(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)