Environmentalists: Who Are We? Why Do We Care So Much?
Personal Sentiments From a Young Environmentalist to the World
Most people go through their daily routines without considering the planet we live on. Many have the luxury of ignorance; others can’t afford to care. Friends and family routinely say, “You shouldn’t stress about things you can’t control. We are all going to die someday.” It may be easy for them to self-separate. The safe option is to ignore. But what happens to those who can’t look away? What about those walking the emotional tightrope of ecological despair and empowering hope? Who are we, and why do we care so much?
From a young age, I loved nature. I was fascinated by the world and how it worked. Memories of squeamishly fighting with myself to harvest unfortunate insects drawn to slightly ajar windows, my curiosity momentarily satisfied as I gazed down the barrel of my child-sized microscope. I remember late summer days snacking from blackberry bushes, taking only a handful from eye-level to not intrude on the tiny critters or majestic birds dependant on the branches they could reach.
I had always been a cautious child, but curiosity often overpowered me. I fondly remember the day I encountered a newborn sparrow. Frolicking among the daisies and dandelions that I begged not to be cut — I could never fathom why adults preferred manicured lawns over the buzzing haven of weeds and wildflowers. There it was, alien-like, laying in the foliage. I felt afraid. I had never seen life so vulnerable, so in need of assistance.
Looking back, I am now sure this moment was a pivotal point in my young life. I had spent seven years observing and learning. Memorizing names and behaviors of my green or furry counterparts, predicting patterns of the clouds and the waves, speculating about the stars and rain but not yet understanding my role in their world.
I had a decision to make, one that arguably changed my life. I hypothesized that the tiny sparrow, still pink and ugly, had fallen from a crevice at the intersection of the hollow-block pen around the front garden. Crouching and peering in, I hear them first. Tiny chirps meet my ears as I locked eyes with the cozy collection of newborns. The small nest was built into the cement, missing both parents and now one of their precious.
Springing to my feet, I knew what I had to do. This tiny sparrow could not fly or climb or walk or see. It was just sitting, stunned by the unfamiliarity of the bright, brisk spring day. Sneaking into the old cottage, I beelined for the old wooden kitchen drawer. The occupants of the house didn’t care much for nature. They cut the weeds, swatted the bees, hunted the birds, and trimmed the trees, so I knew my rescue mission would not go down well.
Rummaging through the utensils, I debated. The metal spoon only used for serving up spaghetti seemed like a safe option. The sparrow would be secure in its cup-like grasp. Returning to the little one, I grew nervous. I had not planned further than retrieving the spoon to raise the sparrow to safety. Who was going to lift the scraggly sparrow onto the spoon? Swallowing my hesitation, I cupped the infant into my tiny hand. Its ticklish body still bore warmth. I was in shock but doused with pride. Placing it onto the spoon, I carefully weaved my arm into the crevice. To my delight, the nest erupted with noise as I gently hovered their sibling above. Lowering and tipping, the little sparrow plopped into its place. I spent the rest of the morning watching, reassured upon the return of the suspected momma bird.
From there, my passion for nature evolved. Books and documentaries became my friends, the words of Sir David echoed in my ears. I did not know it yet, but I was an environmentalist.
I spent the following years fussing over composting, pestering my parents to switch off the lights and shut off the taps, haunted by dreams of plastic bags and straws, panicked by pollution. Save the whales. Save the rainforest. Save the planet. But what about saving myself? Before I knew it, I was exposed to the many realms of environmental degradation. But I was young, inspired, and undereducated. I had hope.
Following my passion for nature, I found myself attending university to become an environmental scientist. This is where old hopes faltered, and new ones grew. My reality became a delicate dance of crippling depression and infectious inspiration. My sweet sorrow stemmed from the overwhelming evidence of climate change, starvation in a food-abundant world, the mining and killing and slashing and burning, and all the people who stood beside me to “fight the good fight.”
I believed, but it was a struggle. I ate plant-based, I cycled and recycled. I advocated, I lobbied. I spent time in the forest, the ocean, and the desert. I saw and can never unsee the damage done to this world. Be the change you wish to see in the world, they say. I was, but the world did not change.
Out of frustration and naivety, I veered into the world of environmental policy and economics. Here I learned the weight of a dollar was worth more than that of suffering or pollution.
Environmental issues do not start and stop with animals or plants but impede on the lives of those most vulnerable in our global communities. Save the planet, but what about saving the people? I am not referring to those of us with fancy clothes or cars. I mean the people on the ground, on their hands and knees in the dirt. Gold or coffee or cobalt or rice, or whatever commodity is hot that month. The ones without water, shelter, medical assistance, or education. Without rights. We tell ourselves, “It’s unfortunate they were born in such resource-poor regions,” as we light up our miniature mineral mines to check the status of our latest Amazon order. And, no, it’s not so black and white, but I could now see all the suffering nature was enduring, including us. The oceans, the land, the animals, the plants, the people. All suffering together, yet the ones with power look the other way. We all look the other way.
It is not all doom and gloom. I do not want to discount the hard work done by environmentalists all over the world. The policies in place, the rescue and rehabilitation missions, the millions of voices that scream, “Our house is on fire! There is no planet B!” But there is no ignoring the endless arguments. Arguments we already know the answer to.
Overconsumption, greed, resource hoarding, pollution.
Disconnection from nature.
We as a species have spent tremendous amounts of time, energy, and money separating ourselves from the natural world. We are no longer a part of the global ecosystem; we are a growth leeching off it. You may be thinking, “Me? I have done nothing. I am just trying my best to get by. I do what I can.” You are right; most people can’t afford to take on the burden of solving the ecological crisis. Electric cars, plant-based diets, ethically produced clothing all meaningful gestures, but they are unfortunately outweighed by the enormous carbon footprints and pollution patterns of big industry, the global elite, and those who do not care.
I have painted this picture of innocence and passion overcome by death and decay, not to panic you, but to emphasize the burden that we bear. Environmentalists, nature lovers, and those spiritually connected to the land are continuously engaged in a fight we may never win. The odds are stacked against us, and many suffer from the emotional and mental toll this work brings. But our connection to nature is deep-rooted, fundamental to our identity.
Passion, although in the face of calamity, is what keeps us going.
I have chosen to bear this burden. To dedicate my life to aid in the preservation and restoration of our planet. I am a firm believer that, despite being born in the late ’90s, I will die never seeing the utopia I fight for. Yet, I can’t give up. The environmental movement will never give up. I recognize that I live a privileged life. I afford the luxury to care. I am educated, I have resources, my skin color gives me a platform. Billions of people worldwide have deep and undying connections to Mother Earth, relying on her services for survival. They cry for help, the Earth cries for relief. Their sounds drowned out by bustling modernity. I can no longer ignore it. This is my attempt at speaking up for them. Who are we? I am an environmentalist, but we are all human.
We are all children of this Earth. This is our planet; this is our fight.
