字幕表 動画を再生する 英語字幕をプリント The documentary you're about to watch is a Nebula original—that means it was funded by and released on the streaming platform Nebula first. We thought, though, that this one in particular would be important to get out to the widest audience possible given how important the subject matter is. It is, though, going to be one of the last Nebula originals uploaded to YouTube as we're phasing that out. I hope this serves as evidence for you on just how high-quality the content on Nebula is, and, each week, new originals come out from some of the top educational content creators. If you want to see more, Nebula is available through a bundle deal with CuriosityStream for just $15 a year at their current sale pricing, and that's available only by going to CuriosityStream.com/Wendover. Now, to the Marshall Islands. Now. The legend is that the Marshall Islands were created by a god whose name was Lowa. He descended on the atoll Ailinglaplap. And he created the islands by saying Lowa and islands and there were islands. Lowa and people and there were people. Lowa and fish and there were fish and on and on like that. So our land, you know, like our mothers, you know, they provide for everything and our ocean--same thing. We've always thought about the ocean as our friends right now it's becoming a threat to us. You know when you find a globe and you give it a whirl and it goes around and around and around and then as the going slows, your eyes come to rest on a dash of color that has never caught your attention before? A spot that sits on the part of the sphere you normally spin right past? An island so isolated that you're not even sure how you'd explain where it is? Somewhere whose story is seen as insignificant? A land that's lost to most of the world; left out of the history books apart from a passing mention? That place is here—the Republic of the Marshall Islands. But unknown, untold, unremembered places aren't unique. What makes the Marshall Islands' story singular is not that's it's unrecognized from above, but because it's under siege from below, and it's only when you see it from in the middle that you can understand why. Go on, take a look. You won't have the chance for long. We can talk more about the end of their world later, but first I've got to tell you about what we've got here. It's a small nation, the Marshall Islands, with a bit over 50,000 residents and 70 square miles of land, split up into 29 atolls—thin rings of land encircling saltwater lagoons. While significant populations can be found on 13 of those atolls, over half of the Marshallese people can be found on this one, Majuro. About 28,000 live on the capital atoll, and none of those 28,000 live more than a few-minutes walk from the ocean. The furthest you can get from the water is about 2,000 feet or 600 meters inland, but that's an anomaly. In most spots, water flanks you closely on both sides. In some spots, the atoll gets so thin that you could stand in the lagoon and have a conversation with someone standing in the ocean. Life on a remote, sunny, coral atoll may sound idyllic, but the population density of Majuro—greater than that of Bahrain, Bermuda, or Bangladesh—has not been kind to the mother atoll. In a part of the world usually thought of as pristine, sparse, and pastoral, Majuro is instead gritty, overcrowded, and urbanized. It's far from an island paradise. “Based on the 2011 census, which is the last census we had, the average household size on Majuro was about seven people and household income is about sixteen thousand dollars in that neighborhood file. Sixteen thousand divided by seven. You know, if you can, that can be a challenge. That can be tough.” Here's the problem: some places are poor because they haven't yet seized their opportunity. Others are poor because they have no opportunity. Majuro is in that second category. “Characteristics of the economy here in the islands is, you know, you're looking at fish, coconuts, people, I mean, outside of that our natural resources are fairly scarce, and then combined with our challenges with education and skills attainment, it makes it even more challenging with people being laid off her third largest natural resource. There are some major inhibitors for sustaining economic growth, expanding the economy here in the islands.” Like many small islands nations, the Marshall Islands doesn't have too much in the way of natural resources worth exporting, and even when it does manage to produce something people might want to buy, the cost of shipping it to those potential buyers will have pumped up the price so much that it's no longer worth it. One of the very few things they make decent business of selling abroad is copra, or dried coconut meat, which is produced mainly on outer atolls and then brought into Majuro for processing. It's a work-intensive process mostly conducted by families who form informal assembly lines, getting paid 50 cents a pound—and even that low wage is the result of heavy government subsidies. Because creating viable export goods is so difficult, most of the jobs in the Marshall Islands are either in government, or the subsistence economy—in other words, most people in the Marshall Islands are providing services or making goods exclusively for the Marshall Islands, which leaves very little opportunity for growth. But, the country does have one tiny little asset that keeps it running—its location. A location that makes the Marshall Islands attractive to one of the world's biggest businesses—the US Military. The American military presence can be found mainly on Kwajalein Atoll, which serves as a key test site for the US ballistic missile defense system, among other purposes. In the end, it's simple logic: The US Military wants access to the Marshall Islands, the Marshall Islands wants money and security, and thus, an agreement exists—the Compact of Free Association. “So the Compact of Free Association, it basically lays the foundation for the relationship between the United States and the freely associated states.” “One section of the compact deals with the relationship between our peoples and it allows for qualified citizens to live and work and study in the United States without a visa. There is another section of the compact that generally governs economics and it provides for grants and services, all kinds of USG assistance coming to the Marshall Islands, and the third big section of the compact has to do with security provisions. The United States is the guarantor of security in the Marshall Islands.” It's difficult to overstate the significance of the compact—it's the basis for the entire modern economic and political system of the Marshalls—and while each of the three sections has an enormous impact on the country, perhaps none is more consequential than the second: financial aid. “The Marshalls are heavily dependent on money from donors or from the United States. That's a tremendous part of the national income, upwards of 70, 80 percent.” “The U.S. provides approximately 100 million dollars every year to the RMI as a combination of grants and services and programs.” Now, it's a big world out