(digital music)
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(water murmuring)
(gentle music) (water murmuring)
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.
(intense percussive music)
Our land, you know, like our mothers, you know,
they provide for everything, and our ocean same thing.
Yeah, we've always thought about the ocean as our friend,
but 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 it's unrecognized from above,
but because it's under siege from below,
and it's only when you see it from 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 $16,000, in that neighborhood.
Well, I mean, 16,000 divided by seven...
You know, that can be, 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
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%.
The U.S. provides approximately $100 million 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'd 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, about 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 Jejed conquered Northern Ralik,
the Erroja took southern Ralik,
and the Rikwajlein clan conquered nearly all of Ratak,
but then gave nearly all of it to their offspring,
of the Raano 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 300 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 greats, 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.
(atomic bomb exploding)
When the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima
and Nagasaki, it began a new chapter in the world's history:
the nuclear age.
[Newsreel Reporter] These atomic footprints on the sands
of time can never be erased.
They point a path which leads to unparalleled progress
or unparalleled destruction.
Just as in the darkness of the desert morning,
when the atomic age was born,
atomic power pushed the question squarely to mankind.
(atomic bomb exploding)
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,
(atomic bomb exploding)
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 II 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.
(atomic bomb exploding)
Detonated on March 1st, 1954,
this bomb produced the most powerful explosion
the world had ever seen: 15 megatons;
1,000 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 I was born in Rongelap.
I was in Rongelap in 1954, the nuclear detonation.
Nerje was only eight on Bravo Day.
Today, at 74, she still remembers it vividly.
(Nerje speaks in foreign language)
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.
(Nerje speaks in foreign language)
Of the hundreds of people on Rongelap that day,
Nerje is one of just 10 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 can go back, but I don't know. (chuckles)
(Nerje speaks in foreign language)
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 asked them if they'd be willing to move for the good
of mankind and to end all world wars.
And Judah, the leader of the Bikinians,
just kept standing up
and saying the same answer every time, he says,
(speaks in foreign language),
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, and 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 26 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.
Well, you tell them and King Juda that, everything being
in God's hands, it cannot be other than good.
Very well.
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 homes,
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.
But I think the US looked at Rongerik
and looked at Bikini, "Palm trees, sand, 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.
In 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.
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.
(dramatic music)
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:
(waves lapping)
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 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 on, 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.
Not just the land, but the ocean, right?
We have a connection to place.
Everybody owns land in the Marshalls, but 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 contribute 0.0001%
of the world's global emissions.
We could be the most solarized 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: two.
Limiting temperature rise to two 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,
two wasn't the backup, the worst case scenario,
the not-too-bad.
Two 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 that 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 to 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.
(audience applauding)
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, shrieks
that are lightning, so excited for bananas,
hugs and our morning walks along the lagoon.
Dear Matafele Peinam,
I want to tell you about that lagoon,
that lazy, lounging 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 through 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, no one's drowning, baby, no one's moving,
no one's losing their homeland,
no one's becoming 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 Fiji,
I take this moment to apologize to you;
we are drawing the line here, because we, baby,
are going to fight, your mommy, daddy, Bubu, Jimma,
your country and your 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, who like to pretend
that the Marshall Islands, Tuvalu, Kiribati, Maldives,
Typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines,
floods in Algeria, Colombia, Pakistan,
and all the hurricanes, earthquakes,
and tidal waves 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 fresh, clean soil of the farmer's past,
we are teenagers blooming petitions, we are families biking,
recycling, reusing, engineers building, dreaming, designing,
artists painting, dancing, writing,
and we are spreading the word,
and there are thousands out on the streets marching 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 and sleep in peace,
because we won't let you down.
You'll see.
(audience applauding)
Standing ovations aren't common
at the United Nations.
Kathy's lasted a full minute.
(audience applauding)
Why do you think poetry is an effective means of activism?
What is it about poetry that you think makes people listen?
Hmm, why it makes people...
Well, I think poetry forces people to slow down
and connect to the emotion of the issue 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 two 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, quote,
"[hold] the increase in the global temperature
"to well below two 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 survival.
Before we went to that conference, I was told by many people
that 1.5 wouldn't make it in there.
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 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 was 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
during the meetings, and resulted in the Paris Accord.
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.
Already today, flooding and inundation are common
in the Marshall Islands.
But things get especially bad
during what the Marshallese call "king tides."
The islands are becoming more and more inundated
with waters during spring tides and also during king tides.
When high tide, king tide comes,
it destroys the whole village, the water comes to the road.
