I’m going to recite a poem—a poem that I didn’t write. It was written by a poet called Amrita Pritam. She’s a Punjabi author, and her poem is written as a letter to Waris Shah, who was an even older, 18th-century Sufi Punjabi poet.

For context, Waris Shah is known for the tragic love story of Heer and Ranjha, and for his evocative descriptions of the lovers’ pain when they are separated. In her letter, Pritam talks about the partition of India and Pakistan, and she calls upon Waris Shah to come back and realize the pain of everyone in Punjab, as he did when he wrote about Heer and Ranjha.

So I want to start with that. And I want to recognize that I will get parts of it wrong. My Punjabi is good, but not good enough—but I think that’s part of it. I want to recognize my role in the diaspora, as well as in Punjab.

Amit recites Amrita Pritam’s 1947 poem “Ajj Aakhaan Waris Shah Nu” (“Today I Invoke Waris Shah”)¹

The poem ends by saying:

“Today I call upon you Waris Shah.
Speak from inside your grave,
And turn, today,
the Book of Love to the next affectionate page.”

The reason I wanted to share this is first to recognize the damage that has been done, and continues to be done, to our communities primarily by the hands of colonization—colonial entities: capitalist entities, and governmental entities alike. But I also want to recognize the power that we hold together.

Dr. Kyle Powys Whyte, an Indigenous philosopher and scholar, refers to indigenous communities in Turtle Island, but his ideas resonate with me as well. He wrote about how Native Americans have seen the end of worlds, and have survived them.² This means that we can survive this one as well.

So I’ve been carrying that pain, and carrying that suffering, but also carrying that energy and that connectedness—which they don’t have. And I think that’s what differentiates us from them. It’s all that we have, but also all that we need.

¹  Visible here in the Gurmukhi Shahmukhi scripts, and here in English.
²  Kyle P. Whyte, “Indigenous science (fiction) for the Anthropocene: Ancestral dystopias and fantasies of climate change crises,” in Nature and Space, 1:1-2, pp. 224-242, 2018.

As some of you may know, we are in Ramadan now, so Ramadan Mubarak. To celebrate Ramadan, I will tell the story of my friend Amal, who lives close to the Nile River—the longest river in the world. (I really suggest you try to visit.)

Amal is 35, and she is Muslim. She lives with her sixty-year-old mom and her three younger sisters, all in university. She’s not married, and she is the only breadwinner in the whole family. What is her job? She is a secretary in an oil company. The oil company, while it operates in her country, is a foreign corporation. The job offers her and her family bread, milk, and coffee, and it pays her sisters’ tuition. It’s a normal life—quite peaceful. But the peace does not last long.

Due to concerns over climate change and other issues, the government drives out the foreign oil company, and Amal loses her job. What is she to do with her mother and her sisters? She cries to me, “Why did this happen? This company is good! The boss treats me well. They’re good people. Why does the government not want them? It must be bribery.”

I cannot answer Amal’s question. I explain to her, “Amal, this is a climate change issue. It’s not only about you or me. It’s not about any individuals. It’s for the whole world. It’s a global issue. So, Amal, you don’t have an oil company now, but maybe soon you will have more renewables here. You can find a new job.”

Amal doesn’t understand that. Amal tells me, “I don’t really know about climate change, but I need this job. My sisters are at university. They need to pay tuition, and I need to feed my mom bread and milk next week.” I don’t know how to answer Amal’s question. She tells me about the bribery—how it’s a common issue in her country. I don’t know how to answer that, either.

Half a year later, after this oil corporation has been driven out of the country, the government replaces it with a local company. So the oil field is producing again. Everything is the same, except Amal and some other people have lost their jobs. And renewable energy companies’ investors are not really interested in this small country. Amal can’t find a new job for a long time.

The last time I heard from Amal, she was married, at almost forty years old. She married someone she didn’t really know. She only met him once. But he can support her family, her mom, and her sisters. He can buy bread and coffee, and he can pay for tuition.

Amal told me, “I’m already 40 years old. I don’t have many choices. But we’ll be OK as long as there’s a guy who can help the family.” Since then, I haven’t heard from Amal for a long time. I want to text her, but I don’t know what to talk about.

