The 'Real Economy of Blue': Mangroves as Cultural Anchors

As I sit on the edge of a modest dhingi in the middle of Puttalam Lagoon, Sri Lanka’s largest lagoon, my gaze wanders across the open sea. Besides three boats filled with mangrove experts, academics, patrol officers, and legendary conservationists, I’m there to soak it all in.

And just as a visualization of all our diverse-yet-connected projects flashes before me, a part of the answer to that question appears in front of us. Majestic as ever, a contrast of bright green against the blue of the Indian Ocean. Protective of the inhabitants behind it, the dense cover and entangled, yet extremely distinctive and sturdy roots, could not be mistaken for anything else, but the world’s most resilient ecosystems to ever stand – the mighty Mangroves.

We've all read and heard many times about the significant amount of carbon sequestered by mangrove forests, the natural barrier they form against climate adversities like storms, floods, and tsunamis, their intricate root system that secures the soil against erosion, and their invaluable potential as a home for a wide variety of species—birds, amphibians, crustaceans, mammals, reptiles – you name it.

But there’s one piece of this puzzle that in my opinion isn’t valued as much, considering the intricate albeit challenging symbiotic relationship these forests have with it, and an interdependence which could define whether they die, survive, or in full glory – thrive.

With humility and extreme gratitude, I can say that through my job at VNV I have had the privilege to witness this mutual admiration and altruism with the Mangroves, firsthand, by a species that we know all too well. Be it the fishermen from the most remote islands of Riau in Indonesia;? the Tiger Widows of the Sundarbans; the Wokkaliga tribals from Karnataka and fisherwomen who tie up their saris and dive in with nether a fear; an excited group of school girls on a field visit to the mangroves on the west coast of Thailand; the forest rangers of Madagascar; groups of giggling women from Aceh, Indonesia who have lived through the 2004 tsunamis and yet somehow still are capable of cooking up the biggest feast to welcome us with the warmest smiles – they all have something in common.

There is a reverence and an undeniable mutual respect that they have for their forests. Yet, somehow, they are often clubbed under the umbrella of the human population that is out to destroy, take what isn’t theirs and strain the ecosystems that we know to be national treasures and whatnot, but that they very simply call their home. There is a cultural nuance here that we cannot ignore any longer. One that distinguishes these front-line communities from the rest of us. And not in the obvious way of seeing them as ‘vulnerable’ and ‘marginalized’, reducing them to victims so as to feel a sense of superiority about ourselves in our attempt to compensate.

We need to see them for what they are; an entrenched part of these ecosystems, preserving and protecting the rest of us, personifying the Mangroves themselves.

It’s time that we realize and acknowledge that this dialogue extends beyond ARR, REDD+, Article 6 and all the other fancy jargon we have chosen to attach to it. While I do not for a second deny the importance of standardized protocols, policy and top-down structure (hell, our work encompasses all of this and more) – your real permanence lies in the generations worth of wisdom passed down to yield art forms and treasure troves of indigenous cultures that aren’t seen anywhere else on the planet.

The Batik of Indonesia, the ingenious weaving patterns of Sri Lanka, the honey from the Sundarbans – these are just some of the examples of how our communities have adapted to a life that is treacherously unpredictable, but they find a beauty in it somehow.

During a 10-day road-trip in the Aceh province of Indonesia on a field visit, I noticed road signs, that looked the same as your regular ‘Stop’ signs or directions. But on closer observation, these were signs of where and how to escape a tsunami.

You know how there are moments in your life that define who you are and how you perceive certain things?

This was one of them for me.

This little town called Aceh Jaya in the north of Indonesia had its entire population washed out in one sweep, leaving them with nothing to rebuild with. The magnitude of devastation, unimaginable.After 18 years, there was still not a soul that dared to inhabit this coastal town. And yet, these are the faces we were met with during a stakeholder consultation gathering, when they heard we were there to support them in replanting the mangroves

These were the little faces with gleaming hope in their eyes that they may not have to leave their hometowns, their ancestral homes to lead a life in the city which was bound by dire necessity and a lack of choice.

