It’s midday at Kenya’s Tsavo Conservation Area, and the scorching sun bears down on us relentlessly. Helplessly, we face a distressing situation. Word has reached us of an immobile elephant stranded in the heart of Rukinga Ranch. At the time, I’m working in Tsavo East’s research department. We join the vet on a dusty journey to the ranch. Excitement mixes with worry as we wonder what could have happened to this majestic species.

Upon arrival, our hearts shatter at the sight before us. The bull lies on his side, weak and feeble. His expression reflects his suffering—he is struggling to breathe and painfully thin, his ribs clearly visible. The vet’s diagnosis confirms our fears: emaciation. The ranch rangers tell us he has likely been here for nearly a week, unnoticed until their patrol discovered him.

Our mission becomes clear: we must try to help him rise, stand on his own four feet, and continue his journey. Perhaps he could reunite with his family or other elephants. For over an hour, we give everything we have, attempting to lift him from all sides. We refuse to lose hope, exploring every possible angle.

In his final moments, the bull trembles and breathes heavily, his faint trumpeting echoing through the air. It’s his last breath. His last fight. He succumbs to his battle for life. 

Emaciation, as the vet explains, may have resulted from his long trek in search of water. I cannot begin to imagine what this elephant has gone through in the past few weeks. Elephants, known to travel long distances for this precious resource and scarce food, push their limits. Exhausted, the bull collapsed, leaving him vulnerable to bacterial infestations. As he lay on the ground, his weak orifices like his mouth and trunk exposed, his chances of survival dwindled.

This is not just one case. Many cases like this happen every time Kenya experiences a devastating drought period. It’s not just people and their livestock who are affected, but wildlife, too. 

Let’s face the undeniable truth: wildlife bears the biggest brunt of climate change. They are defenseless. Kenya’s recent devastating drought stands as a painful testament to the countless wildlife lost. It is our duty to safeguard their habitats, for they hold the key to mitigating the effects of climate change and preserving our planet’s delicate balance.

This experience moved me to become a wildlife storyteller. At first, I did not know why I was doing it. But over time, I have realized, people need to be aware that wildlife is struggling to survive because of our impacts on the planet, and we must do something. 

On that day, as the elephant lost its breath, I found my voice. A voice for the voiceless.

Two autumns ago, I was on a gap semester in Mexico, and at one point I found myself in a remote village in the mountains of Oaxaca. I was there with a community organization that was started a few years before for earthquake restoration. Perse, the leader of the organization, was telling me about a Zapotec custom practiced by her family and the women in the village.

“When a child is born,” she said to me in Spanish, “the women cut off the umbilical cord and bury it under the biggest tree in the family home. This way, no matter who the child grows to become or where they go in the world, they always have their center firmly rooted in their origins.”

She then asked me, “So, where’s your umbilical cord rooted?”

But I wasn’t raised where I was born, nor was I born where my parents were. In fact, my mother tongue was not even the same as my mother’s mother tongue. So, needless to say, I was unable to give Perse a straightforward answer. But her question stuck with me.

The following summer, the search for the burial site of my umbilical cord ignited a quest for my roots. Arriving for a language program to study Urdu, I landed in Lucknow, the city where I spent the first six years of my life. In early June, the “Loo” was still at its peak: a series of strong dry summer winds that swirl over those north Indian plains.

I remembered my childhood in Lucknow, when every year on my birthday at around the same time of year, my planned outings would be spent waiting out the storm, all dolled up in the back of a car with my family. Nonetheless, the rains were, after months of intolerable heat, like a gift from the heavens. All the kids would make their paper boats to sail on the water pooled up in the courtyards. They danced on their rooftops, only to carry home a puddle and a cold.

This year though, the rains hadn’t come yet.

And this wasn’t the only thing that was different this summer, according to Fatima, the woman who gave us refuge in her shop as a Rath Yatra procession passed through the market strip a few weeks later: a parade of elephants, camels, horses, and people dressed up as Hindu deities and symbols. Some played and laughed, but a sense of unspoken discomfort permeated the shop workers who watched from aside. The joyous atmosphere was quickly turning into procession-goers chanting violent phrases against Muslims in the name of reclaiming “Hindustan.” This was a politically backed event on the day of Jumu’ah in Chowk, a famous hub for textiles in Lucknow, and a predominantly Muslim neighborhood.

The rains didn’t come for several more weeks.

It was incredible to see a place that was one so familiar after more than a decade. So much so that, in moments, it felt like it was a different place.