there, and there are quite a few places the US could send $100 million a year to in exchange for military access, so why here? Why is there this strange partnership between one of the world's largest superpowers and one of the world's smallest countries? Well, like most strange things, it came as the result of millions of years of chance and circumstance. About 70 million years ago, 29 ancient volcanoes in what we would now call the North Pacific came to life and spewed out lava which quickly cooled and built up into under-ocean volcanic structures until they grew so much that they emerged above the water and became islands. Around these islands, coral began to form, eventually coalescing into what's known as a fringing coral reef, which encircled each island. Time went on, the dinosaurs ruled, then died or became birds, then mammals started mattering, and so on and so on, and as that all happened those islands were slowly eroding and undergoing subsidence—they slowly sunk into the sea. Eventually, the islands disappeared under the ocean, but the coral reefs that had formed around them remained. It is these 29 rings of coral, called atolls, that make up what's now known as the Marshall Islands. Sometime, millions of years later, but 4,000 years before today, the first Marshallese settlers arrived on the islands, coming from either here, here, here, or here—or some combination of those places. They split the atolls into two chains: the eastern Ralik, or sunrise chain, and the western Ratak, or sunset chain. From those early Marshallese, eight clans emerged, of which, four became dominant. The “chee-tea” conquered Northern Ralik, the “arab-ra-joey” took southern Ralik, and the “roo-may-your” clan conquered nearly all of Ratak, but then gave nearly all of it to their offspring, of the “rah-no” clan. These early Marshallese wore traditional clothing, which looked like this, lived in large community-based homes, which looked like this, and practiced a religion that involved complex dances and tattoos, which looked like this. The first Western explorers to find the Marshall Islands were Spaniards—and there were a few of them. The first one was this guy, in 1526, then this guy in 1529, and then this guy in 1530. Over the next three hundred years, more explorers stopped through the Marshalls—including Frenchmen, Russians, and this guy, British Captain John Charles Marshall in 1788, after whom the islands were named on Western maps. Technically, during this time, the Spanish claimed sovereignty over the Marshall Islands as part of the Spanish East Indies, which included all of this, but that claim was largely just theoretical. The Spanish never had a formal administration, never tried to exert influence, and never even really visited apart from those early explorers, whose only real impact had been giving the Marshallese European diseases. Much more relevant to the actual history of the Marshalls was the presence of these people: Boston missionaries who first arrived in 1857 aboard the Morning Star. They landed here, on Ebon atoll and were met by Chief Kabua, whose great, great—some number of greats—grandson was the first president of the Marshall Islands, and whose some greater number of greats grandson is the current president. Chief Kabua allowed the missionaries to stay there, where they began spreading Christianity throughout the islands. Not only were they teaching them about this guy and this book, they also actively changed Marshallese culture, even going so far as to ban traditional tattooing and dancing because they referenced the traditional Marshallese religion. Soon, the Marshall Islands changed even more, as the first genuine Western settlers, the Germans, began to make residence in the islands. In 1875 they signed a Treaty of Friendship with Chief Kabua, and developed a consulate, trading posts, and economic ties, eventually buying the Marshalls from Spain in 1885, the same year they worked with Chief Kabua to make the Marshall Islands an official German protectorate. Also, importantly, they brought in more missionaries who spread even more Christianity. But then, in 1914, the Germans decided to invade here, which led to here invading here, and then here invading here, and then here invading here, and then here invading here, and also, not that many people paid attention to it, the Japanese invading here: the Marshall Islands. Japan took the Marshalls in part for strategic reasons, in part for economic reasons. After all, even in the final years of German rule, they controlled over 80% of the island's trade. Once World War I ended and all these people got together to sign the Treaty of Versailles, the Council of the League of Nations gave control of the Marshall Islands to the Japanese. While in power, they expanded their administration, introduced Japanese culture, and moved about 1,000 Japanese citizens to the islands. But then, because of some things going on here and here and also here, the Japanese decided to drop bombs here, which led to the United States entering World War II and eventually taking the Marshalls from the Japanese in 1944. And then came this: When the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, it began a new chapter in the world's history: the nuclear age. For some, it was exciting. There were mushroom cloud cakes, Miss Atomic beauty pageants, and talk of unlimited clean energy, unparalleled military dominance, and an everlasting world peace. But, of course, the enduring legacy of nuclear weapons is not peace or energy, but destruction. And while what happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki can be found in any book of modern history, there's another chapter of the nuclear story that's told far less often: that of the Marshall Islands. “So what happened at the end of World War 2 was there had already been three nuclear weapons detonated—one in New Mexico and then Hiroshima and Nagasaki—but the United States at that time, not just the United States, the Russians, too—they wanted to increase their knowledge about the new nuclear testing, and so they needed a testing ground, and when they looked around the globe, they needed several requirements for a proving ground for their nuclear testing—it had to be out of the way of major airline and shipping routes, had to be under the control of the United States, had to have a really wide area lagoon to anchor the ships to do the testing with, somewhere really far out of the way, and they looked around the map and they saw Bikini.” Bikini Atoll sits at the northern end of the Ralik chain, 2.3 square miles of land encircling a 229 square mile lagoon. It was perfect: the right size, the right shape, the right location, and the right political status, as the US had been given jurisdiction over the Marshall Islands at the end of the war. And so, onto tiny Bikini Atoll, the United States moved in 42,000 personnel on 242 ships, and began to experiment with the greatest power ever unleashed by mankind. First there was the Crossroads Able bomb, 21 kilotons, far greater than Little Boy, the 15 kiloton bomb dropped on Hiroshima; then, Crossroads Baker, 23 kilotons; but these were