Because they choose, every single day, to live in coexistence with the Mangroves, taking only how much they need, and giving back in a surplus, to their people, to the animals, to the environment and for their future generations.

It isn’t rosy. One could never imagine the emotion behind losing a husband, father, child or friend to a Royal Bengal Tiger that roams the worlds largest Mangrove forests in the Sundarbans, the only such forest home to its name. And yet somehow, we only find empathy for the tiger herself, in an unfair judgement that dismisses the loss faced by one species to another. It is no surprise then that the official and unofficial counts of the number of deaths caused by tigers is starkly different. The past few years, the official count of the Forest Department shows maybe 2-3 deaths/year, but unofficial numbers compiled by NGOs, activists, researchers and unions tally this to be approximately 10 times more than the official records. If fishermen, honey collectors, and crab collectors meet their end in the forests, they do not officially ‘count’.

And so, by declaring the livelihoods of these people illegal, such a state has been created where let alone the value of their lives, even their deaths do not count. But in a tragically fascinating way, they still have faith. Their faith lies in the Goddess of the Forests, the beloved ‘Bon Bibi’, who if called upon during a fatal encounter with a tiger, will come to her devotee’s rescue. It might be important to mention here that she is also the deity that cautions the island residents against greed, against taking more than is necessary, a concept us urban populations could learn a thing or two from. While these mythological stories bode well for us as ‘fun facts’, they have been lived by and sworn by, by the people of the islands who have nothing else to rely on, but their faith.

Could you imagine having to choose between the ones you most dearly love and their survival versus the larger umbrella of the greater good – saving the planet, saving another species (keystone as it may be) at the cost of their own?

Unfortunately, the ones who face the harshest brunt of our actions in our cushy offices and comfortable homes - they do not have a choice. But we do. In seeing the value these communities hold, the generational wealth in conservation strategies, the entrepreneurship that they bring to the table in spite of the countless challenges that may be faced with. We have the power to choose to create an adaptive environment through means of mitigation financing, where the same sacredness and reverence is awarded to the guardians of the Mangroves, as to nature itself.

I think of the fishermen of Cambodia who are forced to make a living the only way the know how – in a stiff competition against commercial trawlers who disregard the chastity of how much the seas and the mangroves can give.

I think about the charcoal loggers in Madagascar, who say with no uncertainty or malice in their heart that it is better to steal from the Government, than steal from --. I think of the 70 women crammed on the floor of a room in Satjelia, a village in the Sundarbans Tiger Reserve who may have had differences in caste, religion and origin but had one thing in common – their husbands had been killed by tigers while trying to make a meagre livelihood.

I think of the head of the women-led mangrove food production group, who is so excited for us to taste the ‘Gula Nipah’ or palm sugar that her community group has made for us to enjoy with our coffee.

I think of the fisherman who struggles to make ends meet, but still brings us each individual mud crabs (the size of our heads) with a childlike excitement and welcomes us in the courtyard of his home.

I think of the Indonesian children who were colouring away sat on the floor of the Mangrove Education Centre set up by our partners, hoping to win a prize of planting and calling a Mangrove sapling their own, one they have promised to take care of until they have children of their own and pass down this tradition with pride.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden turn of our dhingi, where I share a seat with some of the most inspiring persons in the conservation world. And in that moment, we all realise the power of the seas that lie before us and are amazed at the stillness and resilience of the Mangroves. But more still of the people who make it a Sanctuary.

It reminds me of a verse from Amitav Gosh’s book, ‘The Hungry Tide’, that has stayed with me

‘Each slow turn of the world carries such disinherited ones to whom neither the past nor the future belong’.

I wouldn’t want to leave you with a typical ‘Call to Action’, because we’ve heard so many of the same. I would however urge you with the most sincerity within me, to come experience this journey with us. Come see what makes the Mangroves come alive. Come witness how the most relentless and resilience slices of our population survive in a rhythmic co-existence with the rest of the biotic world. And once you have been inducted into the communities through their traditions and blessings, while you are on your journey back to where you belong, I hope you take a sense of accountability with you, to those who could only belong to the mighty mighty Mangroves.