Having a center, a people, a home, to come back to seems like a basic requisite for a happy, healthy, flourishing life. At the same time, places—like language and roots themselves—are always evolving.

When I think of the word “roots” now, I first think of a banyan tree. This tree, native to the Indian subcontinent, has aerial roots falling from the branches to the ground and can sprawl over massive areas of soil. When I hear the word “roots,” I also think of the “routes” to get somewhere. If an earthquake strikes the isthmus of Mexico or the monsoon shies away over the Indian Ocean, we must be able to recognize that routes everywhere would be damaged.

Roots, then, are also paths we must imagine for our future, a future in which we strengthen our centers of community and our greater webs of life.

The end.

At the root of my story is a weight of responsibility, a duty that rises from the ashes of conflict and violence. I’ve walked among the shadow-dwellers of war in Kyiv—a war stoked by an insatiable thirst for fossil fuels. This war is the cruel child of human hubris. It has ripped through my homeland, shattered my dreams, and etched indelible scars on the canvas of my innocence—just as it has for many of my friends.

Yet amid the echoes of this past, I found my purpose, my call to arms. I did not take up guns or grenades. Instead, my weapons became my words, my resolve, my belief in a cause that transcends my personal suffering. I began my crusade against an enemy that recognizes no borders, no treaties: the looming specter of climate change. My voice, once silenced by the thunder of war, has now become a clarion call for climate justice—a call that has found resonance within the collective consciousness of humanity, or at least of my movement.

As we stand, on the verge of an environmental catastrophe, the question I often hear is, “Why do you continue? Why do you continue to strike for climate while there is a war in your country? You’re not a warrior. Warriors are on battlefields. You’re a coward.”

But cowardice, I believe, lies in doing nothing. The answer is rooted in the rings of the past and the seeds of our shared future. When I lift my voice, join a strike, or challenge the status quo, I am speaking for my people, whose pleas for mercy have been drowned out by the destructive catastrophes set in motion by the fossil fuel industry.

I strike for my homeland: a theater of past and present violent conflict, now also standing in the shadow of rising seas and searing heat waves. I strike for our world as we know it, teetering on the brink of irreversible climate disasters, straining under the weight of our collective indifference and inaction. But the strikes, the protests, the tireless campaigns, they are not just about mitigating climate change. They’re about something far more profound: justice. Climate justice that transcends the boundaries of nations, economies and ideologies. Climate justice that recognizes the unequal burden of climate change, where those living in the Global South bear the brunt of the impact despite contributing the least to its costs. Climate justice that demands reparations for these nations seeking climate finance and debt relief to help them emerge from the devastating consequences of our warming planet.

Since March 2019, when our movement emerged, I have been walking shoulder to shoulder with my friends on the streets of my hometown, Kharkiv. We have been demanding an equitable future, a safe and just life for everyone. But where are my friends right now? Thirteen of them have lost their futures, just as they have lost their lives in this war.

I strike for a world where climate justice isn’t just a slogan waved on a sign, but a tangible, achievable reality. A reality where the rights of our planet are linked directly with the rights of its people. Where sustainable practices triumph over corporate greed, and where green technology is the heartbeat of our global society. I do not walk this path alone. Side by side with me are countless others, striking for climate justice across every corner of the globe. We  are the voices that will not be silenced—the wave of change that will not be stopped. We continue to strike to demand, to hope, and to choose to inspire.

But our unity is not just in our shared struggle. It is in our shared hope. I see a future where the lines of global inequality are blurred, where the Global South emerges as a beacon of resilience and sustainability—just like Ukraine. I envisage a world where the reign of fossil fuels is but a distant memory, where green renewable energies are the lifeblood of our progress. I hope for a planet where war is an archaic concept, back in history, where peace prevails not just among nations, but in nature itself.

I recall my journey: from the horrors of a war filled by fossil fuel energies to the front lines of the climate justice movement. I’m often reminded of a singular, profound truth: change is born from the womb of despair. In my despair, I discovered resilience. My experiences in war were a dark canvas upon which I painted a brighter future—not just for myself, but for my friends. I continue my activism because the war has taught me the devastating price of indifference and inaction, and it has shown me the way systemic greed can shatter lives and fracture societies. But it has also taught me that we are the architects of our destiny, our shared humanity, our capacity for empathy and innovation. These qualities must be channeled to create a world where prosperity doesn’t come at the cost of our planet.

