maladaptive structures for sustenance is increasing.
For instance, Sheena didi, a resident of Hemnagar, has lost her house, farmland, and ponds to multiple cycles of embankments. Mangrove restoration is not a solution, as the changed ecogeomorphology of the coastline will not support mangrove plantations. Now that the current embankment is in shambles, she faces frequent flooding even in the dry season. With the next bout of embankment reconstruction, she awaits a further loss of even her small, thatched-roof shack, right next to the embankment. The locals understand the fleeting presence of these so-called ‘hard’ structures. Still, in lieu of a preparedness plan or support for one, the landless villagers have no choice but to rely on the unfulfilled promise of embankments.
One solution does not fit all
Mangrove shorelines are dynamic, and environmental stressors impact different parts of the shoreline differently based on their histories. Considering the different characteristics of the shoreline that I studied, I concluded that the adaptation to mangrove shoreline erosion needs to align with the shoreline’s geography or physical characteristics. Not addressing the root causes of mangrove shoreline erosion, the biophysical processes along the shoreline, or the socio-political aspects of shoreline protection, will result in failed adaptations and trigger a negative feedback loop that exacerbates poor resilience of the shoreline and shoreline-dwelling communities.
In the case of the Sundarbans, I realised that the coastal adaptation initially designed for the Netherlands failed to provide support and triggered a rebounding feedback loop, triggering further damage and altering the local ecogeography. Although the near future of the coastlines in the Sundarbans is uncertain, with sound mangrove restoration, management and protection, the shorelines in the Sundarbans can still be made resilient. Upon sharing my research and scoping for solutions with the local villagers in India and Bangladesh, they responded in unison: “Our Shorelines, Our Solution.”
Coastal adaptations must be customised to specificities of shorelines, including local socio-economic factors. The inhabited villages where mangroves are present should be protected, the villages where mud embankments are present should be fortified with mangrove restoration. For shorelines where embankments have been introduced, extensive support for increasing disaster preparedness and the overall resilience of the local communities should be a priority. Finally, on the uninhabited islands, mangroves should be left undisturbed and protected.
Mangroves have an inherent ability to protect coastlines, adapt to changes and mitigate climate change. With intentional, ethical, and inclusive management, the equilibrium in the Sundarbans can be restored. Such that, one day, the locals would recite Kazi’s poem, not as satire but in admiration of their local geography.
Further Reading
Bhargava, R., D. Sarkar and D. A. Friess. 2021. A cloud computing-based approach to mapping mangrove erosion and progradation: Case studies from the Sundarbans and French Guiana. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science 248: 106798. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecss.2020.106798.
Bhargava, R. and D. A. Friess. 2022. Previous shoreline dynamics determine future susceptibility to cyclone impact in the Sundarban mangrove forest. Frontiers in Marine Science 9: 814577. https://doi. org/10.3389/fmars.2022.814577.
Dewan, C. 2021. Misreading the Bengal Delta: Climate change, development, and livelihoods in coastal Bangladesh. Seattle: University of Washington Press.
Commercial seaweed farming is the new oceanic frontier in the blue economy era. Marine plants like seaweed have great potential in combating global warming and climate change by sequestering carbon and restoring ecosystems. Seaweed absorbs carbon dioxide through photosynthesis, and its cultivation can sequester up to 1,500 tons of carbon dioxide per km2 annually.
Seaweed also contributes to long-term blue carbon storage when decomposed or buried in sediments. While an increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide could lead to ocean acidification, seaweeds can mitigate its impact by using carbon dioxide for growth, helping to stabilize pH levels. Furthermore, seaweed farms create habitats for marine life, enhance biodiversity, and help mitigate coastal erosion, thereby strengthening resilience against climate change.
Underwater farms
Estimates from the Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations show that approximately 35.8 million tonnes of world algae production (including seaweeds and microalgae) was contributed by 54 countries/territories, with 97 percent of the output coming from cultivation. While China, Indonesia, Korea, Japan, and the Philippines have emerged as lead players in commercial seaweed cultivation in Asia, African countries along the western Indian Ocean, such as Tanzania, Kenya, Madagascar, Mozambique, and Mauritius, are also known for seaweed production.
In India, Gujarat and Tamil Nadu coasts are known for their seaweed diversity and abundance. Abundant seaweed beds are also found along the coasts of Mumbai, Ratnagiri, Goa, Karwar, Varkala, Vizhinjam, Pulicat, and Chilika. Studies show that there is high scope for scaling up commercial seaweed farming on the coasts of Karnataka, Maharashtra, Goa, Kerala, Lakshadweep, Andhra Pradesh, Odisha, and West Bengal.
The Tamil Nadu coast—particularly the Gulf of Mannar and Palk Bay—is a rich biodiversity hotspot for seaweed. In the context of declining fish production and uncertainties in fisheries-based livelihoods, commercial seaweed farming is an alternative livelihood source for many small-scale fishing families along Tuticorin and other parts of the Coromandel Coast, and more specifically along the Gulf of Mannar Biosphere Reserve on the southern coast of India.
Documents published by the Central Salt and Marine Chemicals Research Institute (CSMCRI) and oral histories with local communities show that PepsiCo entered into a formal agreement with CSMCRI for developing seaweed farming technology in 2000. The pilot project commenced in February 2001, when the state government granted PepsiCo access to 1 km of waterfront for seaweed cultivation in Munaikkadu, in the Ramnad district of Tamil Nadu.
By 2003, the project expanded its scope through the test trial of 100 floating bamboo rafts for cultivating elkhorn sea moss (Kappaphycus alvarezii)1. At the same time, the project began to endorse contract farming involving local community members and self-help groups. After the tsunami in 2004, seaweed farming was envisaged as a key strategy to rehabilitate tsunami-affected fishers in the southern districts of Tamil Nadu.
Today, firms like AquAgri, Sea6 Energy, and Pssgt Nextgen Export Company are the key competitors in the seaweed value chain. Some of these firms also engaged in socially innovative processes such as registering fishers, providing them seedlings on credit, and deducting costs from earnings. In collaboration with institutions such as CSMCRI, these firms offer training and capacity-building programmes to seaweed farmers to boost production and deal with emergent crisis situations such as extreme weather events or pest attacks. Through the analysis of narratives and life stories of selected fishers-turned-seaweed farmers located in the outskirts of Tuticorin city, we can understand the impacts of the new materials and ideas around seaweed in shaping their everyday lives. We interviewed 15 fishers-turned-seaweed farmers and observed their daily livelihood practices closely.
Fishers to farmers
Born into families of fishers, the people we spoke to relate to the ocean based on the knowledge shared by their elders and others who are intimately familiar with the ocean. The nature-culture entanglements reflected in terms of their knowledge, relationships, and livelihood practices with the ocean inspire these people to hope for, take risks, and engage persistently with an entrepreneurial spirit. For Murugan, a middle-aged fisher-turned-farmer, the ocean is an encyclopedia that we need to closely observe and peruse to enable sustainable living. “If the wind blows in the right direction, the rains arrive on time, and if the waves remain calm, then we can succeed in seaweed farming.”
For Ajitha, a 32-year-old woman, seaweed farming as a livelihood opportunity emerged when her father shifted from fishing to seaweed farming. In her view, it is the tides that ensure the sustenance of all beings—for aquatic organisms in the sea and people on land. She observes that it is a pure business enterprise for private firms. Nevertheless, for her, it is a means of survival and another way of forging connections with the ocean and her late father. She continues, “The sea has provided for my family, and I have devoted my life for them (sea, seaweed, and family).” For some people, “the sea is their lifeline, companion, and teacher”; for others, the sea is more than a livelihood asset, “a spiritual connection linked to our existence”.
The last two decades have been difficult for these fishers, as there has been a considerable decline in fish catch due to factors such as overexploitation, ocean warming, and extreme weather events. Recalling days of both plentiful catch and empty nets, they say, “Fishing these days has become like gambling. As fish stocks declined, some of us ventured into selling fish in the retail market, but we failed, and losses mounted. A few others shifted to clam collection. During that time, CSMCRI introduced us to seaweed farming, which in a sense became our last hope.”
Gradually, they set up their seaweed farm using inputs such as seeds, ropes, and plastic bottles. Also, they were excited to learn new things about the seaweed. As fisher-turned-farmer Thangapandi remarks, “I have been fortunate to observe how different species grow in various locations. It is fascinating to learn how nature operates.” Nonetheless, they had to endure the harsh sun, confront the unpredictable sea, and adapt to newer farming techniques.
In their own words, “Seaweed farming requires patience and precision. We tie fresh seeds to ropes with plastic bottles and lay them in the water. After 25-30 days, we harvest. It sounds simple, but nature decides everything,” referring to the rough seas, unpredictable rains, and fluctuating temperatures. Due to strong winds and fungal infestations in the raft (a shell type fungi, which fishers locally call as kotrasi), they had to shift from bamboo rafts to the monoline method. They also tried the tube method without much success. Thangapandi says, “It is not just about planting and harvesting. You must continuously monitor tides, check for pests, and always be alert for sudden weather changes.”
