Rainbows in the Desert
The violence and beauty coexisting in complexity, and the shouts and whispers that we must listen.
I once visited a desert who taught me about existing within complexity.
When I arrived at the Mojave it was raining intensely to South, with a rainbow adorning the sky. Over mere meters to the North stood blue skies with no clue of clouds.
As someone who grew far from deserts, these were not the scene nor weather I imagined finding. Because I learned about the desert through theoretical comparison, I had great ideological distortions about this biome: forests and oceans, brimming with life; while deserts are infertile, desolate, eternally dry and lifeless. Categorical reductionisms, that could only be challenged once we met in real life.
The surprise of the unexpected is always a most excellent call to attention of my biologist senses that know exception to be the rule.
It became very clear that all definitions would have to be abandoned in the car. To know the desert, I would have to re-learn with all my senses.
In the desert, there is a silence like I have never known in another ecosystem, but make no mistake, there is plenty to listen.
The part of the Mojave that I visited had been inhabited by north-american Indigenous peoples belonging to 15 tribal communities whose ancestors lived in those lands for 12’000 years.
Once more, the image of eternal drought land falls, as the name of the desert carries in itself the histories of the waters and peoples who were their stewards: Aha Macave (Mojave), the people who live along the water and whose creation (hi)story is intimately interlaced with the creation of the great Colorado river. They live there no more.
By the late 1800s, the imperialist violence against native peoples of Mojave had reached atrocious levels. Militarized lands, invaded and superexploited, with the native people being confined to reservations established by colonialist governments where the epistemicide of the indigenous languages and cultures was law. Less than 2000 descendants of those tribes survived the genocide. As for the fauna and flora who withstood in place, they face threats from unsustainable energetic and agricultural projects and climate change.
In the last century the precipitation in Mojave has already decreased by 20% in some areas.
So before knowing it abundant, I was witnessing a phenomenon that already becomes rare: the rain which sustains life on that desert. The water that is part of the intimate history of its native peoples, that feeds its ancient Yucca and ornates the desert skies with rainbows.
What one feels in such moments is a complexity of wonder, anger, exhaustion revolt, gratitude for what is left and hope for a fairer future.
All simultaneously. All interlaced.
I heard then the lizards whispering from the rocks “these are the paradoxical violence and beauty of existence, they are inescapable and demand our attention!”
It seems to be in this complexity: blue skies and stormy clouds, rainbows in deserts, that we must learn to live in, every day. And immediately, our stamina to withstand all the discomfort of a modern and responsible existence seems to falter.
The desert is a very old friend of the redefinition of discomfort. It reminds us of unwavering gratitude for fresh water and a warm blanket at night. It demands us to question what is essential to carry for the hike. Each sweat drop, a treasure. Each loss of attention, potential death.
Today, about 2 million humans, together with other species, inhabit arid zones which are vulnerable to desertification: the permanent degradation of land and fertile soil. This could cause forced migrations for more than 50 million people until 2030, with the most violent impacts currently being felt by Africa and Asia, adding to the socio-ecological pressures of many already living in vulnerable and minoritized conditions.
To this human cost, one must add the forced migration and extinction of many other species, since 75% of the Earth’s land is already degraded, with projections reaching 90% by 2050.
Desertification is not an issue far from our Portuguese home, where we already feel the inescapable heat of the most abundant fire season of Europe, and watch our fertile soil escape like sand between our fingers.
The truth is that no socio-ecological violence is, or shall remain, far.
We are all part of the Earth’s metabolism: our lungs and homes much more intimately interconnected than we seem to remember.
How, then, to live with hearts that fear drought and minds that collapse under threat of instability?
The Mojave whispered in my ear that part of subsisting starts by addressing epistemological deserts created by genocides and ecocides. Remembering the essential.
When imperialism and techno-capitalism exterminate peoples, species, multisensory wisdoms, and diverse creativities, they leave in their place the violence of the loss. The silence of the voices and onomatopoeias who knew how to live in, with, and for the lands they inhabited. And, thus, grow the distortions of our modern existence, disguised of convenience and comfort, which, in truth, push us towards desertification and extinction.
We, fortunate to still to know the privileges of low-struggle, need then to build up our stamina to learn how to live with the paradoxical, with discomfort, with radical responsibility. We need to grow and listen to the voices and echoes of peoples and species who have subsisted and resisted annihilation by the systems that we abhor but still benefit from.
While the tropical forests shouts “abundance!”, the desert whispers vehemently “only the essential.” We have to know how to navigate both and the nuances in between. We need to re-learn to sense the natural rhythms of body and Earth. Respect and conserve rainwater, when abundant, to extinguish raging fires, when scarce.
We need to remember to live for more than ourselves, but for and with the lands and waters that sustain us all. For the ones who live far and know more violent struggles. For the ones who will soon need to flee, and for those who, having deep roots and clipped wings, can not even run away.
And it seems to me that, harmonizing, the Earth’s ecosystem pleads, in tone of vows: Sense me. In what is born and in what rots. In life as in death. In pain as in beauty. In comfort and scarcity. In totality, in complexity. Witness me in life, in the paradox.
Do we have in us, humanity, this fierce
and unconditional love for it all?
Can we, humanity, be this radically responsible?
Until when, humanity, will we avoid complexity?
This piece has been published in a Portuguese version at Vento e Água - Ritmos da Terra n° 45