This is the end of Amal’s story in my life, maybe, but it’s not the end of many other stories. In many underrepresented countries, oil and gas are among the few resources they have, and renewables investors are usually reluctant to enter into these countries. Meanwhile, oil and gas companies cause environmental accidents, including in the beautiful Nile River, the longest river in the world.

People there rely on the jobs from oil and gas companies. For people like Amal, they don’t even know what is happening. They don’t know about climate change. They don’t care about climate change, because their lives are super simple. They love their family. They like their job—even though the job is provided by what we see as an evil oil and gas company.

Are those people the same as us? I don’t know. They don’t even know about climate change, while we are fighting passionately against it. So they are not us. But they also are us, because we are all together, living on this beautiful Mother Earth, wanting a happy life, and wanting to do something worthwhile in the short time we have.

So climate change: this global narrative impacts the whole world for hundreds, or even thousands of years. But what about people like Amal, who may live just for less than 100 years? Where is Amal’s voice? Where are people like Amal, in conversations about global climate change? Where are they?

I have no answer to that, but as we confront this global narrative of human beings and environment interactions, can we not forget the individuals who are not being seen and may never be seen, like Amal? They don’t fight against climate change. But they also have a right to a happy life. So people like Amal deserve to be seen.

Let us see them. And let them see us. And let us all see each other, even as we confront climate change on Mother Earth. That’s the end of my story. Thank you.

There was a time when we didn’t know what the concept of fear was. We didn’t know that being afraid was a feeling. We didn’t even know that our minds could opt out of pursuing the dreams we so eagerly want to see come true. Don’t remember? Tap back into a time when you were eight years old with me.

I was eight, and my sister was five. Every summer was at the sea. Everyone else was flying to other countries, but we were in Sri Lanka, by her beaches. We’d go the extra mile of building sandcastles with deep moats to let the sea water protect our sand fortresses. We didn’t care that the salt water would fill our tummies or that the sand would intertwine in our hair and make us pretend we were the Little Mermaid searching for our Prince Charming. My sister and I never had a conversation about being afraid of the ocean and her mighty waves; the sea never gave us a reason to stay away from her. Over and over again, we wanted the force of the waves to push us back to shore and graze our knees on the sand, only to chase the waves back to their home and find shells under our tiny feet. Fear didn’t exist in this era of childhood where my playground was the water. How could it? I still remember the feeling of going so far out that I had enough space to dive under the water and watch as the waves rolled over us—the closest I could get to a rainbow. So far out into the sea that the lifeguards would need to whistle us back to shore, as I sat on my dad’s shoulders.

The shore had its own mini adventures. My mum and I once sat on the soft, steamy sand under the sun as these two ladies in bikinis offered us murruku, a crispy salty, spicy Sri Lankan snack. And my little eight-year-old mind wondered, ‘‘huh, these ‘non-Sri Lankan’ looking ladies in bikinis are offering Sri Lankan snacks… to me?’’ That thought ended quite quickly. But how often now do we feel such openness and comfort to be openly kind and offering without expecting anything in return?

I only ask because the world took away my story and gave us its own. That’s what the world turned into right? Or I guess that’s how it’s always been? The world took the sea from our hands and molded her into something she didn’t want to be—the world is ripping her of her children, her underwater homes, her gardens, her unknown, undiscovered families. The world forgot that there are many more little boys and girls out there, just like me, just like you, who only want to enjoy the sea for its freedom. For its peace. For its might and strength.

But no. The world didn’t want to hear my voice. Only its own, now trapping my best friend in everlasting polluted shackles, while she screams silently for freedom. Yes, I remember the ocean for what it used to be, because how can you ever blame an eight-year-old for creating her own stories and dreams by the water? But today, I see her as a distant friend tethered to those who want to rule this world; those who did not see her as enough.

Never misunderstand my words, for I know the ocean is powerful and fearless in her own right. I know she will fight her fights. But listen to her, because she is also fragile. She also needs protection. The world took away my playground, my friend. I may have grown up, but she stood by the whole way, wisdomous and free.

I was raised by a climate denier in the largest oil-producing state in the US: Texas. My dad told me that climate change was just an exaggeration made up by politicians, and a completely normal phenomenon that we didn’t have to worry or care about. 