nothing compared to what came next: Castle Bravo. Detonated on March 1, 1954, this bomb produced the most powerful explosion the world had ever seen—15 megatons; one thousand times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb. For the United States, it was a triumph: the greatest example yet of nuclear technology's potential. For Nerje Joseph, on neighboring Rongelap Atoll, it was the start of a long nightmare. “My name is Nerje Joseph. I come from Rongelap…and then I was in Rongelap in 1954, nuclear detonation.” Nerje was only eight on Bravo Day. Today, at 74, she still remembers it vividly. “When it went off we didn't know what was going on but, we saw lots of different colors. It looked like a rainbow.” “Later that day, there were a lot of powders that fell from the sky and we didn't know what it was and it looked like snow. They covered their land, hair, skin, and their drinking water and when they wanted to drink water, they had to get rid of the powder to be able to drink water.” That powder, of course, was nuclear fallout: pulverized pieces of coral laced with radiation that had been shot up into the air, and carried by wind onto Rongelap. But the people of Rongelap had no idea what it was—some of the kids even stuck their tongues out and let it fall into their mouths, thinking it was snow. Despite the enormous danger posed to the people of Rongelap, the US didn't evacuate them for two days. By that time, the radiation sickness had started to take hold. “I remember there was an airplane that came in and people with uniform with medals on them came and stopped them from drinking and eating food on the land.” “After they took us to Kwajalean that's when we started feeling sick. We started throwing up, having diarrhea, we were feeling really cold and we were aching all of our body.” Of the hundreds of people on Rongelap that day, Nerje is one of just ten who are still alive. No one on Rongelap died that day, but that doesn't mean the bomb didn't kill them. Many fell victim to thyroid cancer, which has been linked to the fallout from Bravo, and none have been able to return to their home. “I want to go back, but I don't know that I can, because they told me that it is still nuclear active.” The collateral damage of nuclear testing isn't limited only to the people of Rongelap. There's another group of victims, whose pain began before a single bomb was detonated—the 167 inhabitants of Bikini atoll. To the United States, once they'd identified Bikini as a suitable test site, its people were more of an afterthought than an obstacle. “They ask them if they're there, they'd be willing to move for the good of mankind and to end all world wars. And Judah, the leader of the Bikinians, he just keeps standing up and saying the same answer every time he says [speaking in Marshallese], which is 'everything's in the hands of God.' And if you know what I know about Marshallese culture, if someone said to me, if I asked them if I could do something, they said everything's in the hands of God. That's about as much as a no as you're ever gonna get. I mean, it's in the hands of God. You better be careful, but if you watch today, the twenty six takes of the same shot that the Commodore stands up dust off his pants. In the end, he says, well, everything being in the hands of God, it cannot be other than good, and off he walks.” With that, the people of Bikini were evacuated, and while they were told, of course, that they would one day be able to return to their home, that—like so many things the Marshalls were told as nuclear testing began—was a lie. After they were evacuated, the Bikinians underwent a grueling saga, placed by the United States here, on uninhabited Rongerik Atoll, which they soon discovered had toxic fish and land where nothing grew. “So but I think the US looked at Rongerik and looked at bikini: 'palm trees, beach, looks the same.' You'll just go there and they dropped them off there, the Bikinians and they starved." After two years, they were moved to tents here at Kwajalein base, then finally here, to Kili Island. And meanwhile, with each bomb the Americans detonated, more and more of the Bikinian's land was vaporized. The little that remained was laced with nuclear radiation that wouldn't dissipate for thousands of years. “And in the in the mid early nineteen late 1960s, President Johnson on the front page of The New York Times on a Sunday edition said that bikini was now safe on recommendations from the Atomic Energy Commission that everybody could go back.” While they were skeptical, many were so desperate to return home that they went, choosing to trust the Americans. Perhaps unsurprisingly, that trust was not rewarded. “After about eight or nine years, they discovered that the people were ingesting the food grown on the island and the cesium 137 radioactive element was going up into the crops and they're eating this. So it was discovered in the late 70s that they had these very high body burdens of cesium 137, so they moved them off again and they haven't been back since.” In the end, the United States dropped 67 nuclear bombs on the Marshall Islands between 1946 and 1948; still today, many parts of the the country show radiation levels that far exceed those of Chernobyl. “It was really, the Cold War was fought and won by the United States on the shores of Bikini and Enewetak in the Marshall Islands. We really gave a lot to the United States, and the idea that it's not even talked about. It's really kind of for lack of a better word, I would say it's insulting.” As the Marshall Islands struggles to lift itself from the crater of nuclear testing, a new threat looms—one whose capacity for destruction dwarfs that of an atomic warhead: water. Recall for a moment the attributes of an atoll—comprised of coral, small in size, and notably narrow. Now, add to that mental picture two more tragic geological truths—atolls are extraordinarily low-lying, and exceedingly flat, which is to say, by their very nature, atolls are uniquely, acutely susceptible to the deadly power of a rising sea. “The implications are dire for this atoll nation and similar atoll nations.” Most of the atolls of the Marshall Islands sit at less than six feet above sea level. Marshallese homes, businesses, streets, people sit at less than six feet above sea level. As temperatures rise, and seas with them, that six feet begins to disappear fast. “Imagine an aircraft carrier that has a free board of perhaps, I don't know, 150 feet. But if you lowered that free board to six feet and sea level rose seven feet. Well, the picture is pretty plain for anyone to, to imagine. And that's precisely what is predicted to happen and what is happening gradually for atolls.” "It's not just erosion, but there's actual land loss. Submergence, but also the deprivation of the use of land for any viable purpose, including simply to live on.” “People who have not visited an atoll have really no concept of what it means not to have land in an oceanic expanse as vast as the Pacific. So any loss in land is dire. 30 feet of land on a high island is still significant, but 30 feet of land loss or unavailability of