R ising Seas Have No Regard

Rising Seas Have No Regard For Sovereignty An Interview with Seve Paeniu of Tuvalu

Aerial view of Tuvalu’s capital, Funafuti. Tuvalu is a remote country of low lying atolls and islands, making it vulnerable to climate change. Photo by LilyAnne Homasi / D epartment of Foreign Affairs and T rade.

The late Tongan-Fijian scholar Epeli Hau’ofa famously reframed previously held notions of the Pacific from small dots inconsequentially punctuating an endless blue map, to, instead, a vast sea of islands: Oceania. Within the subregion of so-called Polynesia, Tuvalu exemplifies both notions; a nation both small and vast, with just over 11,000 citizens existing in communities across 8 low-lying coral islands and atolls: Funafuti, Nukufetau, Vaitupu, Nui, Nanumanga, Nanumea, Niutao, and Nukulaelae. Though its relative isolation spared Tuvalu much of the cultural and linguistic destabilization wrought by settler colonialism elsewhere in the region, geography couldn’t protect its people from World War II encounters with battling empires or the Trans-Pacific slave trade, which resulted in nearly two-thirds of the islands’ population kidnapped by slave ships from Peru and forced to mine guano in its Chincha Islands. Today, Tuvalu’s distance from major industrialized nations of the world renders it all but out of sight, out of mind—just as it finds itself in the midst of an environmental doomsday scenario wrought by the effects of climate change and rising sea levels, threatening to sink the country below the waves forever. S eve Paeniu is Tuvalu’s current Minister of Finance, as well as an elected representative of parliament and cabinet member in the Tuvalu government. As the country navigates these frightfully uncertain times, his ministerial portfolio is responsible for addressing climate change issues toward empowering the nation and its people to chart the best course for their future. Cristina Verán recently spoke with Paeniu.

Cristina Verán: Please describe for us the current scenario Tuvalu is facing. Seve Paeniu: Our country is living the full impact of climate change—rising sea levels, flooding everywhere, hurricanes, cyclones, and so forth. Storms are becoming more frequent and their intensity is much more pronounced compared to previous years. When strong winds coincide with king tides and swells, the force that comes with all that is quite traumatic and devastating to our people’s homes, their livelihoods, our infrastructure. Tuvalu’s crops are constantly being inundated by seawater and damaged by the winds. There is extensive land erosion and degradation all over, and, as our old folks have been saying, places where water didn’t usually get into are now regularly flooded.

CV : How does your office inform and consult with the people of Tuvalu on these issues? SP : We’re a very tight and close knit society, so first we go out directly into our communities to gauge the views and feelings of our people, and then we hold national consultations on the relevant subject areas. The majority clearly articulate that they do not want to see Tuvalu disappear, or to leave it behind.

CV : Given the immediacy and gravity of the situation, what strategies can help mitigate the challenges? SP : Our priority is on how we can adapt to make Tuvalu more resilient to the impacts of climate change, especially in terms of the safeguarding and protection of our land, as well as on land reclamation. In doing so, we look to reduce our vulnerability. To be able to realize those kinds of measures effectively, we need technology, expertise, and financial assistance, as well as innovation. The standard approaches— putting up sea walls, growing special vegetation to hold o ff erosion—aren’t going to be enough to save us.

CV : What are Tuvalu’s typical housing structures like, and how are they faring? SP : Traditionally our homes have been ground level structures, but these are easily damaged by strong winds, waves, and flooding; particularly those that fringe the foreshores. So in response we have developed a new kind of house. It’s still in the Tuvalu style, but comprised of a solid concrete structure raised up on top of concrete columns. On one of our islands, Nukulaelae, we’ve already been building them, and the results are promising. When Cyclone Tino struck in January, water rushed in and moved across the entire island, from the lagoon side to the opposite shore. Yet wherever these new structures were in place, it just passed right underneath them without disturbing the homes at all. We’re looking to replicate this model among the rest of our islands.