Though I remember vividly caring for the environment growing up, and even trying to convince my fourth-grade class to take on recycling, my dad’s perspective, and my community—who didn’t bat an eye when I talked about my love for the environment and the natural world —locked me into believing that climate change, and caring about this earth, wasn’t a worthwhile effort. So you can imagine my surprise when my high school world geography teacher, Mrs. Stewart, taught a lesson on climate change and environmental pollution in our very first month at school. 

For this lesson, I had to argue in a debate that acid rain was not a significant enough environmental harm to warrant a change in the status quo of business. Out of my deep love for the earth, I begged my teacher to let me switch debate roles, from “business executive” to “environmentalist.” But she explained that, in order to change the status quo, I would need to understand the different perspectives around me, and the ways that other people love the earth in a different way. Shockingly, I won the debate, but I remember being incredibly annoyed. I didn’t understand how anyone debating away our future, our planet, and our home could ever win such an argument. 

With every passing day, debating climate change with my dad became a ritual in our home and over meals. Drawing upon what I had learned from Mrs. Stewart, I realized that in order to change my dad’s perspective, I would have to connect climate science and the ways that I love the earth to other issues that he cares about: homelessness and a strong economy (which is probably no surprise for someone coming from Texas). 

One day, I asked my dad how he would feel if I was homeless in the heat of the South Texas summer—which, by this time, we both agreed had gotten a lot hotter in the last 20 years that he had lived there. We both shared the hope that I wouldn’t be in that situation, and we agreed that having a strong economy with workforce development opportunities was really important—or at least helpful—for preventing homelessness. As we ended the discussion, I asked him, “Well, if we agree that it’s getting hotter, and that a strong economy can help prevent homelessness, then do we not also agree that climate change’s potential impact on the economy is significant enough to warrant action? And that even if it’s not, would it be such a bad thing to try to make this world a better place for me, and my future, and all of us in this community together?” 

At this point, we would normally laugh and joke because, yet again, I had brought climate change into another one of our discussions. We would begrudgingly agree to disagree and wait for the next debate. But on this day, my dad shocked me when he said, “Well, I guess that does make sense. Good thing you’re doing something about it.”

It was those words—that tiny little sentence—that made me realize, at that moment, that If I could change my father’s mind about climate change, then I could change so many more, one conversation and one action at a time. And so, empowered by this shift, instead of longing to be an activist, I decided: why don’t I become one? Don’t get me wrong—I was terrified. I wondered, what would my community think of me? What would my friends back home, who didn’t share the same love that I do for this earth, think of me? What would other activists think? Who was I to share this space with activists with stories of loss and damage of their culture and their childhoods, who don’t get to experience nature the same way they used to—stories that my experience can’t compare to. I am just a normal girl from Texas, who cares about the environment. 

But as I entered climate activism, I realized that none of those things mattered. I joined political movements and protests for the very first time at 21 years old. Unfortunately, during the 2022 United Nations climate conference, my dad suddenly passed away. Instead of flying home right away, my biggest cheerleader—my mom—encouraged me to stay and achieve the goals I had set in honor of my dad. So, drawing on my experience debating my dad and in Mrs. Stewart’s class, I went into action. And although I was sad, I left the conference excited, because I had been able to work together with hundreds of different civil society members, youth, activists, and leaders to get a novel agreement from 198 countries: the first-ever inclusion of young people as stakeholders in designing and implementing climate policies. 

My dad’s influence and my community could have prevented me from joining the climate movement, they ended up becoming my inspiration. Even though he’s no longer here, my dad continues to inspire me to keep pushing everyone around me to love the earth as much as I do, but in the way that they want to love the earth—and by doing so, gaining the ability to recognize what they love, understand their perspectives, and persevere without fear to empower everyone around me to care for the climate.

I’ve spent so many years hoping that something would happen, something that would make the world wake up and act. But climate change seems to be the only existential threat that humans don’t care about. What really bugged me was that not even my friends or family seemed to change, and it didn’t make sense, because they are intelligent and caring people who are well aware of the climate crisis. 