land for living is a tragedy on an atoll.” For the Marshallese, land loss isn't just devastating from a scientific perspective; it's corrosive to the fundamental tenets of their culture. While nearly all societies prize land, in the Marshall Islands, the relationship between its people and land is especially precious. "You have to understand that every Marshallese is attached to a piece of land. Like, my kids all have, they know where their pieces of land are on Bikini and that's their gift from God and that's like their anchor in life.” “Marshallese people have a connection to land.” “We have a connection to place. Again, like I said, everybody owns land in the Marshalls, and then but just not just that. Every piece of land has some story, some markings, some name. You know, that's ancient, that's deep. What happens to that knowledge if you lose that land, if you lose that connection? What happens to who you are as a person? To our identity?" But the Marshallese—the people who settled distant atolls, who navigated through an unforgiving sea, who endured colonization, disease, war, and 63 nuclear bombs—refused to allow their ocean to be turned into a weapon against them. And so, they decided to fight back…but they couldn't do it alone. “At the end of the day, the Marshall Islands is 0.0001 percent of the world's global emissions. We could be the most polarized island on the planet and it would still go underwater if the rest of the world doesn't take it into consideration and make changes, right? So we have to fight on a global level.” What the Marshallese, through their climate activism, are fighting to defend is complex and multi-faceted—a combination of culture, tradition, soil, coral, homes, language, history, and people. Yet what they hope to achieve can be condensed to a single number: 1.5. 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels; that's the magic number for the Marshallese, the limit for how much the Earth can warm before their island home becomes uninhabitable. If global temperatures creep above 1.5, it's lights out. Streets and houses flood. Land disappears. Crops die. Above 1.5, the atolls which, for thousands of years, have supported life, transform into engines of death. Mitigating climate change in any meaningful way is already a nearly insurmountable endeavor. Limiting it to 1.5 would be next to impossible. The Marshallese would face opposition from not only governments and industry, but also from other climate change activists, whose focus had long been on a different number: 2. Limiting temperature rise to 2 degrees above pre-industrial levels had, for many years, been the aim of policy, the object of studies, and the goal of activists. In the mainstream climate change debate, 2 wasn't the backup, the worst case scenario, the not-too-bad. 2 was seen as the ideal, the ambition, the gold standard. 1.5, on the other hand, was, to many, a pipe dream. It was called unrealistic, impossible, a distraction—but the Marshallese knew it was the only way for their atolls to survive. And it was not just the Marshalls; above 1.5, atoll nations like Tuvalu, the Maldives, and Kiribati would face the same fate. Among these most vulnerable countries, a motto soon emerged: 1.5 to stay alive. The fight for 1.5 would be far from easy, but they knew where it would have to be won—the 2015 United Nations Climate Change Conference in Paris, where 196 countries would come together to develop a global plan for combating global warming. But, before they could do that, they had to build influence. A Marshallese government minster named Tony de Brum started building relationships and rallying support around the world, making a name for the small Marshall Islands in the big world of climate change activism. He represented the Marshalls at conferences and meetings all over the world—in Copenhagen, in Doha, in Warsaw, in Lima, joining with other countries as part of the Alliance of Small Island States. And while de Brum made impressive progress, when it comes geopolitics, there's only so much influence and power that can be amassed by an atoll nation with a population lower than most small cities. So, he began work on a new coalition, one that could emerge at Paris to force the conversation to 1.5, but it needed a spark. In September 2014, that spark came, when the UN Climate Summit invited Marshallese poet Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner to speak at their Opening Ceremony. With the entire nation on her shoulders, she read to the gathered leaders of the world a letter she had written to her newborn daughter. “Kathy: Dear matafele peinam, you are a seven month old sunrise of gummy smiles you are bald as an egg and bald as the buddha you are thighs that are thunder and shrieks that are lightning so excited for bananas, hugs and our morning walks past the lagoon dear matafele peinam, i want to tell you about that lagoon that lucid, sleepy lagoon lounging against the sunrise men say that one day that lagoon will devour you they say it will gnaw at the shoreline chew at the roots of your breadfruit trees gulp down rows of your seawalls and crunch your island's shattered bones they say you, your daughter and your granddaughter, too will wander rootless with only a passport to call home dear matafele peinam, don't cry mommy promises you no one will come and devour you no greedy whale of a company sharking through political seas no backwater bullying of businesses with broken morals no blindfolded bureaucracies gonna push this mother ocean over the edge no one's drowning, baby no one's moving no one's losing their homeland no one's gonna become a climate change refugee or should i say no one else to the carteret islanders of papua new guinea and to the taro islanders of the solomon islands i take this moment to apologize to you we are drawing the line here because baby we are going to fight your mommy daddy bubu jimma your country and president too we will all fight and even though there are those hidden behind platinum titles who like to pretend that we don't exist that the marshall islands tuvalu kiribati maldives and typhoon haiyan in the philippines and floods of pakistan, algeria, colombia and all the hurricanes, earthquakes, and tidalwaves didn't exist still there are those who see us hands reaching out fists raising up banners unfurling megaphones booming and we are canoes blocking coal ships we are the radiance of solar villages we are the rich clean soil of the farmer's past we are petitions blooming from teenage fingertips we are families biking, recycling, reusing, engineers dreaming, designing, building, artists painting, dancing, writing and we are spreading the word and there are thousands out on the street marching with signs hand in hand chanting for change NOW and they're marching for you, baby they're marching for us because we deserve to do more than just survive we deserve to thrive dear matafele peinam, you are eyes heavy with drowsy weight so just close those eyes, baby and sleep in peace because we won't let you down. you'll see.” Standing ovations aren't common at the United Nations. Kathy's lasted a full minute. “Why do you