For women like Selvi, work starts before sunrise, managing their household and workers. Selvi is a homemaker and businesswoman, managing finances and ensuring fair prices for the fish catch her husband brings to the harbour. Though her husband is an experienced fisher, he struggles with numbers. “My husband goes fishing but does not know math or accounting,” she says. “So, I handle the auction at the harbour.” She ties seaweed, prepares meals, and oversees farming during the seaweed planting season. “If there is no work on our plot, I go elsewhere,” she said. According to her, seaweed farming has provided some financial security. “The money we get is higher than from fishing,” she noted.
Combined earnings range between INR 20,000–25,000 (USD 236–295) a month. Entrepreneurs like Murugan have invested in a machine to process seaweed into liquid fertiliser, expanding their market reach to Gujarat. “With the machine, I now earn about INR 80,000 (USD 945) a month. I never imagined this when I struggled with fishing,” he proudly added. However, Murugan is among the few successful seaweed farmers in the community, while many others are still struggling to establish a secure livelihood base.
Not all rosy
Ocean warming and climate change fuel uncertainties such as the quick spoilage of seaweed. Fishers also note, “The heat in this area has always been high, but it has increased recently. Some fish species are also no longer found here.” Unlike earlier days, weather prediction remains difficult despite technological advances. Further, the fishers observe that the trends to intensify seaweed production throughout the year depletes the reefs by depriving them of their nutrient supply.
Some fishers remark that seaweed farming can only be a supplementary income and cannot replace fisheries as a primary source of livelihood. Earlier, while they were into full-time fishing, community solidarity enabled fishers on this coast to navigate crises together. However, with the diversification into seaweed farming, a sense of individualism predominantly manifests through competition and jealousy among people. Despite mutual dependence, rivalries sometimes lead to acts of sabotage, such as cutting ropes of competitors’ seaweed lines to disrupt harvests.
There are also several barriers, such as market access, pricing, and poor subsidies. Our research participants share that everyday interactions with government and private stakeholders are often complex for a community with a sense of autonomy and occupational freedom. Though private companies provide essential buy-back systems and farm inputs, these are often met with strict sanctions and expectations. Private firms control pricing and market access, constraining their opportunities to sell seaweed independently.
“It is frustrating because we do all the work but have the least control over pricing. They give us just enough to survive but not enough to thrive,” a seaweed farmer said. Buyers prefer to deal with private firms for bulk or wholesale purchases. When asked about loans and subsidies from the government, he responded bitterly, “Even fishermen struggle to get financial help. Who will think about seaweed farmers?”
To summarise, though seaweed farming has emerged as an alternative livelihood source for fishers, climate uncertainties, market barriers, and shifting community relations add new dimensions to their everyday livelihood struggles. Amidst all these challenges, they are still hopeful that the ocean will support them and take care of their needs, as she used to do before the seaweed’s arrival.
Doumeizel, V. 2023. The seaweed revolution: How seaweed has shaped our past and can save our future. London: Hero.
Froehlich, H. E., J. C. Afflerbach, M. Frazier and B. S. Halpern. 2019. Blue growth potential to mitigate climate change through seaweed offsetting. Current Biology 29(18): 3087–3093.e3. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cub.2019.07.041.
Kappaphycus alvarezii is a tropical red alga native to the Indo-Pacific region. Much has been written about the invasive characteristics of this species, which is known for its rapid growth, high adaptability, and ability to outcompete native organisms. While K. alvarezii is the commercial variety of seaweed cultivated in the farms, native varieties of Gracilaria edulis and Sargassum species are also collected from the ocean. ↩︎
The end of the road to old Podampeta leads to an abandoned house that opens directly onto the ocean—as you cling to the empty door frame. Old Podampeta was once a small fishing village on the eastern coast of India. And this is just one house among three lanes of derelict houses along an eroded stretch of coastline, which have collapsed from strong tidal action and coastal erosion over the past two decades. After 2007, most families in Podampeta were relocated to settlements further inland, one of which is known as New Podampeta.
This dilapidated house on which I’m perched, located in the Ganjam district of Odisha, has the best view. At different times of the day, you can see the setting sun, dungis (traditional fishing boats) dotting the water or fisherfolk going to cast their nets.
During our fieldwork in Ganjam, my colleagues Bhawna, Pratima, Nagamma, Lalita, Gauri, and I often discuss the dynamic shores we walk. Our conversations intertwine personal histories, the changes that seem to be the only constant, and the mental health impacts of a changing climate. These discussions weave threads of hope, loss, grief, and small everyday acts of resistance that we witness in the Noliya caste—a large community that fishes across the open shores of southern Odisha and Andhra Pradesh.
As I look beyond the broken window in this house, I reflect on how mental health and climate change are interconnected in ways that may not be immediately obvious. Both share the same invisible threats—the kind that creeps in without warning and disrupts lives. They also exacerbate social, political, and economic marginalisation, resulting in poverty, unemployment, migration, and hoarding of power by the powerful.
One of the most significant challenges prevailing in both these discourses is their Eurocentric, expert-led ideology that often neglects the nuanced, complex lived realities of the people who are most affected. This approach tends to focus on scientific theories and solutions, sidelining traditional ecological knowledge and everyday experiences. However, our fieldwork revealed how the people of these stories and shores, who live with the daily threat of climate impacts, have their ways of coping and responding.
In our conversations, we asked ourselves how to shift away from this dominant, pathologising, doomsday narrative and focus on the lived experiences of people facing uncertain futures. One expression we heard repeatedly in Ganjam was “Samudram mamalni thinesthundi” (the sea will eat us). Even in the face of this impending crisis, we continue to witness small, quiet acts of persistence, community cohesion, resilience, hope, and adaptation. These actions, although not grand or heroic, can be powerful responses towards the preservation of the ‘self’ in the face of distress, and we bring to you some of the narratives that have made it possible for hope and grief to coexist.
I wish to see the sea every day
Photographs by Ch. Pratima
“We used to see the sea when we woke up, when we used to live in old Podampeta. Ever since the place was consumed by the sea, we have had to move. We do not see the sea in the morning, and I think of those days when we woke up to her.
“Even the fishermen, irrespective of whether they go fishing or not, want to go and see the ocean. There might be days when the catch is bad or good, but they go. Things have changed; there is no place to play. I keep worrying about not being able to see the sea. There is a belief that as long as we see the sea, nothing will happen to us.”
– Hadi, a resident of Ganjam
To contain her fury
Photograph by K. Nagamma
“Once, the Neelamma temple stood at a safe distance from the shore, a sacred space where the fishers gathered and prayed before they ventured into the sea. Their prayers are carried by the wind, their faith as deep as the ocean itself. We believe Neelamma contains anger, and her presence is a shield held against the fury of the sea.
“But the sea, restless and relentless in her mood, slowly swallowed the temple many years ago. The land beneath our prayers disappeared, as it did with the erosion. Our people refused to let their goddess be lost to the waves. We rebuilt her shrine—this time, standing at the edge of the waters, face-to-face with the ocean’s mood. Now Neelamma does not retreat. She stands guard, watching, listening with the fishers—calming the sea whenever it rises in anger.”
– Ramudu, an elderly fisherman
Searching the fading shores
Photographs by K. Nagamma
“There was a time when nalilu (mole crabs Emerita asiatica) were everywhere, scattered across the shore, slipping between waves. Children chased them with delight, their hands scooping them up. Fisherfolk used them for bait, and families cooked them into meals—they were abundant.
“But now, the nalilu are gone. The shoreline has shifted, the sea has changed, and with it, they are difficult to find. Very few of them dart between the waves. The loss is not just of nalilu, but of familiarity, of a way of life slipping away like the tide. Still, we search. Even if it takes longer, even if we find fewer.”
– Lokanatha, a young fisher, and Ganesh, a young coastal dweller
In the dunes
Photographs by Ch. Pratima (left) and K. Nagamma (right)
“The dunes were more than a playground in our childhood. They protected us from big cyclones and the eroding shores. We are alive today because some of them stood in the way of these changes. They held back the sea, slowed the erosion, and protected the land we call home. But now, look around—there is nothing left. The children still come to play, but the ground beneath them has changed. We ask for walls to be built and casuarina trees to be replanted to weather the storms.”
– Nachimi, a coastal dweller
Scorched in the heat
Photograph by Ch. Pratima
“During the summer months, it is not easy to be on the beach. Drying fish is not for a single person. We usually take turns with the buying, processing, and vending. We also take turns to rest. When one of us is sick, the profits are still shared with them. We don’t usually leave any women from the group—we share everything: profits, burdens, and work.”
– Mangamma, an old dry-fish processor
Holding on
The first time I (Pavitra) visited Arjipalli—another village in the Ganjam district—a young woman had died by suicide, and sorrow hung thick in the air. Many hushed stories were shared as the cause, but the intertwined truth was never to be found. The village felt heavy, the kind of quiet that follows grief settling into every corner.
