Eman Mahfouz | Egypt | Food and agriculture working group of the Children and Youth Constituency of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC).
This testimonial is part of the campaign on climate justice launched by the CSIPM Youth Working Group. More information is available at this link: https://www.csm4cfs.org/youth-voices-for-climate-justice-and-the-right-to-food/
In 2004, in a small village, a camera lens captured a little barefoot girl gracefully running among her cousins, chasing after a donkey cart. A girl from Cairo, who appeared on the family farm like a red moon once a year, picking mangoes from the trees, lemons from their branches, and climbing palm trees. She would then return home, climb to the rooftop of the two-story house, and lie on her back gazing at the sky. When a shooting star streaked across her view, she would wish for love and adventure to never leave her. Then she closed her eyes and suddenly awoke in 2021.
The camera slowly zooms out to reveal the scene: the girl is lying on the floor of a newly built room on the rooftop, now part of her uncle’s house. She descends the tiled staircase, which used to be made of mud, and doesn’t stay long inside. She knows what’s outside will be even more shocking.
She heads to the family farm. Ignoring the fences, the road, everything… except the land. The once vibrant green had dulled. There was no mango fragrance in the air. Salma roamed the farm, heartbroken by the mango trees’ transformation. They once bloomed vibrantly and bore fruit; now, they were pale with scorched leaves and littered with tiny unripe mangoes.
In shock, she wandered until she found her cousin, Ahmed. Rushing to him, she asked, “What happened? Where are our trees?”
Over tea, Ahmed spoke softly but firmly. “This year was brutal. Mangoes love warmth, but this heatwave hit hard and fast. Then came the water crisis. The Nile dropped, and with the upstream dam, our share vanished.” He looked out at the land. “It’s climate change, not some distant threat—it’s our reality. If leaders walked this soil, saw the scorched leaves, they’d know food security isn’t policy talk—it’s survival.”
Ahmed chuckled, “Remember the old water pump? It’s a relic now.”
Salma smiled, “And the day we picked mangoes, rinsed them, and buried the seeds; dreaming we’d each grow our own tree.”
He nodded. “Back then, we used groundwater. It felt like more. Now, we rely on the Nile. The state built canals, but water’s scarcer, and what groundwater’s left is salty, it’s formed a crust on the soil.”
They paused, gazing at the trees.
“But we didn’t give up,” he said. “Mangoes are more than crops, they’re our story. We planted shade trees, shifted to early irrigation, and started using compost. Fewer fruits, but they’re stronger. The taste is still ours.”
He met her eyes. “Still, we need real support. Tools. Inclusion. Our voices matter. Small farmers are part of the problem, but we’re a bigger part of the solution. And yet, we’re rarely heard.”
Salma looked up. Between the branches, tiny green buds were beginning to form. The farm wasn’t dying. It was learning to resist.
Her mind wandered to her grandfather’s words: “Never give up the land. Never sell. Never divide the heritage of the mango. If the land is lost, the roots are lost too.”
She smiled at the memory, whispered a silent prayer, and softly recited Al-Fatiha for his soul.