Why weren’t they doing more? It felt like when a friend has lost a loved one, and you know that no matter what you say or do, nothing can make things better.

So one day I stopped. I stopped being a climate activist. I stopped being the annoying one who constantly brought up the climate crisis. I stopped burning. 

And for a year I lived in this place I call the “Fairy-Tale World,” where so many people around me live. In the Fairy-Tale World, it’s enough to only care. There is no such thing as mass extinction or climate budgets, and you can talk about having kids without worrying about the thawing permafrost.

At first it was nice to be in the Fairy-Tale World. It was quite nice to be able to go to a party and not become “Climate Cecilia.” It was lovely to have space left for other things, and I became happier and lighter when I wasn’t constantly thinking about the climate collapse. I dropped some of my judgment towards my friends and family. I understood that it was easier to ignore the climate crisis than to really take it in, because that didn’t require anything of you, mentally or physically.

But this was also the thing that made me burn again, because I really, really wanted the world to take it all in. I wanted the world to be shaken to the core. I wanted it to fuel the transition.

I used to imagine how it would be the day the world woke up. I imagined I was entering the metro station, and everything was the same, yet different. The tempo was slower, and people were kinder, because everyone felt the burden and understood that kindness was needed. The billboards of the city were covered with environmental prompts, and it didn’t matter how many pages you turned in the newspaper, because it was all about the climate emergency and the ecological crisis. 

The other day I was listening to the radio on my way to work, and in one of the stories, a man declared that we wouldn’t be able to reach the 1.5-degree target. It was just a parenthesis, a side note mentioned like it was nothing. A tank ran over my chest. No big headlines, no press conferences, and still no awakenings. I was completely crushed.

My friend asked me, “But what do you want to happen?”

And I wanted to go on about how we need to halve our emissions every decade until we reach net zero by 2050. I wanted to stress that we have all the solutions, and we just need to act. But I knew she was asking me the same question that I’ve been wondering about for years: “What needs to happen for the world to truly wake up?”

I wish I knew the answer to that question.

Hello, Hello, Hello 

I call… 

While I’ll sleep here too, I feel the coldest nights go by. 

Where I’m under House Arrest 

While I have no choice but to sleep on a wooden floor, with no comfort, with no warmth but my voice to amplify my voice 

While I have complex needs with hidden disabilities, who is a Young Black Male Activist / Campaigner. Who is calling for systematic change in Equity and Climate Justice. 

While I’m stripped Bare from life, to breathe, to live, to see another day. 

While campaigning I am Physiologically abused for nearly half of my life, bullied, threatened and harassed by Public Sector & Social Services. To my own first years Educational life in local mainstream Education at eight half years of age. Who are not Educationally Qualified, however being directed by a not fit for purpose misconduct local authority by the name of Achieving for Children. When this is a matter of payment, accountability with delivery has been asked, but falls short to be seen. After six years of being denied an Education. 

While there was a victory for a short time after a six years’ battle by Mother of Pearl, for entitled human right of an Education by individual choice. However this Local Authority of Richmond Upon Thames Council by the name of Achieving for Children, could not bear but to sabotage the victory. With unlawful misconduct behavior. Which went against Human Rights and Duty of candor in the element of Special Educational Needs. 

While Education must always be about Education. My Educational years will never be returned back, my Educational years are not a Refund or a Buy one get one Tree. Trees are for the environment to breathe for another, breath for our one Earth. 

While we then find my case having a plus continue lost provision road of being denied Education since 2017. 

While facing Homelessness to being asked to pay for rent as a result of not being entitled due to the shortfalls within my education. When the Educational Profile has been doctored by the very misconduct local authority, of an individual who does not have hidden disabilities and an individual who is able. When I am not able and I have hidden complex disabilities. 

While: each day, I ask myself why am I discriminated against, why am I who I am, why am I discriminated against for my high complex creative high IQ. Is it a crime to be a passionate individual about Education, when we are never too old to learn or to be educated? 

While we call for the importance of Equity, we call for systematic change, we call for world peace, we call for the Paris Agreement, we call for Lost and Damaged, we call for
independent anti-corruption / money laundering task force to be created, we call for a non-commodity society, we call for Climate Justice, we call for British New Voting System, we call for British Sovereignty, we call for an Abolishment of NATO for enabling international peace, we call for Independent Investigation of all Local Authorities especially Richmond Upon Thames Council, Achieving for Children, with the important element of a Public Inquiry. 