Photograph by Ch. Pratima
We walked to the edge of the road, where the dunes rose gently against the shoreline dotted with Purbapurasalu gudi (temples for the fisher-folks’ ancestors and family deities). I was told that before setting out to sea, the fishers come there, praying for safe passage and for their knowledge to stay sharp when the waters test them.
And in that oppressive air, we found a thread of belief—something to steady us for the daunting voyage ahead. At that moment, standing together in the face of invisible but deeply felt distress was enough. Enough to remind us we weren’t alone, enough to make space for grief, and enough to begin thinking of ways forward.
The Indian Ocean Region (IOR), spanning from the east coast of Africa to the west coast of Australia, contains around 36 countries and a population of approximately 2.5 billion. The IOR has been a critical crossroads of international trade for centuries and remains so. The security and stability of its shipping lanes and trade routes—passing through the Straits of Hormuz, Bab el-Mandeb, and Malacca, among others—are not only regional issues but issues of global importance.
However, aside from its economic and geopolitical significance, the IOR is confronted with an intensifying environmental and climate crisis, with geopolitical and geoeconomic implications. The Indian Ocean is warming faster than any other ocean globally, leading to sea level rise and extreme weather-related disasters. Increasing pollution levels, ecological catastrophes, and the mounting effects of climate change are increasingly entwining the fates of Indian Ocean states. These common challenges risk destabilising the region’s ecological balance and future prosperity, necessitating immediate concerted action and creative solutions.
Climate impacts
The Indian Ocean is estimated to be warming between 1.7 and 3.8°C, faster than what is anticipated. If greenhouse gases (such as carbon dioxide and methane) are not rapidly decreased, the ocean may continue to warm at an unprecedented and accelerated rate for the rest of the century. Changes in the Asian monsoon circulation and rainfall and marine ecosystems are among the main risks and vulnerabilities brought on by climate change.
Other risks and vulnerabilities include increased intensity of tropical cyclones, inundation of low-lying coastal areas, shoreline erosion, and saltwater intrusion, and degradation of coral reefs and fisheries due to acidification. These effects pose serious threats to livelihoods, as well as to economic, food, and health security.
Rising sea levels threaten the very existence and statehood of low-lying islands such as the Maldives and Mauritius, while coastal erosion and saltwater intrusion endanger agriculture and freshwater resources in most countries in the region. Climate vulnerabilities are driving displacement and migration, as communities lose livelihoods and homes, particularly in coastal areas. In Bangladesh, for instance, displaced communities are increasingly moving to cities, straining urban resources and infrastructure.
Already existing geopolitical tensions—such as fishing disputes owing to fisherfolk transgressing extraterritorial waters, and illegal, unregulated, and unreported fishing—could be further exacerbated by climate change-induced depletion and/or migration of fish stocks. On the geoeconomic front, climate change-induced disasters could damage critical infrastructure such as ports, energy installations, and telecommunications along the coasts, thereby affecting trade, supply chains, and economies.
Not all IOR countries are prepared enough to implement carbon markets that are increasingly becoming a global norm in trade and commerce, as evidenced by the European Union’s Carbon Border Adjustment Mechanism. This presents a fresh set of structural, material, and institutional challenges for these countries.
Climate-induced land loss from rising sea levels and coastal erosion could strain overall maritime governance, by affecting existing maritime boundaries and Exclusive Economic Zones—an area of the ocean, generally extending 200 nautical miles beyond a nation’s territorial sea, within which a coastal nation has jurisdiction over natural resources.
The risks posed to coastal critical infrastructure call for increased investments in resilience and adaptation that will require global and regional cooperation. However, this may also result in increased geopolitical and geoeconomic competition between major powers that could use climate change as an instrument to create influence in the region’s climate-vulnerable countries.
For example, under the China-Indian Ocean Region Forum on Development Cooperation, China proposes to launch the China-Indian Ocean Region Disaster Prevention and Mitigation Alliance and a climate information and early warning system project, among others. It is also gradually considering ramping up investments in renewable energy projects in countries such as the Maldives and Bangladesh. India is also looking to enhance its clean energy partnerships with its IOR neighbours, including Sri Lanka and Mauritius.
India’s role in regional cooperation
As a key player in the region, India can lead efforts in climate diplomacy, fostering cooperation to protect shared resources and ensure a stable, sustainable future. The country’s Security and Growth for All in the Region (SAGAR) vision prioritises climate resilience, ocean governance, and disaster preparedness. It aims to build littoral countries’ capabilities aligning with SAGAR’s principle of promoting sustainable development and deeper regional integration through joint efforts. However, there are gaps in infrastructure modernisation (like ports), regional connectivity, and execution (due to lack of financial and infrastructural resources).
Similarly, India is one of the leading nations in the Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Cooperation (BIMSTEC), which has identified climate change and environment as a key sector of cooperation. India is the lead country for the security sector that also features energy and disaster management as sub-sectors. These are closely intertwined with climate change risks and action, which provides ample scope for designing and implementing collaborative solutions that are not necessarily restricted to military-to-military cooperation alone, with India having already spearheaded many initiatives such as the Indian Navy-led Humanitarian Assistance and Disaster Relief (HADR) operations and exercises.
Apart from leading BIMSTEC Disaster Management Exercises in 2017 and 2020 and a tri-services HADR exercise in 2021, the Indian National Centre for Ocean Information Services provides cyclone forecasts and tsunami alerts to other countries in the Bay of Bengal region, enhancing regional capacity to respond to disasters.
The Indian Ocean Rim Association (IORA) is another platform which promotes regional cooperation on security, trade, disaster resilience, and sustainable development. With 23 member states and 11 Dialogue Partners, the platform consists of many countries that are highly vulnerable to climate change. India’s initiatives within IORA include championing the blue economy, renewable energy, capacity building, marine biodiversity conservation, and climate resilience. India is expected to take over as its next chair in 2025, as the IORA commemorates its 28th anniversary. The country will focus on addressing key concerns related to resource constraints, ocean governance, and disaster risk reduction.
Despite the existence of these regional organisations committed to climate action, there are several gaps in implementation. Many of them have a fragmented and siloed approach towards climate action. For instance, in BIMSTEC, disaster management falls under the security sector with India as the lead, whereas other issues concerning climate impacts and action fall under the Environment and Climate Change Sector, of which Bhutan is the lead. For effective climate action and disaster risk reduction, these two sectors require effective coordination.
Even when institutional mechanisms are in place, bilateral differences, political and/or economic turmoil/instability, project delays and cost overruns, mutual disparities in sharing the burdens of climate action, and the lack of reliable and sustainable financial channels impede effective climate cooperation. It is important for any regional organisation to have a joint assessment of vulnerabilities and requirements in order to attract the right type of funding for the most urgent climate concerns.
One of the ways in which India is looking to fill the financial and technological gap is to engage in diverse models such as triangular cooperation that can enhance climate action by enabling cost-effective and context-specific technology and knowledge transfer to developing countries while leveraging industrialised countries’ institutional, technical, and financial capabilities. This is particularly being promoted through multilateral platforms such as the International Solar Alliance and Coalition for Disaster Resilient Infrastructure for advancing the solar sector and enhancing disaster resilience, respectively. These platforms can be leveraged to boost regional cooperation in the Indian Ocean Region as well, considering there is a huge gap in realising their goals due to regional fragmentation.
The IOR is a theatre of geopolitical, geoeconomic, and geostrategic competition, marked by large military presence and regional fragility. Amidst these tensions, climate cooperation under frameworks such as SAGAR, BIMSTEC, and IORA is the way forward. India’s efforts to project itself as the voice of the Global South would be significantly boosted by more regional climate initiatives in its maritime neighbourhood.
Les oiseaux du littoral migrateurs sont des globe-trotteurs par excellence. Chaque année, ils répètent un cycle d’élevage, principalement en hautes latitudes de l’hémisphère nord et ils migrent vers le sud quand l’hiver arrive. Ces populations d’oiseaux sont généralement en déclin, et quelques espèces sont listées comme menacées et au moins une comme disparue.
C’est éclair qu’une coopération internationale est nécessaire pour leur préservation, étant donné leurs grands mouvements et les menaces multiples. Cependant, alors que nombreux accords internationaux ont été négociés pour leur conservation, l’évaluation des outils pour la conservation ont été généralement ralenti. Sans telles évaluation, nous ne savons pas si ces accords sont efficaces pour atteindre leurs objectifs de la conservation, ni comment ils peuvent être renforcés.
Les accords internationaux sont un élément bien-connu de la conservation des oiseaux du littoral migrateurs dans la région Asie-Pacifique, également connue sous le nom de la voie de migration Asie de l’Est-Australasie (EAAF). L’examen de ces accords dans l’EAAF peut ainsi fournir des indices à informer les moyens de faire progresser la conservation de ces oiseaux. Il existe aujourd’hui 28 tel accords internationaux sur l’ensemble de la route de migration. Dans ce contexte une question essentielle est si cet ensemble d’accords couvre le cycle de vie complet des oiseaux de rivage migrateurs dans la route de la migration par rapport aux menaces ils font face aux. Avec deux menaces urgents et imminents aux des oiseaux de rivage migrateurs dans Asie de l’Est-Australasie (EAAF), tel que la perte de l’habitat et la chasse, nous avons étudié quoi ces accords couvrent, comment ils aider la coordination et dans quelle mesure ils protègent la voie de migration par pays et le cycle migratoire des oiseaux de rivage. Notre recherche a adopté une méthode d’analyse de réseau de l’appartenance aux accords internationaux, ainsi que la localisation des espèces d’oiseaux du littoral et comment ils se déplacent d’un pays à l’autre.
