Kvinder er hårdere ramt af klimaændringer - og de begynder at kæmpe tilbage

Plantning af mangrovetræer på Vietnams kyster hjælper med at beskytte mod global opvarmning - og sår også frøene til kvindelig empowerment.

Tran Thi Phuong Tien husker, da oversvømmelserne kom. Sidder på hendes cafe i Hue by, hvor hun rister sine egne kaffebønner og serverer sydende oksekød, der tiltrækker kunder fra den anden side af Parfumefloden, hun husker, hvordan den tropiske storm aften ramte kysten i oktober 1999, banker regionen med mere end dets månedlige gennemsnit af regn på få dage. Den massive nedbør, som for det meste landede opstrøms, konspirerede med tidevandet for at forårsage den største naturkatastrofe for området i det 20. århundrede. Havet væltede aggressivt gennem det smalle, uforberedte gader i kommunerne og en-etagers huse i Hue. Det følelsesløse vand steg chokerende hurtigt.

Oversvømmelsen fortsatte i fire dage. Tran og hendes familie flygtede til hendes mors hus. På et tidspunkt tog hendes mand en båd tilbage til deres hus, dykke under vandet for at komme ind og overleve på et gemme energidrikke, der var tilbage fra Trans gamle job i de få dage, han tilbragte der. Regeringens personale kastede kugler med kogt ris gennem vinduerne i hjemmene over floden, men på hendes side var oversvømmelsen for ekstrem til selv ringe redningsindsats som den. De fleste af deres møbler blev ødelagt. Efter at vandet er faldet tilbage, hun så døde kroppe overalt:hunde, katte, bøffel, mennesker. Mudderet efterladt på væggene nægtede at give efter for hendes rengøringsbestræbelser. Hun hørte om en familie - en bedstemor, en bedstefar og deres to børnebørn – som vidste, at de ville dø og bandt sig sammen, så deres kroppe ikke skulle skylles væk.

Anslået 600 mennesker døde i de få dage, og skaden beløb sig til omkring 300 millioner dollars. Det forlod provinsen Thua Thien Hue, og andre i denne region i det nordlige centrale Vietnam, bange for næste gang havet ville komme til at kræve landet som sit eget.

Grådige farvande har ofte holdt provinsen i deres kløer. I november 2017, oversvømmelser fra tyfonen Damrey ramte mere end 160, 000 husstande i provinsen, dræbte ni mennesker, og forårsager omkring 36 millioner dollars i skade. Men det er oversvømmelsen i 1999, der hjemsøger. Fra under hendes piskede pandehår, Tran ser på den snavsede dam på den anden side af gaden fra sin café, som om hun forbereder sig på, hvad det kunne blive til.

Katastrofen i 1999 er, hvad folk i Thua Thien Hue taler om, når du spørger dem om klimaforandringer, så refleksivt som en hikke, som om det var et lærebogseksempel. Forbindelsen er ikke nøjagtig, forklarer Pham Thi Dieu My, direktør for Center for Social Forskning og Udvikling, en Hue-baseret nonprofitorganisation. Det cykliske, hvis det er alvorligt, storm havde det djævelske held med at samle kraftige regnskyl, højvande, og manglende forberedelse. Men for Pham, der har undervist samfundet om klimaændringer, hukommelsen har været afgørende for at vække beboerne – især kvinder – til deres fremtids realiteter.

Vietnams ministerium for naturressourcer og miljø forudsiger, at hvis emissionerne forbliver høje, gennemsnitstemperaturen i Thua Thien Hue vil stige med op til 3,7 grader Celsius i slutningen af ​​det 21. århundrede. Den årlige nedbør vil stige med 2-10 procent. Havet vil stige med op til 94 cm. Stigende havniveauer kombineret med øget regn vil oversvømme de lavtliggende sletter, hvor provinsen ligger. På samme tid, vandet, som nogle afgrøder er afhængige af, kan blive fatalt salt, når tørkeperioden ikke giver nok regn til at balancere saltindholdet i havvandet. Oversvømmelsen i 1999, siger Pham, gør det lettere at forstå, hvad der kommer.

Som strategi virker det. Eksemplet på syndfloden, kombineret med andre nylige ændringer - temperaturer så varme, at landmænd var begyndt at plante ris om natten, og lav nedbør, der efterlod vandet for brak til, at ris og mange fisk kunne trives - beviste for befolkningen i Thua Thien Hue, at klimaændringerne ikke bare kom, det var her.