While a list of vital demands could go on, I share this real continued experience story, which gives a glimpse of my House Arrest neglected narrative. With the world’s message of social change. 

We are unstoppable, anything is possible. 

Find your own inner Signature Uniqueness.

Can you hear me? OK. Hello everyone. 

Just to recap, my name is Taiye Ojo, and I’m a Nigerian eco-activist and writer who uses poetry as a tool to hide my frustrations with society. For a couple of months, I’ve been involved in series of art projects engaged in ideas of ecology, place-making, migration and the effects of climate change (e.g. subsidence in coastal communities); nevertheless, my creative praxis is specific to a geography, or community (and in this case, a particular marginalized community). This place provides fuel for the carbon bloodstream of our society and yet is so forgotten and ignored by those of us who live in the metropolis. The name of this place is Ogoniland. 

To begin with, Ogoniland was once an ecological sanctuary. It was a living place for all kinds of animals and plants: the likes of lions, elephants, even lizards and ancient rainforests. But today, the mangroves, the creek and rivers have become an open graveyard for the fishing communities and their livelihoods. 

As a poet, I try as much as possible to reiterate or create awareness of the issues that marginalized communities in the Niger Delta face, so that people can be aware that, in the past, this place prided itself on the variety of crops and seafood it produced. The local economy was tied to the richness of the natural environment (which includes the mangroves, fertile farmland and the creeks). 

My role as a writer-cum-storyteller is to bear witness to the intensity of destruction in this ‘zone of sacrifice’ (and even though it has been a victim of big oil, corruption, and pollution, Ogoniland remains one of the most beautiful places on earth). The aim is to give a voice to those who are silenced by the dominant narrative, offering alternative ways of thinking about historical events or traumas, whilst imagining a new positive future, as well as stimulating public dialogue and healing our collective body. 

Finally, here is a poem that wishes to point out that a moment of crisis can also be an opportunity for us to change our perspective:

CLIMATE APARTHEID

I live in a blanket of smog,
At times my heart turns into bells.
When I say we’ve lost it, I am referring
to the future – home is falling apart,
the blue beautiful world my mother
left behind needs our help. When I say
I am self-flagellating, I mean my mouth,
my teeth, my tongue – the scrubland
is changing. How tricky this makes
the word drought. And our lazy elders
still gather all its argument for polite
emissions. Listen – memory dims,
and the past becomes a pentimento –
like a scene, a kind of snapshot,
a photograph in my head, where
my extended family, are all smiling
and they are not even the ones who
survived the flood.

This is my story. Thank you!

People generally don’t realize that only a handful of marine biologists spend their daily lives in the ocean. The rest of us tend to work in labs, offices, or from home. For us, the moments we can get to the ocean (usually for holidays or fieldwork) are treasured.

With ocean habitats degrading and marine life increasingly under threat, these fleeting moments of connecting with the ocean are even more special. For me, one particular moment that will stay with me forever is a manta ray night dive I went on in 2017.

I was in Hawai’i supporting my mum, who was competing in the Ironman World Championships on the Big Island. I did a bit of research before the trip for things to do while my mum was training, and found that the island has a resident population of reef mantas. There are three spots around the island that you can visit for a night dive (or a snorkel) to see these mantas feeding.

On the night of the trip, our boat set off into the sunset, accompanied by a pod of dolphins playing in the waves at the bow. I’d never been in the water with anything bigger than a turtle before, so I was really excited to see a manta ray!

After we kitted up, we descended down the mooring line and finned towards the bottom of the ocean. We’d each been given a torch to be able to see, but as we got nearer to the feeding station the ocean became more and more lit up.

Directed by the guide, we all sat cross-legged in a circle on the seabed and were given a rock to place on our laps. We pointed our torches upwards, and lights shone from the surface and the seabed all around us.

I settled into my spot, readjusted my rock, and then I looked up… Being a scientist, I’m not a very spiritual person, but the scene that met my eyes was…  ethereal. Over thirty manta rays danced above me, to music I couldn’t hear. Shoals of silver fish gathered, shimmering and moving as one.