De manière encourageant, nous avons découvert que les accords relatifs à la perte d’habitat et à la chasse couvrent la route de la migration entière, bien qu’avec quelques variations. Premièrement, ils sont plus de accords pour la conservation des habitats que pour la gestation de la chasse. Deuxièmement, les accords concernant la conservation des habitats incluent une variété de membres, tels que les gouvernements nationaux, les organisations inter- gouvernementales et non-gouvernementales, alors que les membres sont limités aux gouvernements nationaux dans les accords relatifs à la gestation de la chasse.
Troisèmement, les accords concernant la conservation des habitats ont été ont intégrés dans un réseau plus résilient et plus robuste grâce à la redondance et au renforcement des connexions entre les membres, tandis que les accords concernant la gestation de la chasse ont résulté en un réseau plus faible en raison de moins connexions entre membres. Le Partenariat pour la voie de migration Asie de l’Est-Australasie est apparu comme l’accord de conservation de l’habitat le plus central dans cette voie de migration. Notamment, il n’existe pas d’accord de coordination de la gestation de la chasse pour tout la voie de la migration. En fin, les accords de conservation des habitats couvrent plus en détail le cycle migratoire des oiseaux du littoral que ceux qui s’concentrent à la gestation de la chasse.
Nombre de ces accords sont apparus en réponse aux pressions de la conservation, tel que la réclamation littorale. Cependant, c’est nécessaire d’admettre que chaque nouvel accord suscite l’énergie personnelle, l’attention politique et les ressources financières pour de la négociation. Les défenseurs des oiseaux de rivage devraient donc pense si les accords additionnels sont utiles étant donné qu’il existe déjà 19 accords de la préservation de l’habitat et 16 pour la gestation de la chasse dans cette voie de migration.
Compte tenu des ressources limitées pour la conservation, telles que la capacité, le financement et la bande passante politique, nous recommandons que la conservation de l’habitat ne nécessite pas d’autres accords mais il soit nécessaire de se concentrer sur la mise en œuvre. A l’inverse, alors que la mise en œuvre les accords de la gestation de la chasse actuelles est important, il n’existe pas encore un accord central de coordination. La gestation de la chasse doit tenir compte de la mortalité au travers la route de la migration et des allocations de quotas par pays, qui n’existent pas. Un nouvel accord est donc nécessaire.
En fin de compte les accords internationaux de la conservation des espèces migratrices doivent être évaluées afin de déterminer dans quelle mesure ils sont capables de lutter contre des menaces en jeu. Avec telles évaluations, les défenseurs de l’environnement doivent prendre des décisions difficiles pour savoir s’il faut se concentrer sur la mise en œuvre ou sur comblement des lacunes en négociant de nouveaux accords.
Autres lectures : Gallo-Cajiao, E., T. H. Morrison and R. A. Fuller. 2024. Agreements for conserving migratory shorebirds in the Asia-Pacific are better fit for addressing habitat loss than hunting. Ambio 53: 1336–1354. https://doi.org/10.1007/s13280-024-02018-3.
Feature image: A house boat floating on the majestic Vembanad Lake
Nestled in the green heartland of Kerala, Vembanad Lake is a shimmering jewel of biodiversity and culture. Spanning over 230 square kilometres, this vast expanse of backwaters connects four districts—Kottayam, Alappuzha, Thrissur, and Ernakulam—forming the largest tropical wetland ecosystem on the southwest coast of India. Beyond its undeniable beauty, Vembanad is an ecological lifeline, sustaining countless communities, fishermen, and endemic species.
However, the lake is more than just a picturesque retreat. It is a Ramsar site, recognised for its environmental importance, and a hotspot of biodiversity that has inspired generations of writers, poets, and artists. Yet, in recent decades, rapid urbanisation, pollution, and unsustainable tourism have placed this fragile ecosystem at risk. Recognising the urgency of conservation, numerous organisations, researchers, and local communities have taken up the responsibility of preserving the lake’s ecological balance.
My personal journey with Vembanad Lake’s conservation efforts began through my mother, who served as the Chief Programme Coordinator at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment (ATREE) since 2006. Her dedication to conservation became my window into the world of environmental conservation.
This field note traces my experiences with the first fish count initiated in Vembanad Lake, also my first fish count, where I saw the beautiful efforts at promoting conservation through behavioural action plans.
A local resident cutting through the Vembanad Lake
A teenage adventure with a purpose
It was 2008. As a teenager, I was more curious than ever, eager to understand my mother’s world and be part of something meaningful. When I first heard about the Vembanad Fish Count initiated by ATREE, the idea instantly fascinated me. How do you count fish in an open lake? What does this count mean for conservation? These were some of the questions that swirled in my head.
The answer, I soon discovered, was simple yet deeply scientific. Fish counts involve systematically capturing fish using nets, identifying the species, recording their numbers, and releasing them back into the water. The data collected would provide insights into species diversity, population trends, and the overall health of the lake’s ecosystem. The rationality of the idea inspired me to come up with a logo design for the event, which was quickly accepted and retained even today (a fish taking attendance of other fish).
Booklet for the first ever Vembanad Fish Count with the logo I designed
After months of planning, community meetings, and mobilisation efforts, the day of the first fish count arrived. The energy was infectious as hundreds of participants—school students, academicians, researchers, local fishermen, villagers, NGOs, and conservationists—set out onto the water. The lake, in all its majestic vastness, was bustling with activity as boats fanned out across different regions.
Each team was composed of fishermen, volunteers, and scientists, ensuring a combination of traditional ecological knowledge and modern scientific methods. As our boats drifted into designated zones, divers descended into the water with nets, surfacing every few minutes with a fresh catch. Researchers meticulously documented each species, noting down details of size, weight, and external characteristics.
As the day unfolded, the thrill of discovery was tinged with an underlying concern. By dusk, the total count revealed 51 different species—a stark decline from the 156 species documented in the 1950s. The numbers told a clear story: Vembanad’s aquatic diversity was in trouble. The lake often called the ‘inland fish basket’ was being reduced to an ‘inland wastebasket’ instead!
I remember the mix of emotions that surged through me that evening. On one hand, we were exhilarated to have been part of a scientific expedition. On the other, we were confronted with the reality of ecological degradation.
Student participants from the first fish count in 2008
Ripple effects
That first fish count was more than just an academic exercise. It was a wake-up call. It illuminated the urgency of conservation efforts and underscored the importance of engaging local communities. The success of the initiative lay not just in collecting data but in mobilising people to act.
In the years that followed, the fish count became an annual event, evolving into a powerful conservation tool. The involvement of fishermen, students, and researchers meant that ecological awareness seeped into the very fabric of the local community. Each year, new volunteers joined the effort, eager to participate in what had now become both a tradition and a movement.
By 2024, the 17th edition of the fish count saw over 100 volunteers and experts from various fields. The latest results indicated a species count of 85, suggesting a slow but hopeful revival of biodiversity. However, the overall fish stock remained alarmingly low, and studies revealed that certain areas—where freshwater content was higher—had greater species diversity than others.
One of the major takeaways from these findings was the impact of human activities on fish diversity. Houseboat tourism, for example, had surged in popularity, bringing an economic boost but also introducing pollutants into the lake. Waste from houseboats and poorly managed sewage systems had altered the water quality, affecting fish populations.
Sustainable tourism policies became a central topic of discussion, highlighting the delicate balance between economic livelihood and environmental conservation. Could Vembanad sustain both its rich biodiversity and its thriving tourism industry? The answer was complex, but one thing was clear: unrestricted commercial activity posed a long-term risk.
Setting sail for the 2009 fish count
Lessons from Vembanad
Seventeen fish counts later, it is indeed heartening to observe that the count continues.
What started as a scientific experiment had grown into a model for community-led conservation. The initiative demonstrated that real change happens when people take ownership of their environment. Fishermen, once sceptical of conservation efforts, now actively participated in data collection, realising that the lake’s health was tied to their own survival.
For me, the fish count shaped not only my understanding of ecology and conservation but also my values and career path. Though I no longer work directly with the initiative, the experience influenced my journey as a behavioural scientist. I learned that sustained behavioural change requires community engagement, trust, and participation. Conservation is not just about protecting species—it’s about empowering people to be stewards of their environment.
Even now, when I visit Vembanad, I see the lake with a different perspective. It is no longer just a body of water—it is a living, breathing ecosystem, deeply intertwined with human lives, cultural heritage, and the fight for sustainability.
Importantly, the Vembanad experience taught me three crucial lessons that continue to guide my thinking. First, conservation is a collective effort—no single organisation, scientist, or government body can single-handedly protect an ecosystem. Real change happens when communities take ownership.