think poetry is an effective means of activism? What is it about poetry that you think makes people listen?” “I'm not going to make…hm, why is…well, I think poetry forces people to slow down and connect to the emotion of the issue. Right. Rather than just facts and data and fear. And, you know, written statements, right? Poetry is personal. Poetry connects you to the issue and connects you to why you should care about the issue.” And then, it was time to go to Paris. The Paris Conference lasted 14 days, and for the first 11, nearly all discussion centered around 2 degrees. But in the final three days of negotiation, Tony de Brum began to execute his plan, when he unveiled the High Ambition Coalition—a previously secret alliance of over 90 countries that Tony had spent the last year coalescing. The High Ambition Coalition ranged from the small atoll of Kiribati to the powerhouse nations of the European Union, and together, they turned the entire conference on its head, demanding the agreement include 1.5. It was such a jarring and extraordinary show of power orchestrated by such a small nation that many said it couldn't be real. Chinese negotiators called it meaningless; representatives from Bangladesh called it a stunt. And in truth, it was not completely clear just how formal this coalition was—when pressed, Tony couldn't even say how many members it had. But it didn't matter, because the momentum had already changed. New countries began to join: Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Iceland, Sweden. Before long, a majority of the represented nations supported 1.5. In less than three days, Tony de Brum took 1.5 from pipe dream to reality. In the end, 184 countries resolved that they would “[hold] the increase in the global temperature to well below 2 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels, and [pursue] efforts to limit the temperature increase to 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial levels.” “They got 1.5 in there. Right. 1.5 huge for us. The global temperature. You know, to maintain our, our, our survival. That before we went to that conference, I was told by many people that 1.5 wouldn't make it in there. It would. It was too hard. You know, even though for our survival, we need that temperature to be recognized.” “Yeah, Tony was the one that orchestrated that. And so beyond that, you know, we've also we've also continued that momentum from Tony's legacy once he passed on.” “Yes, we were kind of a champion for climate change in the Paris meeting. You know, by working with a group of people, which were what's called the ambition group. And I know it's kind of amazing prize to be able to gather a number of people who supported us doing meetings and resulted in the Paris Accord.” “You know, next day we were on The New York Times praising our effort and I'm glad that I was part of that.” It was an enormous, unexpected, deserved victory… but it didn't last. The Paris Agreement was, without a doubt, the most important collective step the world has made towards solving climate change. It was also, in many ways, a complete and utter failure. Many of the pledges made by countries were unspecific, unambitious, and perhaps most importantly, unenforceable. In Paris, the world promised to “pursue efforts” to limit temperatures to 1.5. Already, in 2015, it was a weak promise. The five years since have proven it meaningless. Paris was supposed to serve as a starting place, with more ambitious pledges to be made in the future. Now, it is the future, and the more ambitious pledges are nowhere to be found. And even the inadequate commitments of Paris have often been completely ignored. In stories, the underdog is supposed to win. When they give it their all, when they combine dreams and drive, when they form a High Ambition Coalition, when they read Dear Matafele Peinem, when they chant 1.5 to stay alive, it's supposed to work. Today, projections show that under the best case scenario, we'll reach 1.5 in 2052. Worst case, 2030. Either way, in a few short decades, three millennia of Marshallese civilization will come to an end. King Tides Already, today, flooding and inundation are common in the Marshall Islands. But things get especially bad during what the Marshallese call king tides. “Since 2011, we've seen more and more king tides. The ocean that provides is getting closer and closer to our living room.” A combination of lunar cycles, wind patterns, and, of course, rising seas coalesce into waves that flood streets, yards, and homes. For the Marshallese, the destruction and disorder king tides bring have become an increasingly normal part of everyday life. ““We're flat as a pancake here. And and if you go out today at five, five, forty five, the high tide. You know, I know that because yesterday I was driving home a little after 5:00 in the water was splashing. I drive Volkswagens. The water splashing on a saltwater splashing on a Volkswagen is not a good feeling because they they melt with the rust. And so I knew today, I don't always know when the high tide is because I worry about that kind of stuff. But other people worry about it, too, because it's hitting their houses. You never used to know when high tides were unless you were someone who's out at the sea all the time and you're a diver or whatever, and you counted on that stuff. But now everybody kind of knows when the big high tides gonna be and they know what they have to do. We never used to think like that here ever." Other Effects Flooding and inundation don't just destroy what's been created on the atoll—it also destroys the atoll's ability to create. “The water is coming up on the ground too and also contaminating our well waters and affecting our food crops.” “The breadfruit trees that we used to depend on to build our canoes and provide food are dying because the the water levels, and these island getting small and small. And, you know, they cannot survive the the saltwater, you know.” And apart from killing what grows on the atoll, climate change is killing the atoll itself, as the coral that comprises Majuro dies due to rising sea temperatures. “We go out fishing for spear fishing, and the corals that provide for us is turning from colorful to whitish. It's it's just bleaching like crazy and different type of algaes are growing, weeds growing, importune beautiful corals and scare away or all the food, all the fish that we, our life depend on.” But the most pressing effect of climate change is also perhaps the most unexpected: it's not inundation, not submergence, not coral bleaching, not erosion. The most pressing effect of climate change, the thing that is hurting Marshallese most right now, is disease. “So currently the most urgent effects are illnesses. So climate related illnesses like dengue, mosquito borne illnesses are supposed to increase with, you know, climate effects.” “So we've had we have three different health issues we're dealing with right now on the Marshall Islands. The first, of course, is dengue fever that's been going on for about eight months now. We've been in a state of health emergency. The second one is we've had over twenty five