CV : Given that these conditions are likely to continue, and even worsen with time, what other options may be considered if the Tuvaluan people decide it’s no longer safe to stay? SP : Of course the alternative solution would be to leave Tuvalu for bigger countries where climate change impacts are

not so pronounced. While our government priority remains focused on strategies to enable Tuvaluans to remain here, we do support the individual choices of those who wish to migrate elsewhere, where they and their families might be better protected. But rather than just relocating all of our people, carving out an official investment-migration strategy to secure land in, say, Australia or New Zealand or Fiji, we are instead providing the tools, education, and training so that they can more easily transition into the economic context of whichever country they may go to—while at the same time encouraging them to maintain their links to Tuvalu.

CV : You mentioned land reclamation. How is it possible to reclaim land from low-lying coral islands and atolls that have already disappeared, or are close to being submerged? SP : Technology for the building of islands already exists. It’s happening right now in the South China Sea, for example. China is literally creating new islands in the middle of nowhere, right over the deepest ocean. In the Indian Ocean, too, it’s happening in the Maldives, with islands that have similarly low-lying structures as ours. This is the future we see for Tuvalu; that even in the worst case scenario, as the sea levels rise, our islands might nevertheless remain afloat.

CV : That sounds very cost-prohibitive for a country of your size. What current or potential allies do you look to in order to move closer to achieving that vision? SP : In terms of the research needed, we look to the reputed body of scientists with the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change established by the United Nations Convention on Climate Change. Through our membership in the Small Island Developing States group at the UN, we also collectively lobby for our interests with the larger industrialized countries relating to climate change. We are setting up a new group as well, focused specifically on low-lying island countries, to advocate in the international arena for our peculiar shared interests. And we continue to work on a bilateral basis with Australia and New Zealand as our main development partners in the Pacific, while having discussions with Taiwan, as well as the U.S.

Seve Paeniu, Tuvalu's Minister of Finance. Photo by Malama Te'o-Paeniu.

CV : With so many international experts and entities weighing in on Tuvalu’s situation today, how can you ensure that Tuvaluans are directly engaged in the work that needs to be done? SP : We continue to develop our own human capital and fortify our own local expertise. We have an increasingly educated young workforce, with several Tuvaluan PhD graduates and a number of masters degree holders working in the agricultural and earth science fields, on climate change policy, and various other scientific fields—all in conjunction with specialists that we bring in from overseas to work on special projects. Th e most urgent mission we have is to raise awareness within the international community. Whether you are at home relying on coal-driven electricity, flying around in airplanes, or driving automobiles using diesel fuel, you need to be aware: whatever actions you take, will, ultimately, either directly or indirectly, have an impact on Tuvalu. — Cristina Verán is an international Indigenous Peoples’ issues specialist, consultant, researcher, strategist, curator, educator, and media maker. She is a longtime United Nations correspondent and was a founding member of the UN Indigenous Media Network. Newly designed more resilient concrete housing is now being built, allowing for water to pass underneath during flooding events. Photo by Tusitapu Tapuaiga.

RE QUIEM, RE PRESS ION , OR RE COVER Y FOR THE SOUTH SIBERIAN BORDER PEOPLES?

There has been a recent resurgence in reindeer numbers in Mongolia.

Daniel Plumley E astern Siberia and its world famous Lake Baikal region, which is roughly the size of France, represents not only a cross-border zone between nations, but an ecological transition zone where the high, cold, grassland steppe country of Mongolia is interspersed with the southern range of taiga of Eastern Siberia, Russia. For thousands of years, long before the Russian state and its domination of Siberia and the reach of the Mongolian Khans (Ghengis Khan’s heirs), mountain-based, nomadic hunter gathering, Turkic speaking tribes interacted and traded with nomadic Mongolian peoples from areas surrounding Lake Khovsgol and Lake Baikal. There was no perception of “border” among the highland and lowland tribal nomads that saw the Alpine highlands, steppe-forest, and steppe lands as homelands providing seasonal movement for their varying livestock, hunting and gathering needs, and family relations. In the high mountains of the Sayan Range, the native Turkic speaking peoples, including the Todja-Tuvans, the Tofalar, the

16 • www.cs.org Buryat Mongolzhon Steppe and Sacred Sayan Mountains, Buryatia, Russia.