Second, behavioural shifts drive long-term success—people protect what they feel connected to. The more engaged local communities are, the more successful conservation efforts become. Third, sustainability requires balance—economic growth and environmental conservation must go hand in hand. Policies that consider both are the key to long-term success.
Various stakeholders participating in the fish counting process
As conservation efforts at Vembanad continue, I take solace in knowing that each fish count, each conversation, and each act of environmental stewardship contributes to a larger movement. The lake’s story is far from over, and future generations will write the next chapters.
For now, as I stand by the shimmering waters of Vembanad, I know that its legacy will endure—not just in the species that call it home but, in the hearts, and minds of those who fight to protect it.
Further Reading
ATREE. 2008. Vembanad fish count 2008: Report of the participatory fish resources survey of the Vembanad Lake, Kerala. CERC. Kerala: ATREE.
ATREE. 2012. Fish and fisheries in Vembanad Lake. Kerala: ATREE.
Amphibians are among the most vulnerable creatures on Earth, with many species facing increasing threats from human-induced climate and habitat change. These threats are particularly concerning for amphibians with limited mobility and small ranges, such as endemic species that thrive in specific, often isolated habitats. Emphasising their dependence on stable environments, in a recently published study in Biological Conservation, researchers investigated the vulnerability of two endemic Italian amphibian species to climate change and habitat loss.
Climate and land use changes have dramatically reduced habitats with stable water sources and suitable land where amphibians once thrived. Rising temperatures and reduced rainfall have diminished the suitability of many regions, while urbanisation and agricultural expansion have fragmented habitats and isolated populations, limiting amphibians’ ability to move to better areas. This isolation disrupts genetic diversity and reduces population resilience to further environmental stresses, including temperature humidity imbalance and drought.
Italy’s unique amphibians
The Italian peninsula’s unique climate and geography make it home to unique amphibians. Two notable species are the Italian alpine newt (Ichthyosaura alpestris apuana) and the Apennine yellow-bellied toad (Bombina variegata pachypus), both endemic to Italy’s Apennine region. These once thriving cold-adapted species now face significant threats from climate and land use change.
Bombina variegata pachypus
Rising temperatures and decreasing water availability have led to steady declines in the alpine newt’s habitat. While this species has adapted to certain human-modified environments like artificial water bodies, habitat fragmentation has severely impacted its ability to move and reproduce effectively. Therefore, preserving or restoring habitat connectivity will be crucial for this species’ survival.
On the other hand, the habitat of the Apennine yellow-bellied toad has remained relatively stable over the past decades, but is predicted to suffer a dramatic 49 percent decline by 2069. Unlike the alpine newt, the yellow-bellied toad already inhabits highly fragmented and isolated landscapes, making it even more susceptible to habitat loss. Therefore, preserving current habitat while establishing new populations in areas that will be suitable in the future are particularly important.
A strategic approach to conservation
The authors used innovative methods to model the impacts of climate and land use changes on these species. By combining habitat suitability models with landscape connectivity assessments, they identified critical, species-specific areas where conservation efforts could have the most impact.
For the alpine newt, they recommend restoring habitat cover and connectivity through the creation and maintenance of water bodies. For the yellow-bellied toad, they identify crucial habitat areas to protect immediately, and suggest exploring assisted migration. Their method of identifying species-specific recommendations can be adapted for other species and regions. For example, habitat corridors can help species move between suitable areas, while targeted land management practices can mitigate the effects of habitat loss. Traditional practices such as maintaining small ponds or wetlands could support amphibian reproduction, even in altered landscapes.
This research highlights the intertwined effects of human-induced climate and land cover change on biodiversity using two endemic amphibian species as model organisms. It underscores the need for an integrated approach to conservation, combining historical data with future projections to prioritise actions. While the study focused on two Italian species, its methods and findings are broadly applicable to other vulnerable species worldwide.
In summary, amphibians are critical indicators of environmental health. Their struggles reflect the broader challenges of preserving biodiversity in the face of rapid environmental change. Proactive conservation measures can help safeguard these fascinating creatures, ensuring they continue to enrich our ecosystems for generations to come.
Further Reading
Mangiacotti, M., M. Flego, F. Oneto, D. Ottonello, R. Cottalasso, G. Ferraro and R. Sacchi. 2025. Climate and land use change through the eyes of two endemic amphibians: Temporal trajectories of suitability and connectivity reveal differential responses. Biological Conservation 302: 110971. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2025.110971.
Le deuxième objectif du Cadre Mondial pour la Biodiversité Kunming-Montréal nécessiterait la restauration d’environ 1 milliard d’hectares de terre dégradée à travers le monde, d’ici à l’an 2030 – c’est à dire dans cinq ans seulement. Bien qu’il y ait beaucoup d’optimisme et enthousiasme en soutien à cet objectif mondial ambitieux, les coûts financiers et la faisabilité de la restauration écologique détermineront s’il est réalisable.
Le problème est le haut coût de restauration. Des recherches approfondies sont souvent nécessaires pour prendre des décisions éclairées sur l’endroit où on peut mettre en œuvre des actions spécifiques, et des processus à forte intensité de main-d’œuvre tels que les plantations de revégétalisation d’espèces indigènes qui sont typiquement nécessaires. En plus, la restauration nécessite également un engagement et un entretien à long terme afin de garantir le succès d’efforts de rétablissement écologique, ceux qui augmentent encore les coûts.
Pour répondre à l’appel mondiale de restauration, des nouvelles technologies qui sont à la fois économiques et extensibles sont nécessaires afin d’alléger le fardeau pour l’industrie de la restauration. L’une de ces technologies — l’utilisation de drones – a augmenté en popularité en ces dernières années et peut être utilisé pour plusieurs aspects du parcours de la restauration. Par exemple, certains drones sont capables de disperser les graines, en permettant la revégétalisation des terrains difficiles d’accès et éloignés.
Bien que cette nouvelle méthode offre le promet d’intensifier la restauration en réduisant les coûts de main d’œuvres, comment se compare-t-elle aux méthodes de plantation mieux établies ?
Les praticiens et les décideurs politiques qui planifient la restauration ont un besoin urgent de conseils sur la manière de prévoir précisément les coûts de restauration afin de prendre des décisions sur les actions à mettre en œuvre, et à quel endroit. Toutefois les comparaisons des coûts de restauration sont souvent limitées et mal documentées. Cela rendre difficile la prédiction des coûts potentiels d’une action spécifique. Chaque projet est unique, avec des contextes différents (tels que l’éloignement du site, le pays et la devise), des exigences besoins (comme besoins d’entretien, la méthode de mise en œuvre) et des échelles, tout cela qui influencent les coûts totaux.
Notre recherche a développé un nouveau cadre unique en son genre qui permet de rendre compte des coûts flexibles mais qui conforme aux méthodes de rapport afin de permettre des praticiens de comparer les méthodes de restauration. Nous montrons l’application de notre cadre en utilisant une étude de cas où nous comparons deux méthodes de plantation de restauration : 1) revégétalisation avec des semis indigènes qui ont cultivées dans une pépinière, et 2) l’utilisation de drones pour planter. Nous avons ensuite comparé la variation des composants de coûts entre les deux méthodes de plantation, et étudié comment les coûts totaux varient selon le contexte et l’échelle en conduisant l’étude de cas de petits (1 hectare), moyens (10-100 hectares) et les grands projets.
Nous avons montré que les deux méthodes présentent les économies d’échelle où la variation du coût par rapport à une plantation d’un hectare a diminué avec chaque augmentation en échelle. Toutefois, les économies d’échelle ont été plus élevés pour la plantation par les drones. Ce résultat était attribué aux prix plus élevés requis pour la propagation de jeunes plantes — qui sont généralement 5-15 cm haute et ce qui sont prêt à planter — dans la pépinière en comparaison avec des graines, ce qui résultent en coûts plus élevés pour les produits consommables. De plus, le temps du travail et les coûts associées étaient plus élevés pour les semis parce que le nombre d’employés requis pour entreprendre une plantation était plus grand que pour une plantation facilitée par les drones.
Notre cadre permet les managers de la conservation à considérer les coûts ainsi que la faisabilité d’un projet, comme le temps de travail et la disponibilité de l’équipe de projet, en planifiant un projet de la restauration et en sélectionnant des méthodes de plantation correctes qui sont appropriés au contexte du leur projet.
Notre cadre permet les managers de la conservation à considérer les coûts ainsi que la faisabilité d’un projet, comme le temps de travail et la disponibilité de l’équipe de projet, en planifiant un projet de la restauration et en sélectionnant des méthodes de plantation correctes qui sont appropriés au contexte du leur projet.
Notre étude s’est concentrée sur les coûts de la restauration, mais ce n’est qu’une moite de l’histoire : les méthodes différentes de planter peuvent effectuer bénéfices différents àtravers le temps. Nous avons aussi considéré les avantages potentiels de chaque méthode en utilisant la littérature et la théorie. Nous nous attendons que les plantations de semis produisent typiquement des bénéfices de la restauration plus tôt dans un projet – les plantes murissent de deux à cinq ans plus tôt en comparaison avec les plantations avec des graines. Selon les objectifs et la durée pour effectuer des bénéfices de la conservation, cela peut aider les gestionnaires à considérer le coût efficacité entant qu’une mesure à la fois des coûts et des avantages.