Så da Pham henvendte sig til de lokale afdelinger af Vietnam Women's Union, med en simpel idé til at hjælpe land og hav med at modstå den kommende fare, hun fandt villige frivillige. De behøvede ikke marcher eller forpligtelser fra verdens supermagter for at katalysere dem til handling. Kvinderne i Thua Thien Hue var klar til at redde sig selv. Og ved at gøre det, de sluttede sig til en global bevægelse for at bevare og genoprette et af de mest afgørende og udbredte – dog forsømte – redskaber til at forpurre klimadrevet ødelæggelse:mangrovetræer.

Le Thi Xuan Lan griner af mig. Jeg fortjener det. Vi går mod hendes lille rektangel af vand, en pen omkranset af lav, sandede diger, der murer den af ​​fra Tam Giang-lagunen langs Vietnams centrale kyst. der, hun høster rejer og krabber for at supplere de penge, hun tjener til at samle skrald i sin kommune tre gange om ugen. Men at nå hendes dam kræver at krydse en bro - hvis man kan kalde det det. Rør af grå bambus bundet sammen og forstærket af smalle, opretstående planker strækker sig over et indløb. En enkelt vandret stang lavet af bambus tilbyder et vakkelværdigt gelænder, der inspirerer til ringe tillid. Broen strækker sig kun 30 fod eller deromkring, men jeg er klodset og bange for at tabe min notesbog og optager, så jeg knuger rækværket med to hænder og tager broen sidelæns. Bag mig, Le, hvem er 61, hyler af grin og hopper på broen uden at holde fast. Bag os begge, Det Sydkinesiske Hav ligger fladt og roligt, som om det planlægger at forblive sådan.

Tidligere samme dag, vores fødder sank ned i det varme, sort, squishy kyst ved en 16-måneder gammel plet af mangrovetræer, som hun havde hjulpet med at plante. De unge træer lignede drengesoldater, tynd og ranglet, deres grønne hoveder, læderagtige blade svæver kun en fod eller deromkring over vandet. Le, iklædt en pink hættetrøje og sorte bukser – dækket top til tå på trods af den kogende luft, som man gør i Sydøstasien - bøjet ned for at fjerne tang fra de stille ømme rødder. Hun smed en sten væk, der var faldet til ro i nærheden, som en mor, der tørrer mad fra et lille barns ansigt. At holde de små træer fri for alt, der kan kvæle deres vækst, er afgørende for deres succes. Og deres succes, hun ved, er afgørende for hendes overlevelse. Om nogle år, mangroverne vil være der for at forhindre oversvømmelser i at sluge hendes landsby hele. Eller det håber hun.

Mangrover er et vidnesbyrd om træernes mirakel. Af de 60, 000 eller deromkring arter af træer på Jorden, kun mangrover tåler saltvand. De trives, hvor ferskvand blander sig med havet, lige ud over kysten af ​​mere end 90 lande i Sydøstasien, Sydamerika, Nordamerika, Afrika, Mellemøsten, Caribien og Stillehavet. Deres tykke sammenfiltringer af rebede rødder fanger flodsediment, derved reduceres stranderosion og forhindrer forurenende stoffer i at strømme ud i havet. Et 100 meter bredt skår af mangrover kan reducere højden af ​​en bølge med så meget som to tredjedele. De binder kulstof tre til fem gange stærkere end tropisk skov i højlandet.

Mangrover omtales ofte som "havets planteskoler" - klynger af dem danner grobund for fisk og krebsdyr. Selvom nøjagtige skøn er svære at komme med, det er sandsynligt, at hundreder til tusindvis af fiskearter tilbringer deres livscyklus omkring mangrover. Forskere vurderer, at 80 procent af den globale fiskebestand er afhængig af sunde mangrove-økosystemer, og til gengæld er 120 millioner mennesker verden over afhængige af dem for deres indkomst. Trækfugle gør også sæsonbestemte hjem i mangrover.