The ocean was so well-lit that it created the feeling of being inside an aquarium. With nothing but the sound of our bubbles, it was comparable to being inside a hushed cathedral, or watching the sunrise on a secluded beach. So serene, and completely mesmerizing.

The graceful acrobats performed somersaults in the water. Swimming in large chains and groups, they often synchronized their barrel rolls and loop-to-loops—filtering as much of their prey as possible from the water column. Despite so many being in the water, they always managed to just avoid colliding with each other, and us… I can’t count the number of times I’d look up to see one swimming over me, just inches from my head. They were so agile.

What I found really interesting about the night dive is how the lights work. Phytoplankton are basically tiny plants that live near the surface of the ocean. When the sun goes down, they can be attracted to artificial lights—like the ones used by the tour operators. Another kind of plankton, called zooplankton, usually comes to the surface at night to feed on the phytoplankton under the cover of darkness. With their prey concentrating around the lights, it makes for an easy meal. So mantas come to these feeding stations to eat this thick soup of zooplankton.

There are few moments in life that are truly memorable, and this manta ray night dive was definitely one of them. It was pure ocean magic.

On our way back to shore, I was reflecting on how lucky I was to have experienced this underwater show, and also wondering how manta rays are affected by climate change. I was just about to start my master’s degree in tropical marine biology, and I didn’t have the answers yet.

Over the next year, I learnt about all the various ways manta rays are threatened by human activity. A more obvious, and very significant threat, is the gill raker trade. But climate change also plays a role. I learnt that ocean warming is altering the distribution and composition of zooplankton, manta rays’ main prey. Climate change is also severely threatening coral reefs, where manta rays feed and visit cleaning stations.

I often think back to this dive, and hope that we can tackle climate change so that other people can experience the same connection with the ocean.

For those who don’t know me, I’m Peruvian, and I study in Sweden. Naturally, a question that often arises when I introduce myself is, “What is the most shocking thing about moving from Peru to Sweden?” 

And honestly, nothing was genuinely shocking. On the contrary, I probably felt more shocked going back to Peru. Perhaps, in the beginning, I referred only to socioeconomic inequalities, because these are less apparent in Stockholm and thus even more evident in Peru after a long time away. But now I realize that another issue that astounded me then and keeps agonizing me today is: climate inequality, which, I’ve come to learn, can be challenging to identify. 

I come from Ica, a coastal city. And, often, when I say this, people imagine a stunning beach. I’m sorry to disenchant you—Ica is a desert. Its population is rapidly growing, and so is the water demand. But, simultaneously, water availability is rapidly decreasing—and, let me tell you, the water resources in a desert aren’t by any means lavish, even in an optimal scenario. 

The decreasing water availability is partially due to the absence of infrastructure, inadequate policy adaptation and enforcement, the blooming agricultural exportation industry, and—another factor we must recognize—climate change. The winter in Ica used to be warm, and the summer warmer, but nowadays, the winter is hot, and the summer is hotter. But climate change has resulted in more than a higher demand for deodorant and AC. Climate change has resulted in more infrequent and unforeseen precipitation occurrences, increased evaporation rates, and thus more prolonged and recurrent droughts. 

These aren’t fun facts to hear, especially when living with their consequences—devastating consequences. Lack of water access has slowed the eradication of poverty and illiteracy, and generated disputes between social classes and neighboring cities. Lack of water has led to mass migration, increased demand for bottled water, and thus increased plastic pollution. And this isn’t the reality only in my hometown. This is the reality worldwide. 

It’s essential to recognize that the climate crisis can look different in every corner of the world. Access to water and sanitation is a human right. It’s not something from which to profit. It’s not something of which private companies, governmental bodies, and richer countries can deprive the people. But they do. 

We need climate action. We need climate justice. We need change. And we need it now.

In the morning, the birds woke me up
—and the wind, the breeze rushing into the canvas.
I had pitched my tent on the slopes, in the middle of a highland forest in France,
in this hexagon with a temperate climate.