Notre recherche montre que la plantation facilitée par les drones est un atout important pour la communauté de la restauration et qu’elle peut être combiné avec les méthodes plus interventionnistes telles que les plantations avec de semis pour réaliser une revégétalisation en grande échelle. De plus, notre cadre de rapport du coût offre le contexte et la clarté requis par les praticiens et les financeurs à prendre des décisions financières complexes en planifiant la restauration de l’écosystèmes.
Autres lectures Andres, S. E., C. H. Mills, R. V. Gallagher and V. M. Adams. 2024. A framework for ecological restoration cost accounting across context and scale. Biological Conservation 295: 110671. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2024.110671.
Les sites de nidification d’oiseaux de mer, en tant que source de guano, un engrais agricole très convoité, ont bénéfices économiques. Mais au-delà de ce bénéfice, les sites de nid pour les oiseaux marins ont aussi une fonction écologique, comme une source de nutriments pour les coraux. Une étude publiée récemment dans Science Advances montre comment les colonies de oiseaux de mer, par les crottes déposées là, peuvent aider des récifs coralliens à faire face au le changement climatique.
Dans cette étude, les scientifiques ont examiné le lien complexe entre des oiseaux de mer et récifs coralliens. Leurs résultats montrent que le guano de oiseaux marins augmente de manière spectaculaire la productivité dans des récifs coraliens. Et en plus, cela rend les récifs plus résilients à changement climatique.
Les oiseaux de mer fantastiques et où les auteurs les ont les trouvés
L’étude, dirigé par Dr Cassandra Benkwitt, chargée de recherche au Lancaster, Environment centre, a été menée dans l’archipel du Chagos, un groupe de 60 îles dans l’Ocean Indien. Elle a expliqué dans un entretien électronique, « Nous avons observé la présence d’oiseaux de mer augmente la biomasse et le taux de croissance de poissons. Cela nous a conduit à examiner leur rôle potentiel dans le rétablissement de récifs après les vagues de chaleur marines. »
La crotte de oiseaux de mer, riche en azote et phosphore, est un engrais naturel pour des récifs coraliens. Benkwitt a souligné que les études en laboratoires suggèrent, « certains nutriments bénéficient les coraux contre le stress thermique. » Des études sur le terrain ont révélé que des récifs à près des îles avec de grandes populations d’oiseaux marins ont connu une croissance corallienne deux fois plus élevée que les récifs avec moins d’oiseaux marins. L’équipe a également transplanté des coraux de zones avec moins de populations d’oiseaux marins vers des lieux avec grandissant populations. En trois années, se sont acclimatés et bien développé dans des conditions riches en nutriments. Cependant, lorsqu’ils ont transplanté des coraux de zones où des oiseaux marins sont abondants vers celles où ils étaient moins nombreux, les résultats indiquent une baisse de taux de croissance.
Changement global, astuces locales
Même dans les îles Chagos, le nombre de oiseaux marins décline, principalement en raison d’espèces envahissants, comme les rats et prise accidentelle par la pêche; et le changement climatique. L’étude révèle les impacts de ce déclin. Les apports en nutriments aux récifs étaient bas dans des zones où les populations de oiseaux marins ont diminué, avec un déclin similaire en croissance de coraux. Cela a augmenté par conséquent le risques de blanchiment et des maladies de coraux.
Cette recherche surligne l’importance de la compréhension de liens complexes dans des écosystèmes en soulignant la nécessité à préserver les oiseaux marins pour protéger les récifs coralliens. Selon Benkwitt, c’est seulement en protégeant et en restaurant les populations d’oiseaux marins que le cycle nutritif pourra se rétablir. Ainsi, par la protection d’espèces sans lien apparent entre eux, nous pouvons renforcer la résilience des écosystème entières. Comme étape suivante, Benkwitt prévoit à suivre les récifs sur des périodes plus étendues.
« Lutter contre le changement climatique global est certainement une priorité, » constate Benkwitt, « mais c’est une grande entreprise, et le progrès est lent. Elle suggère de rechercher les remèdes locaux pour soutenir les écosystèmes. « Nous avons besoin de solutions plus faciles, à plus court terme, et locales. Celles-ci faire gagner du temps aux récifs. Pendant ce temps, nous continuerons à nous occuper des enjeux globaux à plus long terme… »
Nos terrains et mers sont connectes. La dégradation d’une peut affecter l’autre. Cette étude souligne l’importance de l’interconnexion des écosystèmes et pourquoi la restauration de connexions naturelles devrait faire partie des efforts de conservation. En profitant de ces services offerts par les oiseaux marins, nous pouvons œuvrer pour un meilleur avenir pour les récifs coralliens et d’innombrables espèces qui en dépendent.
Autres lectures :
Benkwitt, C. E., C. D’Angelo, R. E. Dunn, R. L. Gunn, S. Healing, M. L. Mardones, J. Wiedenmann et al. 2023. Seabirds boost coral reef resilience. Science Advances 9(49): eadj0390. DOI: 10.1126/sciadv.adj0390.
Feature image: A diver surveying a reef in decline.
Nowadays, data—especially big data—are a key factor in many decisions aimed at improving our lives. In healthcare, for instance, data is used to assess hospital readmission risk and improve outcomes for patients. Cities use data from connected devices like GPS to predict and prevent accidents and enhance public safety. All around us, data are being used to tailor solutions to tackle complex problems.
With continuing habitat loss and degradation of ecosystems globally, the need for data-driven solutions in conservation is at an all-time high. In response, governments have signed a global treaty—the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework—to combat ecosystem loss and enhance resilience by 2050. Central to this agreement is the use of data to track progress toward the goals and targets set for each country.
A key tool for supporting this effort is the Red List of Ecosystems (RLE). The RLE is a system through which data can be organised and used in a structured way to understand the status of ecosystems in relation to their proximity to collapse. Developed by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), this groundbreaking tool evaluates trends in the environment, ecology, and area and distribution of an ecosystem. It uses these trends to categorise ecosystems into various levels of risk: Critically Endangered, Endangered, or Vulnerable.
Coral reefs are one of the most biodiverse and valuable ecosystems in the ocean. In many developing countries such as Kenya, they protect the coastline—including beaches, houses, and hotels—as well as provide habitats that sustain many seafood fisheries. However, they also experience challenges like mass coral bleaching, pollution, and overfishing which degrade their condition.
Data on the abundance of live coral, seaweed, parrotfish and groupers (left to right) collected over 30 years was used to assess the risk status of coral reefs in Kenya’.
To assess the health of coral reefs in Kenya, researchers from CORDIO East Africa, the University of Melbourne, and other research institutions from Kenya applied the RLE framework. Their evaluation of 50 years of data collected from scientific dives and snorkeling surveys revealed alarming trends of ecological degradation across four components crucial to reef health: corals, algae (seaweed), and two fish groups—parrotfish and groupers.
The study concluded that Kenya’s coral reefs are Endangered, with more than half of surveyed reef sites experiencing significant declines in fish populations and coral cover. However, it is not all bad news—some reefs within zones where fishing is prohibited have higher fish populations, highlighting the positive impact of regulated fishing practices.
By identifying which aspects of Kenya’s coral reefs are most at risk, and where, this study exemplifies how data-driven assessments can provide crucial insights that local and national governments can use to plan ocean-related projects, protect marine areas, and pinpoint areas for restoration. In this way, assessments can help support nations achieve several targets set out in the Global Biodiversity Framework. However, it is clear that significant investment in the collection and sharing of ecosystem data is required to ensure that biodiversity conservation keeps pace with other sectors in making evidence-based decisions to safeguard nature.
Further Reading
Gudka, M., D. Obura, E. Treml, M. Samoilys, S. A. Aboud, K. E. Osuka, J. Mbugua et al. 2024. Leveraging the Red List of Ecosystems for action on coral reefs through the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework. Conservation Science and Practice 6(12): e13255. https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.13255.
This article was edited for submission by Timothy Allela, Communications Manager, CORDIO East Africa.
Feature image: A family group of Floreana mockingbirds on Gardner Islet, Galápagos (Photo credit: Enzo M. R. Reyes)
Culture is often defined as the way of life—including customs and beliefs—of a particular group at a given time. While typically associated with humans, various aspects of culture such as music, art, literature, and languages are not exclusive to us. In animals, culture refers to learned behaviours and vocalisations passed socially across generations. Many social animals, such as whales, chimpanzees, and birds, exhibit cultural traits like tool usage and specialised vocal cues. Though animal culture differs from human culture, it shares key similarities in social learning and transmission.
