This story was written and shared as part of the Read Now Write Now workshops which took place during the Look Climate Lab 2022. To find out more about Read Now Write Now, click here.

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It’s early morning in the South Pacific. The coral atoll of Funafuti in the Tuvalu archipelago stretches out sleepily in a thin line beneath the red glow of the rising sun. As I breath in these precious moments of peace and quiet, I’m interrupted by the dissonant crowing of a pair of red junglefowl who are already up to no good in my yard. The crowing spreads in a chain reaction throughout the village and before long, I hear a rush of footsteps outside my door.

My son Aita peeps into the kitchen and hands me a bucket filled with fresh coconut sap. I pour it into a tall saucepan and place it on the fire. No Tuvaluan breakfast would be complete without a warm toddy. In a little while, everyone will be here for breakfast. That’s 12 adults and eight children. It’s a daily ritual of coming together, which fills me with joy and gratitude.

While breakfast is cooking, I sit on an old spindle back chair on the veranda to say my prayers. The air is beginning to infuse with heat. Every now and again, the sanguine ocean breeze dulls the sultriness, which we have to live with in this part of the world. I pray for my family’s health and happiness and for my homeland so that it doesn’t succumb to climate change.

“Grandmother! Grandmother! Come and see,” my granddaughter bursts through the kitchen door, shaking my sea glass door curtain into a short-lived trill. She stops in the doorway and gestures me to follow her.

“I’m busy, Keilani! Whatever it is, you can show me after breakfast,” I say abruptly while keeping an eye on the boiling toddy.

My granddaughter is a tenacious spirit who won’t take no for an answer so she hurries over to grab my hand. I turn around to give her a lecture on good manners, but a string of teardrops trapped on her long eyelashes urges me to listen. She gazes at me earnestly and tells me what no Tuvaluan hopes to hear: “Your garden is under water, grandmother! I ran here as fast as I could to tell you.”

I pull the toddy off the fire and speed-walk out onto the street to catch up with Keilani. Her body quivers with shock and upset. I pull her to my chest and kiss the top of her head. The sweet scent of coconut milk instantly overwhelms my nostrils. We link arms and stride in the shade of towering coconut palms to my small landholding, which has been in my family for generations. There’s no need to run as we can’t stop the sea.

It’s a short walk to the garden. My head is spinning with images of destruction. I’m not too worried about the pulaka crop as it’s planted in deep trenches in raised beds and it doesn’t seem to mind a bit of saltwater here and there. But what about the Chinese cabbages, beans, pumpkins and cucumbers? They’re also in raised beds, but what if sea water seeps in? I must remain hopeful.

The garden is my only source of income, but money isn’t my main motivation. Many people in the village, including my family, rely on me for fresh fruit and vegetables. It’s a big responsibility to be a greengrocer, and these days there aren’t many of us left in the trade. I recall the day when my father bequeathed the land to me. I promised to look after the soil and grow good, nutritious food to feed our family and the community. I’ve been dutifully fulfilling this promise for nearly 40 years. Perhaps today, or one day soon, my garden will become a salt marsh and then we will have no choice but to buy fresh produce imported from Fiji or Australia.

***

Keilani halts as we reach my patched-up wooden shed. I’m suddenly conscious that I’m standing in water. My legs begin to wobble as I take in the picture of devastation in front of me. The morning tide reached further inland than ever before and my garden has become one of its victims. Sea water is bubbling up through the porous soils inside the raised beds and there’s standing water everywhere. I reach over to a nearby pandanus and lean onto its stilt roots for support. I want to save my vegetables so I wade towards my beds.

“Grandmother! Please, come back!” Keilani cries out in a frightened voice, which doesn’t belong to her. When
I look back she appears small and vulnerable standing ankle-deep in water on a wooden platform beside the shed. “I’m coming, my sweet little coconut. I’m sorry if I scared you,” I reply, smiling reassuringly.

She holds out her hand and helps me get on the raised platform. We weep together to mourn my garden.

“It’s climate change, isn’t it, grandmother?” she speaks when the tears run out. “We’ve been learning about it since little school. Sea levels all over the world keep rising because glaciers and ice sheets are melting and because the ocean is warming. And because our islands are low-lying we’re being affected first.”

“I didn’t know that the temperature of the ocean had anything to do with climate change. Can you tell me more?” I encourage her with a nod.

“Well, it’s simple, really,” she smiles cleverly. “Water expands as it warms. Because of human emissions, the oceans are sucking up more heat than ever before and so the sea levels are rising.”

“You are a bright coconut, Keilani. But what are we going to do now?” I ask sadly as I look at what once was a paradise garden.

“You know, when I saw your garden earlier, I thought I’d be scared of the Pacific Ocean, but I’m not really because it’s not the ocean’s fault. We, Tuvaluans, have a tiny environmental footprint compared to other countries. That’s what our teacher told us. So my wish is for the bigger countries that are causing climate change to stop being selfish and take action so that we never have to leave our beautiful island. I will write to them about what’s happening here in your garden, grandmother!” she tells me animatedly.

“I know you will, Keilani. I know you will,” I hug her in gratitude.

A large crowd of villagers gathers round. They listen and acknowledge Keilani’s wish as their own. Aita and his wife fetch the toddy I made earlier and hand it out in small cups. Someone else brings a dish piled high
with banana fritters. As we share breakfast we dare to hope for a better future.