My cousin lost her house
in a really bad king tide flooding.
Since 2011, we've seen more and more king tides.
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 if you go out today, 5:45 is the high tide.
You know why I know that?
'Cause yesterday I was driving home a little after five
and the water was splashing, I drive a Volkswagen,
the water splashing on a...
Saltwater splashing on a Volkswagen is not a good feeling,
'cause they melt with the rust.
And so I knew today, I always know when the high tide is
'cause I worry about that kind of stuff.
But other people worry about it, too,
'cause 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 are gonna be
and they know what they have to do.
We never used to think like that here, ever.
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.
And, of course, the breadfruit trees
that we used to depend on to build our canoes
and provide food are dying because the lands
in this island are getting small and small and,
you know, they cannot survive the saltwater.
But the most pressing effect
of climate change is also perhaps the most unexpected.
So currently the most urgent effects are illnesses,
climate related illnesses like dengue;
mosquito-borne illnesses are supposed to increase with,
you know, climate effects.
So 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 25 cases,
2,500 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,
but 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 two million people will die
as the result of climate change-related disease.
This is, like, not normal.
This is 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
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.
Our two largest minorities would be Latino,
which is probably somewhere around 35% to 40%,
could be a little higher, we'll find out in the 2020 census,
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,
one fifth 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 producer in the world, Tyson Foods,
headquartered in Springdale, Arkansas.
Pay was decent, openings were plentiful,
and English was optional.
So word soon traveled 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 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, 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.
The city has been experiencing
a decades-long economic boom.
We have an entrepreneurial spirit here
in northwest Arkansas, not only Springdale,
but we've seen many Fortune 100 companies,
Walmart, 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.
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% 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.
The poultry industry doesn't really take a lot
of skills and education.
People just come in and they can work.
They're gonna 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, 1,500 is 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 it 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 the study replied
that family responsibility was the first reason
why they moved.
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 gonna 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 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 are 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.
And when you look in terms of households,
it is perfectly okay for multiple family members
to live under one roof.
Whereas, here, 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 be pretty confident
they're quite a bit different than ours here
in Springdale, Arkansas.
We came from a world
that money really didn't mean anything for us,
but here it is.
People in the United States, they're economically driven,
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,
our biggest refrigerator was the ocean
and it was right there, it's 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 35 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 wanna 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 will look back
on this time as the good old days,
no matter what it looks like.
And so I think a willingness on the part of the people
of Springdale to treat people as human beings,
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 people have moved because of sea level rise,
and that wasn't the case, maybe, five, 10 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 really if that happens, that's wow,
that's taking away our identity.
You know, that's basically stripping us down
to the bare skin, and I'm not sure how I'm gonna take that.
That will be very hard for me 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 provides you 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.
When the high tide comes, not even normal (indistinct).
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,
the other people live on the other side,
you know, about two houses 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 tides coming, they're always like that.
They're bringing rocks and trash.
Do you think seawalls can protect Majuro
for 200 years, 300 years?
Oh, no.
Don't trust me, believe me.
Even though we're making wall, it's not gonna protect
'cause 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 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 gonna change?
I don't know.
It's gonna take some kind
of visible tipping point somewhere,
and I think for that to happen, I mean, significant,
not just the high king tide.
You know, we've had those, or another El Niño again.
We've had those.
Things gonna take something else maybe.
Unfortunately, maybe 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 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 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 reason why our ocean is mad
and it's crawling closer to our 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 resources.
First they try to find the power to control the world
and 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 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 from us
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, 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.
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 gonna 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.
This is where I want them all to 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 wanna think about it 'cause it's so painful.
(Nerje speaks in foreign language)
You know, we love our culture, we love our customs,
and we love the way of life that we have here.
If we do leave, go somewhere else,
we'll probably lose our customs,
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 gonna happen;
we have to figure out how to plan for it.
We probably will be looking back on our country
from the higher ground.
This is going to be, wow, this is gonna be something
that I just can't describe in terms of, you know,
culturally as a people, civilization,
what this is gonna mean for the kids and grandkids.
To be honest, I'm worried about my generation
and the next generation and the future on.
Because, when we migrate, the main thing
I'm scared of is 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 really try to ignore it,
but I can't 'cause it's always trending
and so is getting talked about,
and we really can't put it aside
'cause 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, me, I really don't wanna go to other countries.
I really wanna stay here and live the best life
in the islands and really share a life full of joy
and 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,
they would feel the same way then.
It feels special for us to have this place
'cause it's unique and our culture really lies here.
(dramatic music)
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.
(dramatic music)
(melancholic music)