Cultural evolution in bird vocalisations is well documented, with changes occurring over time and across regions. For example, North American white-throated sparrows recently shifted from triplet-ending to double-ending songs—a dialect that originated west of the Rocky Mountains and spread continentally. In small or fragmented populations, cultural evolution can be detrimental—as the limited number of tutors makes it difficult to transmit the original repertoire—leading to new song variations or maladaptive behaviours.
The Endangered Floreana mockingbird (Mimus trifasciatus) is a rare cooperative-breeding species endemic to the Galápagos Islands, and it likely inspired Darwin’s theories on evolution. Its main population vanished from Floreana Island just 50 years after his visit, leaving fewer than 300 individuals on two small offshore rocky islets—Champion (0.1 km2) and Gardner-by-Floreana (0.8 km2).
Floreana mockingbird perched on the top of an Opuntia cactus, Champion Islet, Galápagos (Photo credit: Enzo M. R. Reyes)
A major project by the Galápagos National Park aims to restore Floreana Island, including by reintroducing the locally extinct Floreana mockingbird. Birds from the two remaining populations will establish a third population on Floreana, thereby, reducing the risk of extinction. While ecological and genetic factors pertaining to reintroduction have been extensively studied for decades, behavioural aspects such as vocalisations have not received as much attention, despite the influence that this trait could have in the success of reintroduction.
A recent study published in Pacific Conservation Biology explored how the isolation of the two remaining populations—following extinction of the main population—may have accelerated cultural change. The study showed that the lack of connectivity between the two populations has led to the development of distinct ‘dialects’ in vocalisations on each island. This divergence in vocalisation patterns may have been influenced by differences in beak morphology between the populations, with birds from one population generally being larger than the other.
Furthermore, the study demonstrated how random variations in vocalisations between islands—known as ‘cultural drift’—could also have played a role in the divergence of vocalisations. The researchers tested this hypothesis by comparing recordings of the species from the 1960s with more recent recordings and observed differences in the vocalisations of the same population over time.
This study highlights the importance of considering behavioural aspects in conservation. The reintroduction of the Floreana mockingbird may encounter challenges due to vocal differences between the two source populations, potentially delaying the improvement in genetic diversity. For example, the reintroduction of individuals with different dialects could lead to individuals only pairing with those who ‘speak’ the same dialect, consequently slowing down group formation and gene mixing. However, further research is required as mockingbirds demonstrate great adaptability and can learn new vocalisations even in adulthood, which could aid in the integration of local vocal repertoires between the two source populations.
Further Reading: Reyes E. M. R., M. Roper Michelle, C. Sevilla, D. Rueda, H. Brunton Dianne, N. H. Smith Adam, and L. Ortiz-Catedral. 2024. Cultural divergence and morphological variation of isolated remnant populations of the endangered Floreana mockingbird. Pacific Conservation Biology 30: PC23055. https://doi.org/10.1071/PC23055.
Feature image: The tree of life with numerous species dangling from its branches. The ripple pattern on the seafloor indicates a high current regime on the edge of the Gulf Stream. A basket star, numerous flytrap anemones, two brisingid sea stars, holothurians high in the branches, brittle stars, and numerous other creatures are evident. (Caption and photo credit: Bioluminescence 2009 Expedition, NOAA/OER)
Like an obscure alien underworld, the deep sea beholds unique habitats and wonderfully weird creatures, from walking fish to spiky cucumbers and Casper the Octopod! Covering 65 percent of the planet’s surface, the deep sea is the world’s largest ecosystem, yet one of the least explored. However, a recent study by Ramón Gallego and colleagues, published in Communications Biology found that sea sponges can hold a genetic catalogue of deep, salty secrets.
With an average depth of more than 3,500 metres (11,000 feet), the deep sea is a costly ecological frontier. Immense pressures, near-freezing temperatures and pitch-black darkness make studying life in the deep sea one of biodiversity’s greatest tests. Conventional methods to collect basic data near the ocean surface are prohibitively expensive and technically challenging in deeper waters.
Despite these difficulties, it is crucial to know which species live on the seafloor and where. Without this knowledge, rare and fragile habitats—including cold-water coral and sponge gardens—are threatened by overexploitation, bottom trawling, oil site prospecting, and deep-sea mining of rare metals.
In recent years, a relatively low-budget approach to collecting genetic data from seawater has revolutionised biodiversity monitoring and management in remote areas such as the deep sea. Every living thing sheds DNA into the air, soil, or water surrounding it. This genetic material, known as ‘environmental DNA’ or ‘eDNA’, can be used to determine the presence of different species. A mere 500 ml sample of seawater can contain thousands of shed animal cells, from which DNA can be extracted to identify which species recently passed through.
However, such samples are often inundated by single-celled microbes and capture relatively little information on corals, fish, and other large marine animals. Studies have also revealed that this method is restricted to capturing DNA within a relatively short temporal window—since eDNA degrades over time, this is the period during which it remains detectable and usable.
An amorphous lumpy stalked sponge. (Photo credit: NOAA Office of Ocean Exploration and Research, 2015 Hohonu Moana)
Researchers from the National Museum of Madrid recently revealed a new ‘high resolution’ method for sampling eDNA by harnessing the natural filtering power of sea sponges. Their approach yields an unprecedented treasure trove of genetic data. Sea sponges are stationary creatures that continually filter large volumes of water, naturally accumulating and consuming microscopic particles such as cells shed by other animals.
Compared to seawater samples, sea sponges can harbour genetic material from far larger areas. This is likely because of their enormous filtering capacity, with a 1-kg sponge pumping up to 24,000 litres of water per day. A study from 2022 also found that certain sponges capture eDNA across a longer time period than seawater samples, making them an incredibly valuable inventory of eDNA.
Gallego and colleagues sampled 1 cm-sized pieces of tissue from 97 deep-sea sponges across four species from the Arctic and North Atlantic. The remarkable accuracy of eDNA obtained from sponges allowed the researchers to identify over 400 animal species, including several ‘indicator species’ like corals, that are used to help identify vulnerable marine ecosystems (VMEs).
VMEs are ecosystems designated as ‘highly threatened’ by human pressures and protected through UN policy against destructive fishing practices. However, mapping the presence of VME indicator species in the deep sea currently faces significant financial, technical, and logistical hurdles. Recent advancements in ‘sponge DNA’ biomonitoring provide a transformative, cost-effective tool to inform deep-sea management and protection.
Unexpectedly, non-native species such as the North American horseshoe crab were also documented by the study. The team suggests that ‘sponge DNA’ can reliably detect species undergoing a shift in their distribution due to rapid climate change. For instance, the authors found evidence of a phenomenon called ‘atlantification’, whereby typically Atlantic-dwelling species are gradually colonising warming Arctic waters.
Looking ahead, the team aims to identify which species of sponge capture and store the most eDNA. They hope this will enable even more detailed data collection and further improve cost efficiency for deep-sea biodiversity monitoring.
Further Reading
Cai, W., L. R. Harper, E. F. Neave, P. Shum, J. Craggs, M. B. Arias, A. Riesgo et al. 2022. Environmental DNA persistence and fish detection in captive sponges. Molecular Ecology Resources 22(8): 2956–66. https://doi.org/10.1111/1755-0998.13677.
Collins, R. A., O. S. Wangensteen, E. J. O’Gorman, S. Mariani, D. W. Sims and M. J. Genner. 2018. Persistence of environmental DNA in marine systems. Communications Biology 1: 185. https://doi.org/10.1038/s42003-018-0192-6.
Gallego, R., M. B. Arias, A. Corral-Lou, C. Díez-Vives, E. F. Neave, C. Wang, P. Cárdenas, et al. 2024. North Atlantic deep-sea benthic biodiversity unveiled through sponge natural sampler DNA. Communications Biology 7: 1015. https://doi.org/10.1038/s42003-024-06695-4.
Sustainability is often viewed as a modern challenge, yet India’s environmental consciousness has deep roots, shaped by the visionaries and institutions that have worked tirelessly to balance development with conservation. Inspirations: Individuals and Institutions that Defined India’s Sustainability Journey, authored by Mamata Pandya and Meena Raghunathan, serves both as a tribute and a historical documentation of these efforts.
Written in a laudatory style, through engaging narratives and personal reflections, the book focuses on 30 pioneering figures and their invaluable contributions to India’s environmental movement, while also shedding light on key institutions, initiatives and other changemakers.
Pandya and Raghunathan, having worked at the Centre for Environment Education (CEE) for decades, use their firsthand interactions with many of these individuals whose paths intersected with theirs, to add a unique personal dimension to their storytelling. With CEE completing 40 years in 2024, the book also offers reflections on its legacy.
It follows a biographical and institutional approach, highlighting the contributions of influential individuals from diverse sectors—scientists, policymakers, conservationists, and media personalities—who have shaped India’s sustainability landscape. Among the people profiled (a fifth of them women) are Vikram Sarabhai, MS Swaminathan, HS Panwar, Romulus Whitaker, Kiran Karnik and Sunita Narain.