Soyot, and the Dukha Peoples, benefited from their ancestors domesticating native reindeer some 3,000 years ago. Reindeer allowed people to live nomadically within the harshest of highland zones by providing transportation and carrying urtzteepees and belongings, as well as providing daily milk that became central to their diet, and access to hunting wild game and foraging for wild edibles. (Yaks, now ubiquitous in Mongolia, are more recent mammal immigrants to the region.) Still starkly misunderstood by government officials today on both sides of the border, reindeer herding nomads of the High Sayans are hunter-gatherers, not livestock herders. This misperception has led repeatedly to repression and misapplied policies. North and east of Lake Baikal, Russia, and well into the Far East, Evenk hunter-gatherers have also faced serious repression from being misunderstood for who they are and their relationship with reindeer and their traditional lands. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the transitioning economic and political times have provided opportunities for Indigenous Peoples and ethnic minorities of the cross-border region to explore their identities and histories and consider transformative changes. The 1990s brought democratic reforms, private enterprise, and the opening of once completely closed border zones to international tourism along with international aid programs from several countries. Regional and local governments and access to media of all forms, the arts, and education opportunities presented new means for the appreciation and recognition of the histories and cultures of nomadic peoples. However, the last two decades have seen far too many setbacks across Siberia and the far east of Russia and Mongolia. Progress on Indigenous rights began to be checked by governments and new, corporate-backed exploitation of regional resources. Harmful repression of the freedoms previously enjoyed by representative NGOs aiding environmental, cultural, and Indigenous rights goals has

been coupled with increasing impacts of uncontrolled tourism, excessive agriculture and hunting, lack of access to education and health care, lack of clear policy and practice towards land ownership and reform, and much, much more. Access to health care for nomadic and semi-nomadic herders and huntergatherers has always been a challenge, but more needs to be done so that the right mixture of integrated traditional and modern healthcare can be delivered with mobility across the wide and high expanses of remote rural and often m ountainous regions. The repression of Indigenous organizations has been used toward unbridled exploitation of natural resources, namely o il and gas, against the interests and among the Indigenous Peoples in the region. In 2002, federal policemen in unmarked clothing and masks attacked a number of Evenk leaders, beat them, and imprisoned them because they were part of a collective farm entity that was legally harvesting nephrite, a jadelike stone, on tribal lands for income in the face of corporate Russian interests. Government decrees and corporate licensing agreements have been sanctioned in Moscow to appropriate natural resources in remote, rural areas with little or no Free, Prior and Informed Consent of Indigenous communities. One of the most recent concerns on the Russian side of the border is the December 2019 decision by a Moscow Court to disband the Russian Association of Small Numbered Peoples of the North (RAIPON), which sought over decades to represent Indigenous Peoples regionally and nationally before the Russian Federation government. In the South Siberian region, this includes representation for the interest and human rights for the Tofalar, the Soyot, and nearly 50 other peoples across Russia, Siberia, and the Far East. M ongolian officials recently established the Tengis Shisheg Gol Protected Territory with little informed consent of the Native Dukha (or Tsaatan) reindeer herders. The territory surrounds the Dukha’s ancestral lands and all wild game hunting, bird taking, and fishing—their primary subsistence diet and cultural heritage—is banned there. Mongolian government officials have arrested Dukha herders for practicing traditional hunting or picking up naturally discarded antlers of deer and moose, requiring the nomads to be taken far away and live apart from their families in the taiga for numerous months on end. Often the herders’ rifles are confiscated as well, impairing their ability to hunt and feed their families. Fines and forced exile such as this severely harm families, b ut also the whole community of herders where collaboration among families is required to carry on life in the harsh high taiga conditions. “We have lived and moved across these remote, wild lands for centuries with reindeer alone and independently. Our culture has old ways that teach us how t o protect our wild animals and when we can and cannot h unt in order to safeguard their numbers. We are the longest ‘protectors’ of the wild animals here and the government of Mongolia’s prohibition banning our hunting traditions denies that and denies our true culture as Dukha and as responsible hunters of the old ways,” said a Dukha herder and hunter in his 60s who did not wish to use his name for fear of reprisals by protected area “guards” and officials. O ver the past year, the impacts of climate change and increases in forest fires across Siberia have had negative impacts on Indigenous communities, their resources, and livestock. Unchecked forest fires destroy the natural wealth upon which they rely on for survival, and the poor air quality is resulting in debilitating and deadly health risks for forest dwellers such as the Evenk Peoples. Melting long frozen permafrost soil depths have also dramatically impacted Evenk and other Indigenous communities, upending roads and bridges, drying out key wetlands, tilting or destroying houses and foundations, and impacting crops and fields and grazing lands. Traditional livestock agriculture on the Russian side of the border is sustained, but not in nomadic fashion as once was the norm. The level of government indifference, periodic intimidation and exploitation of Indigenous Peoples and their natural resources is an urgent problem. Declines have been precipitous over the past 30 to 50 years for domesticated reindeer among the Todja, Tofa, and Soyot of Russia despite international and regional efforts to restore some herds. The changing demographics away from nomadism to settlement under the Soviet period is largely responsible, as well as the Communist government’s decision that the live weight of cattle and other non-native species outweigh the benefits of sustaining nomadic reindeer. In 2019, the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination made several recommendations to the state of Mongolia about the restrictions on fishing and hunting for the Tsaatan people in the Tengis Shishged protected area. On the Russian side, poor economic realities and the difficulties in opportunities for work and education often result in people leaving the remote, rural areas of more traditional living for perceived new opportunities in larger cities like Ulan Ude in Russia and Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia. Still, there is reason for hope. On the Mongolian side, the Dukha People have seen a resurgence in reindeer numbers through dedicated international support for improved veterinary application and training and positive support from the Mongolian government. The Dukha have been able to avert catastrophe and advance their herds in number to 2,000 in 2019 from just under 600 when such aid projects began. Yak herding has been supported on the Buryat Russian side in the eastern Sayans with some success as well, and has long been a stable enterprise on the Mongolian side of the border among the Darhad Mongols. In the Mongolian taiga, there are currently more young families with children living nomadically with reindeer than in the past 20 years. With the benefit o f higher healthy reindeer numbers, less access to alcohol, and the relative freedom that life in the taiga provides Dukha families, there is reason to expect that more positive nomadic futures can be realized.