Alt dette gør plantning af disse træer til et ideelt projekt til en form for forberedelse af klimaændringer kendt som økosystembaseret tilpasning-udnyttelse af naturressourcer for at opbygge modstandsdygtighed over for klimaændringer. Det kan bedst forstås af, hvad det ikke er:gråt. Havvægge, reservoirer og diger bygget af hårde materialer er det modsatte af økosystembaseret tilpasning (EbA). Sådanne strukturer er typisk resultatet af top-down beslutninger og finansiering. EbA, derimod er bottom-up og fokuseret på sammenhængen mellem mennesker og deres omgivelser. Det er mest effektivt, siger Philip Bubeck, der forsker i klimatilpasning ved universitetet i Potsdam i Tyskland, hvis de mennesker, der er direkte sammenflettet med et givet økosystem, er dem, der er involveret i at redde det. Plantning af mangrover er et eksempel på EbA. Andre omfatter genplantning af skov for at fjerne fødevareusikkerhed i Mexico, etablering af fiskeforbudte områder, og rydning af affald i byområder i Sydafrika.

Naturbaserede løsninger til tilpasning til klimaforandringerne er ikke altid opmærksomme. Selvom EbA som et formaliseret koncept er mere end ti år gammelt, en nylig rapport fra FN bemærkede, at kun 1 procent af de globale investeringer i vandinfrastruktur går til denne tilgang. Bubeck siger, at fordi de involverede projekter normalt er små og lokale, nationale regeringer har ringe kontrol, hvilket kan skabe spændinger i lande, hvor regeringsembedsmænd er vant til at give skud. De gode resultater kan tage år at afsløre sig selv, og det er ofte for lang tid til politik.

Alt dette ændrer sig langsomt. Nature-based projects are gaining more attention—and more funding. The poor, vulnerable people who are most susceptible to the damage that climate change will bring are finally being included, consulted, and heard. In Thua Thien Hue, that means women.

Women's inequality makes them particularly vulnerable to the hazards of climate change. In Vietnam, says Pham, "women have important roles but are not fully recognised by society." Their resilience is hampered by social, cultural and political disadvantages. Because they are the primary caregivers to children, the elderly and the sick, women are not as free to seek shelter from the storm when doing so means moving to another location. They often earn money in the so-called "informal sector"—selling noodle soup or roasted pig on the sidewalks of Hue, for eksempel, or caring for a young family at home—leaving them financially insecure, especially when calamity strikes. And they tend to hold far fewer roles in the government, which means their particular needs, such as hygiene requirements, often aren't part of disaster management discussions.

Pham wanted to change that. Growing up in rural Quang Binh province, she liked the floods that arrived every year during her childhood. "I played in the water, it was fun, " hun siger, "and we had no school during the floods." But 1999 changed that. "I saw so many people dying, " says Pham, now 40. At her office at the Centre for Social Research and Development (CSRD), a merciful air conditioner hums faintly in the background. A few men and women work in near silence while Pham's four-year-old daughter tries to keep herself busy. A sizeable fish tank containing just a single plant sits on a shelf above the blonde wood table where we're sitting.

Climate change was still emerging as a national issue when Pham started working here in 2008. The following year, the team here joined researchers from the Institute for Environmental Studies and Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, both in the Netherlands, on a wide-ranging project known as ADAPTS, funded by the Dutch Foreign Ministry. In Vietnam, this focused on planting mangroves and also fruit trees for the shade and extra income they provide.

The project achieved its aims of planting trees and galvanising locals to protect their homes. It also attracted the attention of the government, which then asked CSRD to draft a province-based action plan for climate change adaptation. But Pham knew whatever they did next had to address gender inequality, an issue that was baked into CSRD's mission and also was proving essential for climate change adaptation.

Women were crucial to protecting their communities against the intensifying natural hazards and healing them afterwards, Pham and the founding director of CSRD, Thi Thu Suu Lam, wrote in 2016. "However, women are underrepresented in decision-making at all levels." And with little time to spare for learning, women couldn't do much to prepare for disasters beyond stacking their furniture.

One morning in a small, coastal village called Ngu My Thanh, populated by about 220 households, I watch as neighbours build a fish trap together. Mothers and daughters tie white netting onto long, thin dowels that stretch from the porch into the house. "We worry about it, " says Vui, one of the mothers, when I ask her about climate change. Her tone is casual and her adaptation plan is limited. "We can arrange the furniture in the house, " hun siger, "and stock food." The daughters, around ages 8 to 12, know little if anything about rising global temperatures or the threat that poses to Vietnam. "They haven't learned anything yet, " another woman says, as if she's been asked to prove Pham's point. "They're busy earning their lives, they don't have time."