The book not only delves into their professional successes but also educational backgrounds, national and international recognitions, and personal philosophies that shaped their work. Furthermore, it documents the birth and evolution of organisations and institutions, such as The Energy and Resources Institute, Centre for Science and Environment, and the Wildlife Institute of India, as well as landmark conservation milestones, such as the Chipko Movement, Silent Valley Campaign, Wild Life (Protection) Act, 1972, Project Tiger, and the creation of the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change.
One of the book’s strongest aspects is its compelling and accessible narration. Rather than presenting a dry, academic history, the authors humanise these leaders. By incorporating anecdotes and personal interactions, the book offers a warm and intimate look at these luminaries.
Inspirations also serves as a well-researched archive of India’s environmental journey, covering key moments such as:
The founding of the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) in 1883 and its role in early conservation efforts
The 1972 United Nations Conference on the Human Environment, where Indira Gandhi addressed the audience
The 1982 launch of Development Alternatives Group by Ashok Khosla, the world’s first social enterprise focused on sustainable development
The 1986 National Environmental Awareness Campaign under TN Seshan, which ran for almost three decades
This list also includes milestones in print and television media in India, such as the launches of the Journal of BNHS (1886), Sanctuary Asia (1981), the First State of India’s Environment Report (1982), Discovery Channel (1995) and Animal Planet (1999).
The book highlights community-based conservation efforts and their leaders. Examples include Anupam Mishra, known for his work in traditional water conservation, Vinod Raina, a key figure in the People’s Science Movement and the Right to Education Act, and MK Prasad, a grassroots activist in the Silent Valley Campaign.
At a time when climate change and sustainability dominate global discourse, Inspirations reminds readers of India’s early efforts in environmental protection. The stories of Lavkumar Khachar launching the Nature Club movement, and PR Pisharoty and Erach Bharucha’s pioneering work in remote sensing, highlight how individuals have played a transformative role in shaping practice, policy, and public awareness.
However, in addition to celebrating successes, as inspiration can also stem from challenges and learning from failures, exploring how these people and institutions overcame obstacles and setbacks would have further enriched the narrative, offering a deeper understanding of their resilience and impact.
The book is an informative tribute to India’s conservation and sustainable development journey. As the world grapples with climate change and biodiversity loss, revisiting the lives and legacies of India’s sustainability pioneers becomes more relevant than ever. Inspirations serves as a reminder that sustainability is not just a policy framework but a legacy built by passionate individuals who dared to imagine a better future.
As a source of guano (or bird poop)—a highly sought after agricultural fertiliser—seabird nesting sites have economic benefits. But beyond this, seabird poop also serves an ecological function, as a source of nutrients for corals. A recent paper published in Science Advances shows how seabird colonies, via the bird poop deposited there, can enable coral reefs to cope with climate change
In this study, researchers delved into the complex relationship between seabirds and coral reefs. Their findings revealed that seabird guano dramatically increases productivity in coral reefs. At the same time, it makes reefs more resilient to climate change.
Fantastic seabirds and where the authors found them
The study, led by Dr. Cassandra Benkwitt, a Senior Research Fellow at Lancaster Environment Centre, was conducted in Chagos, a group of 60 islands in the Indian Ocean. Over an electronic interview, she explained, “We have previously observed seabirds increasing fish biomass and growth rates. This led us to examine their potential role in coral reef recovery following marine heatwaves.”
Seabird poop, rich in nitrogen and phosphorus, is a natural fertilizer for coral reefs. Benkwitt noted that lab-based studies suggested, “certain nutrients might benefit corals against heat stress”. Field experiments revealed that reefs near the islands with thriving seabird colonies experienced twice the coral growth compared to reefs with fewer seabirds. The team also transplanted corals from areas with fewer to more abundant seabird populations. Within three years, the corals fully acclimatized and thrived in the high nutrient conditions. However, when they transplanted corals from areas with abundant seabirds to those with fewer, the results indicated a drop in growth rate.
Global shifts, local tricks
Seabirds, even in the islands of Chagos, are declining in numbers—primarily due to invasive alien species such as rats, bycatch in fisheries and climate change. The study sheds light on the impacts of this decline. Nutrient inputs to reefs were low in areas where seabird populations had decreased, with a similar reduction in coral growth. This, in turn, increased the chances of coral bleaching and disease.
A bleached Acropora with a healthy Acropora in the background. Photo credit: Wikimedia commons
This research highlights the importance of understanding the complex relationships within ecosystems, stressing the need to conserve seabirds to protect coral reefs. According to Benkwitt, only by protecting and restoring seabird populations will the nutrient cycle be restored. Thus, by protecting seemingly unconnected species, we can strengthen the resilience of entire ecosystems. Looking ahead, Benkwitt plans to track the fate of reefs over extended periods.
“Tackling global climate change is certainly a top priority,” stated Benkwitt, “but it is a huge undertaking, and progress has been slow.” She suggests looking into local remedies to support ecosystems. “We need easier, shorter-term, local solutions. These can help buy coral reefs time. Meanwhile, we continue addressing global issues.”
Our lands and seas are connected. Degradation of one can affect the other. This study emphasises the importance of ecosystem connectivity and why restoring natural connections should be part of conservation efforts. By taking advantage of these services provided by seabirds, we can work towards a better future for coral reefs and the countless species that depend on them.
Further Reading:
Benkwitt, C. E., C. D’Angelo, R. E. Dunn, R. L. Gunn, S. Healing, M. L. Mardones, J. Wiedenmann et al. 2023. Seabirds boost coral reef resilience. Science Advances 9(49): eadj0390. DOI: 10.1126/sciadv.adj0390.
A couple of days after Ajith passed away, a message on the WhatsApp group for his memorial enquired about his cat. But Malli would be fine because she inhabited many homes. Much like his beloved cat, Ajith had many institutional homes, and each one thought he belonged to them. As did each of the hundreds on the WA group and innumerable others. Ajith had a special place in everyone’s life.
Many encomiums have and will be written, as they should be. Ajith was an extraordinary person, in the true sense of that word. He was a passionate primatologist and exceptional wildlife biologist, but so are many others. He had an unquenchable thirst for travel to India’s wildest places, but he shared that with his brethren. He was a fine scientist, but he was not alone in that. He was a kind mentor and colleague, but some others are too.
Ajith was more than all that. His endless charm, the constant wit, an almost inexplicable calm in the face of all the slings and arrows of life such as it is, endeared him to just about everyone he encountered. To his academic colleagues, government officials, forest officers, students; to his own mentors, his peers, the next generation, the one after that, the list goes on and on. In a community where success is measured by individual brilliance, Ajith was the finest of collaborators. In an ecosystem where conservationists hold vitriolic, polarised opinions, Ajith walked the tightrope with ease, as if it were a stroll in his favourite forest. In a field where conflict is common, Ajith was unflappable. In a world where pettiness abounds, Ajith was generous to a fault with his boundless enthusiasm. With his stories, his ideas, with his affection.
Ajith began his research career in 1974 following a Master’s degree in Zoology from the University of Kerala. As a research fellow at the Zoological Survey of India in the late 1970s, his academic journey started with the enigmatic lion-tailed macaque (Macaca silenus) in the forests of the Western Ghats. In 1987, he went on to complete a doctoral degree, the first on the species, at the University of Cambridge, under the guidance of Professor David Chivers.
Photo by Divya Mudappa and T. R. Shankar Raman
Following his return, Ajith went on to teach and guide research at India’s premier wildlife institutions, such as the Wildlife Institute of India (WII), Dehradun and the Salim Ali Centre for Ornithology and Natural History (SACON), Coimbatore. During this period, he led several research projects not only related to primatology but also dealing with rainforest ecology and fragmentation, species diversity and small mammal ecology and conservation. He guided several students during this period and many of them have continued his legacy, becoming experts in their own right.
In 2004, with the Wildlife Conservation Society, the Centre for Wildlife Sciences and other like-minded institutions, Ajith established the Master’s Programme in Wildlife Biology and Conservation at the National Centre for Biological Sciences, Bangalore. With over 10 batches of students from different parts of India and beyond, this programme is currently one of the most sought after and productive enterprises in the Indian conservation sphere. During these years, Ajith also served as an advisor and mentor to many wildlife and conservation organisations in India. In 2024, fulfilling a long-held dream, Ajith conceptualised and convened the Indian Wildlife Ecology Conference (IWEC) which was attended by researchers from all over the country. Both the Master’s course at NCBS as well as the IWEC conference will continue to benefit from his legacy and vision.
To have your (strong) points of view, and yet accommodate a diversity of others, in fact to embrace them, is a very special skill. Ajith was thus uniquely positioned to be the founding director of his Master’s programme, which he led and advised for 20 years. He also brought that particular flavour to the many faculty positions and advisory roles he held in institutions across the country in his professional career.
Above all this, he was the teller of tales, a purveyor of odd ideas, a connoisseur of cheap rum, a fine fryer of fish (!) and an irresistible wave of merriment. He often said that he wanted to be reborn as an otter. Their love of water, their fondness for fish, some things about their social structure perhaps, resonated with him. Words will fail to capture all that was Ajith, his ineffable aura. Ajith Kumar may have passed away, but he will live long in all our memories. What better tribute can we pay than to try to be just that little bit more like him.