cases, twenty five hundred cases of Dengue since last July. And so that's been our major battle. We're fighting right here now. And then secondly, we've had measles, which we haven't had a case yet before. We've put in all kinds of preventative measures. And of course, coronavirus in the same category. We're just trying to prevent it. We haven't had any yet, but we're being very strict with how people come in.” “Actually, the way I feel is that most of what we're seeing right now is climate change a result of climate change.” With rising temperatures come more mosquitos, increasing the risk of transmission for insect-borne diseases like Zika and Dengue. More severe water cycles—flooding, high rainfalls, drought—all propagate contaminated water supplies, increasing the spread of cholera, e. coli, and other diarrheal diseases. In fact, for almost every infectious disease out there—malaria, ebola, lyme, west nile, typhoid—research predicts that climate change will make it worse. According to the World Health Organization, over the next 20 years, over 2 million people will die as the result of climate change-related disease. “This is, like, not normal. This is not nothing that we've ever experienced before. We're in the eighth month of a state of health emergency. The Marshall Islands has never been in a state of health emergency this long. Ever. We've never seen a bigger disease outbreak. We've never seen all these deaths throughout the Pacific in recent times from things like measles that we thought were gone. So I think the really important thing that people have to understand is this is not the way things used to be. But this is the way it's becoming now normal. And that to me is as a result of the massive climate change and the massive warming that's been going on.” “You have to start talking about health when you and connecting it to climate change, cause there's no other explanation for this. There really isn't.” When you combine it all—inundation, land loss, crop death, coral bleaching, drought, disease—a single, clear picture forms: “These are all becoming a potent package which are linked to the adverse effects of climate change. And that potency is a bit too much or beyond the capability of small atoll nations to respond to. And so all of these packaged potent adverse effects are proving to be catastrophic.” The future that the Marshall Islands fought so hard to prevent is already coming to pass. The islands are dying, and soon, they'll be truly, permanently, and irreversibly uninhabitable. Two options have emerged: stay and fight a losing battle, or leave and start a new life. In truth, though, those options are the same. The only variable is time. Thousands of miles away, far from the fury of the ocean, a new atoll is emerging—one encircled not by sea, but by streets. A land made not of coral, but of concrete. One where abundance is measured not by the size of your family, but rather the sum of your money. One dotted not by palm trees, but by poultry plants. Hope is not plentiful for the Marshallese, but there's a spark of it here, nestled in the northwestern corner of Arkansas. “Springdale is, I would describe it as more of a blue collar working class community in the midst of a thriving area of northwest Arkansas—one of the top five fastest growing areas in the country.” “We are a very diverse city. We've got 44 languages spoken in our school district. We've got we're probably... our two largest minorities would be Latino, which is probably somewhere around 35 to 40 percent--could be a little higher, we'll find out in the 2020 census--and and a large Marshallese population, we've been told, the largest Marshallese population outside of the Marshall Islands.” Exact figures vary. 2010 Census numbers peg it in the low thousands, but that figure is almost certainly inaccurate. In reality, currently, it is believed that as many as 15,000 Marshallese live in the Springdale area—1/5 of all Marshallese people, tucked away in this small Ozark city. Of course, in a country of countless options, the question to some might be: why Springdale, Arkansas? The story, as it's told, begins in 1979. A Marshallese man named John Moody was awarded a scholarship to the University of Oklahoma—a dream coming from a nation yet to have a single college. Moody soon decided, though, that he wasn't cut out for the academic life. He shifted paths, taking a job at a poultry plant in Muskogee, Oklahoma, earning $3.25 an hour—multiples more than any comparable job in the Marshalls. Soon, though, the business took him to the largest poultry processor in the world, Tyson Foods, headquartered in Springdale, Arkansas. Pay was decent, openings were plentiful, and English was optional, so word soon travelled from Moody to his family in the Marshalls that Springdale was the land of opportunity. So they came and spread the word to others, and they came, and spread the word, and more came, and spread the word, and soon enough, as the social networks of a small nation saturated with the promise of a better life, Springdale established itself as the destination for Marshallese emigration to the US. Now, decades on, what started as one man in a chicken plant has turned into the largest population of Marshallese outside of the islands themselves. The city has 30 odd Marshallese churches, has become a key campaign stop for Marshallese politicians, and it's even home to a tiny consulate representing the Marshallese government itself. The mission is one of just eight the Marshalls have abroad. Sharing a modest two-story building with a barber, accountant, and lawyer, it is the only consulate of any nation for hundreds of miles and one of only two in the state of Arkansas. It's staffed just by an assistant, the consul's wife, and the consul-general himself. “My name is the Eldon Alik. I'm the consul-general for the Republic of the Marshall Islands here in Springdale, Arkansas.” “The job of the consulate is to, number one, provide consular service to the Marshallese citizens here and assist the Marshallese population here with whatever they need…” “…and try to be the eyes and ears of the government of the Marshall Islands here." Call it luck or call it intuition, but Moody and the thousands that followed were right to choose Springdale as their new homes. This city has been experiencing a decades-long economic boom. “We have an entrepreneurial spirit here in in northwest Arkansas, not only Springdale, but we've seen many Fortune 100 companies—Wal-Mart, of course, about 30 miles north. We've got Tyson right here in Springdale, which is the first or second largest protein producer in the world, and they're they're headquartered here in Springdale. We have we have a because of our growth. Certainly the building industry that we're building trades, there's a lot going on here that, you know, our unemployment right now is just barely over 2 percent in Springdale.” Pretty much anyone who wants one, no matter their age, origin, or education-level, can get a job in Springdale. “Well, Marshallese, we generally like to follow one another. We come here to be near our families and the poultry industry doesn't really