Pham had global support for her conviction that any future project on climate resilience had to address gender inequality. The Sendai Framework for Disaster Risk Reduction, a 15-year, non-binding agreement put forth by the United Nations in 2015, called for more attention on the role of women in disaster risk management. Women, it stated, "are critical to effectively managing disaster risk." And yet Pham also knew that in Vietnam, being critical didn't mean being treated that way. I 2016 for eksempel, the Flood and Storm Control Committee of Thua Thien Hue included one female member but the province planned projects and policies "without meaningful consideration of [women's] capacities, needs and interests, " Pham and Thi wrote. Members of the province's Women's Union told Pham and Thi that their involvement was passive at best.

As Pham prepared for the next project, she knew this inequality had to be addressed first and foremost. And she believed that doing so would make all the difference when it came to safeguarding the future of Thua Thien Hue.

I 2017 Pham and the Dutch team received $500, 000 for a new mangrove project, the one for which Le Thi Xuan Lan planted trees. Called ResilNam, it is funded by the Global Resilience Partnership Water Window, a collection of public and private organisations that awards money from Z Zurich Foundation, a private Swiss grant foundation supported by the Zurich Insurance Group.

Drawing on the knowledge of locals, the team identified two spots for planting mangroves. One site, Hai Duong, where Le had laughed at me, had never seen mangroves before. The other was two hours south in a rural district called Loc Vinh, where locals had once been forced to flee as American soldiers moved in to destroy a Viet Cong base. der, mangroves already flourished in the warm, jade-green waters where the Bu Lu River flows into Lang Co bay, where desolate beaches lure pale vacationers. The ResilNam project offered a chance to expand their reach.

Starting in March of 2018, just after flood season, locals at each site planted hundreds of trees, mostly purchased from nurseries in nearby provinces. In Loc Vinh, about 20 men and 10 women planted enough trees to cover two hectares of coastline. For each day's work they earned 250, 000 dong (about $11, or enough to buy ten loaves of bread in Hue), paid from ResilNam grant money.

Beginning in the late afternoon, after the tide receded for the day, the men dug holes 20 to 30 cm deep, two metres apart, and the women planted the trees. Healthy mangroves nearby fed their inspiration. Regard for the landscape they'd been forced out of during the war fed their motivation.

"Growing mangroves makes things more beautiful, " says Le Cuong, 55, who helped plant the mangroves and built a fence to protect the saplings. The late afternoon planting sessions filled the workers with a sense of purpose, "because we were helping to do something to protect the environment." The ResilNam team estimates that 12, 000 people will directly benefit from the new mangroves, with an additional 180, 000 people reaping some tangential reward.

But ResilNam wasn't just about planting trees; it was also about planting seeds. Pham and the research team held workshops and other events within several communes to educate women and engender confidence to voice their needs. They organised focus groups for women to discuss how severe weather shaped their lives and what they could do about it. They also established a micro-credit programme that lets households in the village encompassing one of the mangrove sites borrow funds; caring for the mangroves during that year is part of the loan agreement.

At the local branches of the Women's Union, members learned about climate change and held karaoke sessions with a song list themed entirely on the topic of flooding. Women were trained to host tours of the mangroves, which will generate income for them. The capacity-building efforts of ResilNam reached 300 women directly and, the team estimated, another 1, 500 by proxy.

The project worked. At the first community meetings with the ResilNam team, only men talked. Women, many of whom couldn't read or write, didn't speak. "They were marginalised, " says Pham. Gradually the women spoke up. And the ones who went first encouraged others to do the same. For Pham, the change she has seen among women in Thua Thien Hue has been just as significant as the new mangroves, if not more so. "That is the biggest achievement, " she says. Communes that held men-only activities have now opened those events to women. And, says Pham, women have a stronger voice in the plans and policies set by the Flood and Storm Control Committee.

