How to pronounce "limp"

(Marshallese) Ukot boka eo.

“Turn the tides.

We must give back,”

chant my ancestors.

The thunder strikes --

(Hands clap)

as the sea demoness swept through the lands

with a fiery likeness of Letao’s fire.

Tearing apart livelihood,

the mounting waves and erosions leave my island gaping

like the mouth of a dead fish.

Tense muscles of uncles and aunties

that hauled cement for the seawall,

cooked meals for the hungry bellies.

Release in relief.

The tides have gone out.

I look to my grandparents’ graves,

intimate with limp seaweeds.

The disrespect.

(Marshallese) Iakwe nan aolep.

My name is Selina Leem.

At 18 at the COP 21,

alongside late ambassador for climate change Tony de Brum,

I introduced myself as a small island girl with big dreams.

Five years later, I reintroduced myself

as a climate warrior from Aelon Kein Ad,

the Marshall Islands.

Situated between Hawaii and Australia,

our chain of islands decorate the Pacific Ocean like seashells,

and they are home to about 60,000 people.

Our islands average about two meters above sea level,

and it is not uncommon to see both the ocean and lagoon side

from wherever you stand.

We say our highest point

is the bridge which curves about seven meters above the sea.

The massive body of water is our reality and our livelihood.

With a history of seafaring,

the ocean connected our islands together

as well as providing many resources to fish,

to feed,

and to adorn our handicrafts with seashells that we make a living from.

But the climate crisis has brought calamities to my people,

threatening our very livelihoods.

In the Pacific, king tide season is from November to April.

This is when the tides are at their highest,

and each year the sea level rises.

In these months, especially houses by the seashore end up flooded

or damaged completely.

Schools and churches have had to open their doors for community members

to come sleep at

when announcements come in the radio advising to find shelter

because of incoming tides.

And we huddled together with our blankets and pillows,

no matter that we are strangers as we sleep next to one another.

Seawalls are rebuilt as soon as it’s low tide,

only to be broken down again

by the waves that grow higher each year.

And these waves,

their path continues on into the islands,

bringing with it garbage we’ve thrown into it.

You see the graves of your loved ones submerged in water,

littered.

Then the vegetation starts to brown;

it is dying.

The soil becomes salinated.

You pray the bigger trees hold on

for their roots are needed to prevent further erosion.

In the most effected parts of the lands,

the land has regressed,

coming closer and closer to the road each year.

Our driest part of the year happens within this time period, too.

We are unable to use groundwater well because it becomes saltier as well.

In the capital, Majuro, once per week,

water is dispensed

and my neighbors and I fill up our tanks,

our water catchments,

our bottles and our buckets.

Our government has had to declare a state of national emergency,

calling for help from our friends.

Sea-level rising,

flooding,

droughts,

erosion have been the reality of my people for many, many, many years.

We’ve been told to move.

To become climate change refugees.

I’m not even sure who would even take us in.

But to those who think that we can just accept our fate,

I want to say:

Adaptation and Indigenous knowledge are the solutions.

These islands are our ancestors,

our predecessors,

our homes.

We are at the risk of losing all of that

for something we contributed very, very little to.

Raising and expanding the islands is something my country is thinking of.

However, we don’t have the resources nor the infrastructure.

Regardless,

we remain adamant.

We continue to fight for our livelihoods

and not abandon our home.

Thank you.

(Marshallese) Komool tata.

(Applause)