I planted the pegs, these small pieces of metal hung at the ends of the canvas, in the soft and hydrated ground, at nightfall, in time for dinner at dusk.
In the morning, the sweat of the earth, the dew, settled around me to reflect the dawn on the foliage.
One morning of hiking, then sleeping in the quiet.
I planted my one-night home on a piece of land where one can bivouac—wild camping, far from the agricultural fields where one breathes pesticides. This spot wasn’t even a nature reserve—those glass domes of biodiversity, where one can only look in from the outside.
I found a place sheltered from the wind so as not to be blown away—that requires attention, foresight.
From one site to another, the atmosphere changes.
You must choose your one-night home with care: the legislation on wild camping is very strict. The extensive regulations provide for the authorization to pitch your tent anywhere excluding protected areas, between sunrise and sunset, and then there are the exceptions.

I am grateful that from a very early age—since I was eight years old—I have learned to admire landscapes from the infinitely small to the infinitely large.
When I hike, I thank guiding and scouting for having made me grow up in nature.
That’s when I learned to know her; to recognize the trees; to understand the evolution of sociopolitical concepts of open space, of place, of massive urbanization; and finally to appreciate, in my guts, an instinctive power, a deep conviction that we must protect these spaces from threats and from profit.

From my little tent/window to the world, facing this political landscape, I truly believe that it is here and now that we must lay the foundations of a new society—we don’t need to follow the instructions to put the pieces together.

I owe to the bivouac my will to protect, defend and guarantee that, on earth and at home, the conditions of life are livable, likable, attractive.

I want to be able to pitch my tent where it is beautiful to wake up in the morning,
to admire the sun reflecting on the dew.

Le matin ce sont les oiseaux qui m’ont reveillée—
et le vent, la brise qui s’engouffre dans la toile de tente.
J’avais planté ma tente, sur les côteaux, au milieu d’une forêt de ce massif de moyenne montagne en France dite métropolitaine
dans cet hexagone au climat tempéré. 

J’ai planté les sardines, ces petits bouts de métal accrochés au bout de ma toile de tente dans la terre meuble et hydratée; à la tombée de la nuit, à temps pour dîner au crépuscule de la nuit.
Le matin la transpiration de la terre, la rosée s’est déposée autour de moi pour que se reflète l’aube sur le feuillage.
Un matin de randonnée, à dormir dans le calme, simple avec une petite laine.
J’ai planté ma maison d’une nuit sur un terrain où on peut bivouaquer. loin des champs. agricoles où on respire les pesticides. Ni même  une réserve naturelle, une sorte de cloche de biodiversité où on la regarde avec les yeux.
J’ai trouvé un lieu à l’abri des vents pour ne pas se faire emporter, cela demande de l’attention, d’être prévoyante.
D’un bout, d’un lieu à l’autre on ne bénéficie pas du même cadre. Il faut bien choisir sa maison d’une nuit, la législation est très stricte sur le bivouac et le “camping sauvage (en français dans le texte). La réglementation extensive prévoit l’autorisation de planter sa tente n’importe où sauf en zone protégée entre le lever et le coucher du soleil, puis c’est là qu’interviennent les exceptions. 

Je suis reconnaissante d’avoir appris à aimer  très jeune, dès 8 ans, admirer les paysages de l’infiniment petit à l’infiniment grand.
Randonner, je remercie le guidisme et le scoutisme de m’avoir fait grandir dans la nature. C’est ensuite que j’ai appris à la connaître, reconnaître les arbres, puis l’évolution des conceptions socio-politiques des grands espaces, des lieux, de l’urbanisation massive,
et enfin partant de mes entrailles, une puissance instinctive, ma profonde conviction qu’il faut protéger ces espaces de ces menaces et de la rentabilité. 

C’est depuis ma petite fenêtre et face à ce paysage politique que je sais que c’est ici et maintenant qu’il faut poser les bases d’une nouvelle société, pas besoin de suivre le modèle pour savoir comment se montent les éléments. 

Je dois au bivouac ma volonté de protéger, défendre et garantir des conditions de vie sur terre, et chez moi, qui soient habitables, désirables et likeable.

Je veux pouvoir planter ma tente là où il est beau de se lever le matin,
d’admirer le soleil se refléter sur la rosée.