Refu gees Af ter Crossing th e Imaginar y L imi t

Wayúu migrants from Venezuela, surviving in ranchería Perra’a, near Maicao, Colombia.

Ronald José Fernández Epieyuu A ngela, a 75-year-old Wayúu woman, with her husky voice and slow steps, runs through the courtyards of her new shelter made up of plastic bags and zinc sheets that she, her family, and neighbors call her new home. It has been more than two years since they came to the ranchería that they named Perra’a (or Vera, a common tree in the mountains o f La Guajira). This small refuge is located a few kilometers from Paraguachon on the road to Maicao, Colombia. Entire families migrate to the other side of the Venezuelan and Colombian border in search of refuge from hunger and violence that took over their ancestral lands. There they still suffer from hunger and indifference of State governments that have been imposed over the Wayúu traditional territory. Along with Angela, more than 40 families came, numbering almost 200 people including children, elderly, and pregnant women, who, in search of better living conditions, now share this small space of about 2 square kilometers. Their places of origin are Calie, Caujarito, and La Frontera communities that are a little less than 8 kilometers away on the Venezuelan side of the border. Their goal after emigrating is survival and finding better living conditions than they faced in their communities of origins where armed forces and military groups imposed their laws to strip Indigenous Peoples of their territories. The Wayúu Nation are one of largest Indigenous Tribes in C olombia and Venezuela, with more than 20 clans. About 95 percent of the population speak Wayúunaiki, and only

30 percent speak Spanish—so communication becomes a b arrier when attempting to access education, medical, and legal services. According to data from the Administrative Registry of Venezuelan Migrants in Colombia, in 2018, in a span of just 6 months, 74,874 migrants arrived in La Guajira, with a total of 26,579 who recognized themselves as Indigenous from Venezuela. An exact number cannot be determined due to lack of documentation, but as the number of migrants continues to increase, Wayúu continue to face challenges of language and identity loss and a dramatic deterioration of their cultural structures. Known as the people of the sun, sand, and wind, the Wayúu Nation has been divided by the Venezuela and Colombia border since the early 18th century where negotiations began to divide the Guajira peninsula. Their traditional lands cover approximately 23,000 square kilometers, of which 80 percent is on the Colombia side and about 20 percent in Venezuela. La Guajira is located in the northern part of Colombia and northwest of Venezuela in the state of Zuila. Although known as La Guajira in the Wayúunaiki language, the word Guajira does not exist and is known among the Wayúu Nation as Woumainru´u. The word originated from Goahire, or Goshire, which in Wayúunaiki means “land swept by the wind” and was used for the first time in the Spanish maps of South America that were published in 1527 and 1529 in reference to Wayúu territory. Wayúu people were never subjugated by the Spanish empire and demonstrated resistance with the Indigenous uprising during the 17th century. This led to an ongoing dispute of the Guajira peninsula between Colombia and Venezuela until

