In Kenya women are the first victims of environmental

Host: The village of Maragua shimmered in the heat of the afternoon — dust rising like breath from the ochre earth, acacia trees bending under the pale, relentless sun. The sound of distant children’s laughter mingled with the low groan of the wind through dry fields.

At the edge of the village, a single well stood — cracked, shallow, surrounded by empty yellow jerry cans. The scent of earth and smoke lingered, the kind that carried both life and exhaustion.

Jeeny knelt beside the well, her hands dusty, her face streaked with sweat. Jack stood a few steps away, camera slung over his shoulder, the kind of lens that sees everything and understands little — at least, not yet.

Jeeny: “Wangari Maathai once said, ‘In Kenya women are the first victims of environmental degradation, because they are the ones who walk for hours looking for water, who fetch firewood, who provide food for their families.’”

Jack: (adjusting his lens) “Yeah. I’ve read that. But hearing it here — it feels heavier than it sounds.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Because words don’t sweat, Jack. People do.”

Host: The sun lowered itself slowly, as if even light was tired. A group of women appeared on the horizon, balancing plastic containers on their heads, walking in rhythm — a silent choreography of necessity.

Jack: “I came here thinking I’d photograph a crisis. But it doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels… constant. Endless.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about degradation — it doesn’t explode; it erodes. It’s quiet. And it steals from those who have the least to give.”

Jack: “And it always starts with women.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re the thread between survival and collapse. When the environment breaks, their lives unravel first.”

Host: A wind kicked up, scattering dust and brittle leaves. The air shimmered — heat dancing on the horizon.

Jack: “Maathai saw this before anyone else did, didn’t she? That you can’t separate ecology from equity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She planted trees, but what she was really planting was freedom.”

Jack: “The Green Belt Movement — women growing forests to reclaim their lives. It’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s practical. Poetry doesn’t fill a jerry can.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always kill my metaphors.”

Jeeny: “Only when they get in the way of the truth.”

Host: The women reached the well, moving with weary grace. Their faces bore the strength of endurance, the kind carved by years of sunlight and silence. One of them smiled at Jeeny — a brief flicker of connection, human and eternal.

Jeeny: “You see her? That’s the face of resilience. She’s been walking that path since she was ten. The same one her mother walked. And her daughter will, too — unless we change the story.”

Jack: “And that’s what Maathai fought for.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She understood that deforestation wasn’t just killing trees — it was killing time. Women’s time. Every hour spent looking for water is an hour stolen from education, from community, from dreams.”

Jack: “It’s like the world keeps building systems that make women the unpaid caretakers of its mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They clean what power dirties.”

Host: The sound of metal cans clanking echoed softly. The women dipped their containers into the shallow well — each scoop a quiet prayer.

Jack: “You know, when I take these photos, people back home will call them beautiful. But what they’re really seeing is endurance disguised as grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Maathai never called them victims — she called them stewards. The guardians of balance.”

Jack: “But balance is gone.”

Jeeny: “Only because those who broke it don’t bear its weight.”

Host: The sky deepened into amber. Long shadows stretched across the dry ground like veins of memory.

Jack: “It’s strange — we talk about climate change as a global problem, but it’s always local. Always personal.”

Jeeny: “Because the Earth doesn’t suffer abstractly. It suffers through bodies — mostly women’s.”

Jack: “And yet, they keep giving.”

Jeeny: “Because giving is the only thing the world still allows them to do.”

Host: Silence. Only the wind spoke now, moving gently through the tall grass that still clung to life.

Jeeny: “When Maathai started planting trees, people laughed at her. Called her naïve. But those trees changed everything. They brought shade, water, dignity.”

Jack: “She turned ecology into empathy.”

Jeeny: “And politics into poetry.”

Jack: “So maybe my metaphor wasn’t so bad after all.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe not.”

Host: A woman began singing softly as she hoisted her full container — a melody that carried the rhythm of endurance, low and steady, beautiful in its ache. Others joined in, and soon the air was filled with a quiet, defiant harmony.

Jack: “That song… what does it mean?”

Jeeny: “It means, we are still here. Even when the rivers dry.”

Jack: “You think Maathai heard songs like that when she started?”

Jeeny: “She didn’t just hear them, Jack. She listened. That’s why she changed the world.”

Jack: “She turned despair into action.”

Jeeny: “And action into legacy.”

Host: The women began their long walk home, the fading light glinting off their water cans like lanterns of endurance. Each step seemed to echo Wangari Maathai’s philosophy — that saving the planet begins not with power, but with persistence.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think activism in the West is just noise. Protests, posts, panels. But here… activism is survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a performance. It’s a pulse.”

Jack: “And yet, the world still forgets them.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we remember. That’s why we tell their stories. Not to pity them — but to learn from them.”

Host: The last woman disappeared beyond the hill, her silhouette dissolving into dusk. Jeeny looked out toward the empty path, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know, Maathai used to say, ‘When we plant trees, we plant the seeds of peace and hope.’ That’s what this is, Jack. Every step they take — a root. Every song — a leaf.”

Jack: “And every story — a seed.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind grew cooler. The sun sank behind the acacias. The Earth exhaled, weary but breathing.

And in that moment, Wangari Maathai’s words resonated like the heartbeat of the land itself:

That environmental destruction is not just a war on nature,
but a war on the women who sustain it.
That to heal the planet,
we must first honor those who carry its weight on their backs.
And that every act of care —
fetching water, planting trees, carrying hope —
is not survival alone,
but revolution in motion.

Host: Jeeny picked up her can, half-full, heavy but possible.

Jack raised his camera.

Jeeny: “Don’t shoot them walking, Jack.”

Jack: “Why not?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re not walking away. They’re leading the way.”

Host: The shutter clicked once — a soft, reverent sound.

And in the fading light of Maragua,
the image formed:
women moving through dust and dusk,
not victims, but visionaries —
carrying the weight of a broken world,
and the water to remake it.