take a lot of skills and education. People just come in and they can work. They're going to arrive today and work tomorrow.” Under the Compact of Free Association, any Marshallese citizen can live and work in the US—a right others, at best, wait years or decades to attain. But there are still barriers. Perhaps the most significant is the first—getting there. A one-way plane ticket from Majuro to Springdale costs about $1,500—a substantial sum for anyone, but a fortune in the Marshall Islands. There, $1,500 is half a year's wage. In Springdale, though, it's less than a month's. “Some families, they come here little by little. Sometimes they just send the father first and then the mother and then the kids and then the parents, grandparents. So they just do a little by little.” Each earns enough to pay for the next—over time, bringing the entire family to Springdale. “So we did a study and the majority of the people that actually took this study replied that family responsibility was the first reason why they moved. You know, and usually their departure from the islands are very, very unplanned. That's because, you know, a sister would call in and say, hey, I have some money, I have some money to buy you a ticket. Get ready. You're going to be on the plane in the next two weeks so you can come and help me with my mom or, you know, with someone so I can find a job and while you take care of the family member, you know, I have a way to to bring income into the house.” Despite their political, economic, and social connections, though, the Marshall Islands and the United States are not the same, and the adjustment is not always easy. “There is so many cultural barriers that there are that we see on a daily basis. One is Marshallese culture is a very sharing culture. You know, one property is owned by everyone. It is not individual ownership of their property, but, you know, everyone in that clan owns it. So that's, and when you look in terms of households it is perfectly okay for for multiple family members to live under one roof. Whereas, you know, here, you know, you have those, they enforce code where it's prohibited.” “You know, I don't know what the codes and ordinances in the Marshall Islands look like but I can I can be pretty confident they're quite a bit different than ours here in Springdale, Arkansas.” “We came from we came from a world that money really didn't mean anything for us, but here it is. People in the United States, you know, they're very they're economically driven, but we're not.” “We never had to pay rent. We never had to worry about having a lot of money so we can buy food because, you know, you have our biggest refrigerator was the ocean and it was right there and readily available. So we really didn't have to worry about saving.” “You're comparing a very small world to a big world.” Nonetheless, in making the difficult transition to America, having a familiar community makes it easier. “You're surrounded by over thirty five churches. That's amazing. And you have a consul-general's office here. You have our office as well. You have other nonprofit offices as well. And the people are very supportive in this area, very supportive of the Marshallese community. It kind of like gives you that value in preserving your culture and I think that's why I refer Springdale to as Springdale atoll, because this is really the culture. This is the hub of the culture.” Popular media might predict that the story of a group of people, from a far off land, descending on and settling a small southern city would end in tension and animosity. That is not the story of Springdale. “You know, I wish I knew what the secret sauce was for that, because I think we could use that in a lot of places throughout our country--this openness and willingness to accept change--and I don't want to candy coat it. You know, there are other people who grew up here just like me that continue to talk about the good old days and the days, you know, when we grew up and things were different. But, you know, I'm just reminded that we're somebody's good old days right now. The people growing up here right now look back will look back on this time as the good old days, no matter what it looks like. And so I think I think a willingness on the part of the people of Springdale to to treat people as human beings, surely, surely there's nothing special about Springdale. Surely everyone every place can do that.” Springdale, as it exists for the Marshallese, is fortuitous—fortuitous because John Moody and the early migrants who followed had no idea of their islands' bleak fate. They migrated for a brighter economic future, but now, with the direct threat of a rising ocean, Marshallese are starting to migrate to escape the water. “I think some some people have moved because of sea level rise, and that wasn't the case, maybe, five, ten years ago. People were coming here for better opportunities but I've talked to some people and they've come here for sea-level rise.” “Plan A is staying and live there and fight the climate change. But if plan A doesn't work, you know, this is where I feel the calling. This is where I need to be at, but it really if that happens, that's wow, that that's taking away our identity. You know, that's that's basically stripping us down to the bare skin, and I'm not sure how I'm going to take that. That will be very hard for me to to process. However, I feel that I can't just cry and feel sad because that happened. I have to do something. I have to make reestablished. I feel like reestablishing somewhere else that is safe, that, you know, that provide to the freedom, the freedom to make a choice is probably my next thing that I will focus on.” Plan A is still very much in motion for many. Most Marshallese are still at their home, fighting to hold onto their lives as long as the waters will allow them. Those who can buy a few additional years by building a wall between them and the ocean. “Well we call this a concrete wall. So, first we build the concrete base about five to six feet wide and two feet from the ground. So it goes down, to the bottom, one foot, and then one foot up. So the base is five to six feet wide and the wall, here, is one foot wide, and this wall here, maybe nine or ten feet long from the ground.” “Well, when the high tide king tides comes, it destroys the whole village. The water coming to the, comes to the road, and after I build wall there, people there, they're living happy. I see that the seawall has been protecting them but there's other people, the same village, there are other people live on the other side. You know, about two to house from the outside of the seawall. Now they're affecting because there's no wall there.” “If the wall wasn't here, if there was no wall here, I know that all the water, the trash, the rocks, they would be coming right here and going, one, two, how many houses there? Yeah, and it's been happening over and over. Every king tide that comes it, it's always like that. They're bringing rocks and trash.” “Oh, no. Don't—trust me. Believe me. Even though we're making wall, it's not gonna protect because we're, we're damaging the