Why do I continue to strike and protest, to lend my voice to this global chorus? Because history has shown us time and time again that it is through collective action, through the power of the people, that transformational change has been achieved. From the struggles of civil rights to the fights of women’s suffrage, collective action has been the shared price of justice: the demand for equality that has moved the machinery of progress. I strike for climate justice because I believe that our voices can cut through the noise of political discourse and corporate manipulation.

Our strikes are not just pleas for change: they are demands for it. They serve as a reminder to those in power that they are accountable to us now. Because when it’s too late, there will be nobody left to hold accountable. When I look at the climate strikes around the world. I see not merely a series of protests, but a global awakening. I see young and old, rich and poor, from every background, every nation, united by a shared understanding of the existential crisis we face. Each strike, each voice, is a testament to our collective commitment to steer our world away from the path of destruction. However, this global response must translate into global action. It is not enough to acknowledge the climate crisis: we must collectively confront it. We must hold our leaders accountable for their promises and push for ambitious climate policies. We must strive for a just transition, ensuring that the burden of change doesn’t fall on the most vulnerable among us.

Thank you.

IDA (Seven years old, speaking in Swedish): I am Ida, and I am Åarjel Saemien Niejta—a Southern Sámi girl.

OLA (Her father, interpreting in English): We are the First Nations people here in Sweden.  We live mainly up in the mountains, where it’s really cold. We love cold, we love winter, and we have a lot of reindeer.

IDA: I wonder if you have seen the latest Disney film, Frozen II? This movie is about our culture: it’s about the Sámi people and Ahtohallan, the magic river.

OLA: Ida has been thinking that, when she is yoiking in a few minutes, if you imagine Frozen and Ahtohallan, then she will take you down to the other side of the world.

IDA: As a child, I think it’s strange that the grown-ups, who are the leaders of the world and who are supposed to be so wise, are acting like children. I think it’s strange that we children are the ones who have to act like adults and tell the grown-ups that we have to work together to save our planet. That we need to take care of Mother Earth.

OLA: And now, Ida works as a yoik artist. Yoik is the oldest form of music in Europe. It is an ancient form of singing, with which you can communicate and have contact with several worlds simultaneously. These worlds are split into heavenly, underground, and earthly life. The difference between singing and yoiking is that, in a song, you sing about something specific: love, the past, the present, the future, and so on. When you yoik, you actually become what you are yoiking. It is also an art of collective memory, during which the Sámi people have contact with their ancestors.

IDA: Tell them that I have released four songs on YouTube and Spotify and lots of places.

OLA: Ida’s work is on Spotify and every platform, so you can listen to her. And now, Ida will perform—

IDA:—En klimat-joik.

OLA:—A Climate Yoik.

Ida presents The Climate Yoik.

OLA: Thank you very much. Now, Ida would like to do a yoik with you all together. It’s the yoik of the worm. And everybody can use their finger, like this—

(Ida and Ola make an inch-worm gesture with their finger, to demonstrate)

IDA:—to make a worm.

Ida presents The Yoik of the Worm.

IDA & OLA: Thank you.

(A cabin in Northern Wisconsin. Red, small. A forest behind, a gravel road curving in front, leading through the rest of the woods. A CLOCK sits above a shabby garage, a TREE stands nearby.) 

TREE 

Did you catch their names? 

CLOCK 

Elsie. And Ron. They’re young and they’re
They’re
ACHOO! 

TREE 

What is it? 

CLOCK 

The second hand tickles.
They seem like the kind of people who’d keep a clock above their garage. 

TREE 

Do you like it here? 

CLOCK 

It’s better than a warehouse. 

TREE 

That’s an understatement. 

CLOCK 

It’s much better than a warehouse.
Everything grows and breathes here.
And the sunlight— 

TREE 

You should have seen it before. 

CLOCK 

I can’t even imagine. 

TREE 

There aren’t enough words.

(The seasons change and time passes. We hear the sounds of a family laughing inside.) 

CLOCK 

How do you feel about our new neighbors? 

TREE 

The trees used to speak to me. The wooden house doesn’t.

CLOCK 

Maybe it’ll be nice for more people to be here.
Ron and Elsie have twins now, they should have someone to play with. 

TREE 

Maybe they don’t need any of it. 

CLOCK 

What? 

TREE 

The toys, the cars, the garages, the houses, the neighbors, and the trash bags. 

CLOCK 

And the clocks hung outside? 

TREE 

That’s not exactly— 

CLOCK 

I don’t know how not to be in the world. 

TREE 

It was never inevitable, that’s all that I’m saying. 

(More time passes—a lot more time. The CLOCK is now broken and very dusty.) 