Le Cuong, who is 55, takes me, along with my translator, out in his canoe-like boat to see the mangroves he and his neighbours have planted by Lang Co bay. He stands as he rows past enormous fishing nets and ramshackle huts where fishermen can nap in the shade while their traps catch their targets. He has to keep his mouth open to hold his conical hat in place because the string holding it under his chin is too loose. He is tanned and muscular and although he is clean-shaven, he has let a few white facial hairs sprouting from a mole grow several inches long. He tattooed the words "sad for my life" on his arm when he was 20 and upset with himself for not managing to travel overseas. Nu, gliding through the bay, he is happy—happy to have done something to help the next generation, happy to have people to help, happy to expand the mangrove forest.

But it isn't all happy in the bay. Le is sad for the life of the year-old mangroves. They have failed to grow. Where trunks should be thickening, spindly sticks poke the air, a handful of leaves sprouting from their tops. They look like a long row of pencils with decorative erasers, the tropical equivalent of Charlie Brown's sparse little Christmas tree. I nærheden, lush, older mangroves drop their green-bean-like fruits towards the water and extend their green-bean-like roots up towards the sky. Oysters cover the bark where the trunks meet the water and ducks wander in their shade. These old-timers are doing everything mangroves are supposed to do, but they can't show the young, new shoots the way. The ResilNam team aren't sure why the trees haven't thrived here. Le suspects they planted the saplings at the wrong time of year and too deep in the water.

It is a somewhat cautionary tale. "There are so many failures all over the world, " says Ali Raza Rizvi, who manages the ecosystem-based adaptation programme at the International Union for Conservation of Nature and works with the Global Mangrove Alliance, a hub for sharing data and developing projects centred on saving mangroves. "It's not easy." The uncertainty faced by new saplings is one of several reasons that the priority needs to be on protecting current mangrove forests, says Rizvi. About 25 percent of the global mangrove population has been lost since 1980, with between 12 and 20 million hectares remaining worldwide. Asia lost up to a third of its mangroves between the 1980s and 1990s. In South-east Asia, the trees have been uprooted mainly by aquaculture, but also by palm oil refineries, construction and rice agriculture. The degradation has slowed, but a 2015 study reported that it is currently continuing at 0.18 percent per year.

Even if the trees are replaced, restoring the ecosystem that had developed around them could take years. The trees themselves need seven to ten years to become substantial enough to slow storm surges, shrink waves, and sequester enough carbon in their roots to make a difference. Derimod the amount of carbon dioxide released each year from the roots of destroyed mangroves worldwide may equal the annual emissions of Myanmar. "Let's protect and conserve the mangroves that we have, " says Rizvi, "and then restore."

Hoang Cong Tin, an environmental scientist at Hue Sciences University, says that we should not view mangroves as independent ecosystems. Hellere, they are part of a bigger ecology that also includes sea grass and salt marshes. Particularly when it comes to gauging the ability of these species to sequester carbon, the coastal ecosystem must be viewed—and preserved—as a whole, says Hoang.

Stadig, mangroves at the planting sites where the trees were new to the location are thriving. They show all the promise of becoming the ecological marvels that their ancestors have proven to be.

On a hot weeknight in July, Trinh Thi Dan, 58, emerges from her evening swim in the Perfume River. She's one of many "aunties" who bathe in the river twice a day, using large plastic bottles roped around their bodies as flotation devices (many of them can't swim) and dressed in clothing rather than bathing suits. She often carries trash out of the river when she leaves. A couple of days earlier, she pulled out a dead dog. "The river is like a mom hugging you, " she says. She wants to protect it. Another auntie, Tran Thi Tuyet, 57, soon joins her on the grassy bank. "Our group is addicted to the river, " she says. Tran sometimes makes it all the way home having forgotten to remove the garbage she's stashed in her clothing while swimming.

Tran directs the Women's Union in her town and has planted mangroves as part of ResilNam. Projektet, hun siger, transformed the women of her commune. "It's totally different to how it was before the project, " says Tran. The women are more confident. They have more skills and knowledge. They are better equipped to take action before, during and after a flood. They are equal with men. "The men have to admit the contribution of women and accompany them side by side, " says Tran. She says she feels happy to be among those who've helped their environment.

As she speaks, the stillness of dusk descends over the river. Mountains, sky and water melt together into a trio of indigo. Birds circle above. Tran goes to join the few women still bobbing in the dark, placid water. She plans to swim to the other side.

This article first appeared on Mosaic and is republished here under a Creative Commons licence.