reef and as long as you drill the reef and building concrete wall, you're messing with Mother Nature, you know.” At this point, the goal is not to prevent the destruction of the Marshalls—just to delay it. “If the time limit is in five years, then, you know, it's we move in five years. But between now and five years, we want to make sure that we spend every minute thinking about how to survive on these islands, just like our ancestors did.” Land is supposed to be the embodiment of permanence—a nation is nothing without its land—but now, the Marshall Islands is temporary. In the back of everyone's mind is the realization that the soil they stand on will eventually be submerged. “You know, with our infrastructure projects. You know, what are we doing? Why are we doing this? You know, 20, 30, 40 years could be swamped under water. I don't know. It's like, you know, part of the work you do is try to prepare for the, you know, the future of submerging. And then part of it is you just carry on with your day to day activities, which means you know, look. These projects are still funded. They're on the books. They're approved. We still got do them now. When is that going to change? I don't know. I don't know. It's going to take some kind of visible tipping point somewhere. And I think for that to happen, I mean, really mean significant, not just the high king tide. You know, we've had those or another El Nino again. We've had those things going to take something else maybe. Unfortunately, may be worse for us, too. I don't know. Then get to the realization, well, this is it. Gotta stop this avenue of activity and divert the energies into some other kind of future.” “Well, when you think when people say to me that they think the Marshall Islands has a time limit, I think they have to start thinking about the bigger picture here. We're the canary in the coal mine. If we have a limited time here, then so does everywhere else. I mean, this is the way this is the way it's evolving and so many times we've been the canary out there. We were the canary in the coal mine for nuclear testing. Now we're the canary in the coal mine for climate change.” “The ocean that gives us the resources crawling closer and closer to our living rooms. We're ocean people and the reason why this our ocean is mad and it is crawling closer to our lagoon living room is because the same people that brought in the nuclear testing to the country are the same people that are doing this. They're trying to find resource. First they try to find the power to control the world by using our islands to test a nuclear weapon. Then they went back and tried to find the best way to gain resources in a short period of time by using things that would destroy the world and we're all… Mother Nature is not happy, so she's coming back to us. But in a very roaring way.” “We as Marshallese people enter the conversation of climate change, as survivors of the nuclear legacy, as in we already understand what it means to have lost homes, to have lost that connection to land to have something ripped away, ripped away from us for globe because of global needs. And, you know, because of a global concern or whatever. Right. The US decided to test nuclear weapons in the Marshall Islands because we were seen as disposable. And now with climate change happening, more or less, unless, people care about it. You know, there are very few people who care about it. And the ones in power don't care about it because, again, we're seen as disposable. That's the intersection between climate change and the nuclear legacy. You know, we've experienced that already. And that's why we're fighting even harder against climate change. We don't want to lose the rest of our islands. We've already experienced that loss and that trauma.” “We are going to be the first climate change refugees. I truly believe that.” “That's happening and people are in denial of it because they're responsible for it.” “This is my country. This is where I live. This is where my kids go to school. I'm from [unknown], but I'm from here, too. My family grew up here, too.” “This is where I. I want them to all be. And this is the society I want them to contribute to. I think it's you know, it's a tough concept to think about. It's like thinking if you have children thinking about them being in a car accident or getting a terminal illness, you don't want to think about it because it's so painful and it's the same way.” “I don't know the culture [in America]. I don't know the way of life. I want to I want to stay here in my own culture and live in my own culture.” “You know, we love our culture, we love our custom, and we love the way of life that we have here. If we do leave and go somewhere else, we'll probably lose our custom, we will probably lose our ability to look after ourselves as a people.” “Right now, it's still a debate in many of these first world nations. What do we do? Can we do it? What are the changes we can make? Do we believe in it? Is it even real? Is it worth the funding? Can we change? That's not where we're at. Where we're at is very much: it's going to happen. We have to figure out how to plan for it.” “We probably will be looking back on our country from higher ground.” “This is going to be wow, this is going to be something that I just can't describe in terms of, you know, culturally as a people, civilization, what this is going to mean for the kids and grandkids.” “Well, to be honest, I'm worried about my generation and the next generation and the future. Because, you know, when when we migrate, the main the main thing I'm scared of i our culture. If everyone leaves here, where will our culture go? And our culture will slowly fade when no one knows about our culture or people. And especially Marshall Islands.” “Yeah, it hits me every time. But like I I really try to ignore it, but it I can't because it's always trending and so is getting talked about. And we really can't put it aside because we're really affected now. And if we can do anything now, the future will be affected. If we don't do anything now.” “Personally, I mean, I really don't want to go to other countries. I really want to stay here and live the best life in the islands and really share of life full of joy and right here, right here in the Marshall Islands.” “This this island really means a lot and just imagine if different countries, if we told them that their country doesn't matter and they can just move here and they would feel the same with it. It feels special for us to have this place because it's unique and our culture really lies here.” People can move. A nation cannot. And though they'll try, any transposition loses fidelity. With each generation, the pictures fuzzy—the memories fade. The Marshall Islands has endured for millennia, but it was never immortal. Nations have ended before. Nations will end again. Of all the ends the Marshall Islands could meet, though, this one stings most: to be killed by the ocean, its creator, turned against it by people who don't even know its name.
B1 中級 米 The Final Years of Majuro [Documentary] 12 2 joey joey に公開 2021 年 06 月 11 日 シェア シェア 保存 報告 動画の中の単語