CLOCK 

Is that Kelly?
She’s so old now. 

TREE 

She looks nice. 

CLOCK 

Where are Ron and Elsie?
Kelly can’t sell, it’s not her house.

TREE 

You think she’s old? They’re even older. 

CLOCK 

And what did they mean “we’ll fix up this garage”? 

TREE 

Time doesn’t stop just because the clock breaks. 

(The seasons change. The clock is replaced with a shiny NEW CLOCK.) 

NEW CLOCK 

This is so beautiful.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. 

TREE 

You should have seen it before. 

NEW CLOCK 

What do you mean? 

TREE 

You should have seen it before. 

NEW CLOCK 

I mean, I’m used to the warehouse.

TREE 

I wish that I could speak in pictures
And smells
And memories with all of their context.
It’s so hard to remember and so easy to forget.

It is a quarter to nine in the morning. A child is sitting on my chair. Despite their bright yellow shirt, their aura looks grim. They do not move, nor do they attempt to play my keys. I want to scream, to alert others to comfort the child, but my voice only comes forth if someone chooses to call it. The child remains still, and as they keep sitting silently, my attention flows elsewhere. I look around, and I see him again. Every day at 9 am, the man walks into the building, and at 5 pm, he leaves again. Day in and day out. The child on my chair has seen him, too, and walks up to him.

“Come play the piano with me!” the child shouts to him.

But the man does not seem to be impressed. With firm steps, he continues his way to his office. “I need to catch a shareholder’s meeting, I’m sorry, my dear.”

“What do you mean? How is that more important?”
But the man has already escaped on the escalator.

I live in an office in the center of the capitalist world. Don’t ask me who put me here, because I have been here for as long as I can remember. Don’t ask me why they put me here, either. Because people seem to be too busy to even play me. Life is boring here, and honestly, I don’t think I am the only one who feels it. Day in, and day out, people walk and run to their offices. When they leave at 5pm every day, they look far from alive. It does not look worth it.

As the day passes, the child sits patiently on my chair, leaving me wondering if they are waiting for something to happen. Aside from the child, it seems like the most normal day I could imagine.

But then, suddenly, ten minutes before everyone is about to leave their offices again, I notice something strange. It is the man on the escalator, this time going to the exit. He is early today!

I don’t know why, but I get nervous. He wouldn’t, would he? Slowly but determined, he walks in my direction. The child on my chair is getting excited. “Hey—hello!”

The man sits down next to the child. “Hello, dear future.”

I am thrilled at this point. Is someone finally going to play me?

“It is time to stop doing what I am doing. I don’t want to contribute to a world in which a dead tree is worth more than a living one. That cannot be our legacy.”

After a long sleep, softly, I feel hammers on my body. The man starts playing. The sound of my own voice overwhelms me. An outburst of energy is rushing through every part of my being. It is an intense feeling, like I am a shining light. It is the feeling that I exist, that I matter, even though I am just a string. Through my voice, I am alive.

As everyone is walking out of their office, delighted by the music, I hear the whispering voice of the child. The child is talking to the man.

“Thank you. Thanks for being so brave.”

Then, the child knocks on my pedal.

“Thank you, piano. You mean the world to me.”

*This text has been adapted from a short film created by the storytellers.

When deciding what to write, I could think of millions and millions of sad stories due to climate change and a lack of climate action. Growing up, especially in an era filled with social media, I get lost in the negatives. I get lost in school shootings, women losing control of their bodies, and people thinking they can just ban the word “gay.” 

Focusing on all the bad can leave a person in fear, and with a lack of hope. At times, this hope can be debilitating, allowing us to lose sight of who and what we are fighting for.

Now I’m a dancer, and I don’t usually have to express myself with words. I have always thought that the body holds so much trauma, so much emotion, so much hope… that can’t be expressed or seen with words alone. That being said, I decided to create a video highlighting dancers that I know from across the country and the world, showing that we are not as far apart as we think we are. 

Instead of focusing on politics, I wish to focus on the people that are being affected by a lack of urgency. Having a physical body, a moving body, makes certain issues feel more real. We can talk about people from across the globe, but a lot of times, people aren’t able to connect with their stories. I found that for myself, dance brings a human connection that transcends any other identity. 

This process allowed me to see the joy that people have in just being themselves and why it is necessary to uphold the voices of people. Self-expression is one of the most powerful tools that we have as humans to be able to share, but also to comfort ourselves. Hopefully, through the video I have made for you, you can see how dance is a universal language that can connect us all.