both countries received independence from the Spanish empire in the late 18th century and the Wayúu Nation became free from both borders. Today they occupy 6,710 square kilometers of the harsh environment of the La Guajira desert throughout Colombia and Venezuela. A lthough the Wayúu were able to achieve self-governance, they have faced discrimination and exclusion from both State governments, each violating their rights and extracting raw materials from their lands. Their territory is no longer the same; the judicial and legal territory has no harmony with the historical sociocultural ways of the Wayúu Nation. To the Wayúu, territory has been without limits—one of the primary elements of their culture is to come and go freely. However, their modern confinement to La Guajira creates an imbalance of their living space. It is part of the tradition and custom of the Wayúu Nation t o remain with the land in a multidisciplinary way with the purpose of protecting their ancestral lineage in order to sustain future generations. R ecent migrant Carmen Sapuana says, “Crossing to these lands, we have been well received here. But it is not the same because we do not have what we really want: the freedom to walk in our territory as we deserve. I know that this is ours because the limits were invented by the Creoles to mark one country from the other. The Wayúu are scattered in this wide territory that we recognize as the great Wayúu Nation.” Sapuana adds that her worst fear after fleeing her community was losing the essence of what created her children. Communities have been dependent on farming, creating crafts, and, in the coastal communities, pearl diving. However, climate change has impacted sustainable farming practices with droughts, threatening crops and dehydration among the animals. The commercialization of pearl diving has also threatened communities’ aquaculture. Due to these factors, many have abandoned these traditional practices and are h aving to find other means to sustain their basic needs. This has led to criminalization and increased alcoholism, es pecially among the males in La Guajira. In Venezuela, the Wayúu relied on subsidized groceries by the government, but due to instability in the country much of this assistance has stopped, causing malnutrition throughout communities. Thi s has led to many families abandoning their homes in V enezuela in search of a better life in Colombia with hopes o f returning someday. L earning to live together has not been easy, and there is a great desire among Wayúu migrants to return to their homelands and live like they used to. They remember how difficult it has been to unexpectedly change their way of life, and this

makes their yearning to return to their ancestral lands mul-tiply. “I wanted to be a nurse and get my children ahead, but here I am,” says Paola Vanesa González. “I have nothing. Just the desire to continue living and only faith helps me. We are certain that one day this will improve. Venezuela hurts us b ecause we were born and grew up there and our memories stayed.” A rriving at this new home has forced the migrants to det ach from many things that rooted them in their ancestral territories, in sacred places such as cemeteries, conucos (small plots of land that Indigenous people cultivate), and even their childhood memories. González, 29, said she feels like she is living in a vacuum after leaving her territory and everything behind. “We left many things we wanted; our house, our animals. People took advantage of those after our absence. I a lso left my 72-year-old grandmother. I left her because she didn’t want to come, telling us that there isn’t enough space here for her and because she is used to more open places like on our traditional lands,” she said. Th e migrants affirm that it has been hard to survive, and even though they claim to be safer than in Venezuela, they do not lose hope of that moment of returning to their home—the one where they were born and from which they never wanted to leave. To abandon one’s home is to abandon one’s essence. “Sometimes I wonder what will happen to us,” Angela said. “Will we get used to this place? Or maybe one day we will return home. I really do not know if I will get to see that day, or maybe it is my children or my children’s grandchildren. I don’t know; only God knows what will happen.” Map of La Guajira Peninsula, home to the Wayúu Peoples and also the site of El Cerrejón, the largest open-cast coal mine in the world. Map courtesy of Carwil Bjork-James.