“My parents had strictly warned me not to participate. But my friend and I ran out of the house [carrying] posters and banners until we reached the [nearest] metro station,” said Yashna Dhuria, a 20-year-old climate activist, recalling her experience of going to attend the first global climate strike in Delhi, India’s capital, in 2019.Dhuria and activists like her continue to spearhead campaigns, call out inaction, and unnerve the administration. But they also have to cope with feelings of fear, betrayal, and abandonment, as their words go unheeded.
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“The more I learn about the climate crisis, the more helpless I feel. I have broken down emotionally so many times in front of classmates and family just explaining what’s going to happen. My question is, why do people not care? Will they ever?” asked Dhuria.While there isn’t an official mental health diagnosis for it, Dhuria is likely experiencing ecological anxiety or “eco-anxiety”. Researchers and others have defined the term as “a chronic fear of environmental doom.”
The coinage of eco-anxiety is likely an attempt to address the impact of climate change on people’s mental health. While it bears mentioning that eco-anxiety isn’t something experienced exclusively by activists, it’s possible that they experience it more often and more deeply than others might, given the nature of their work. “The irony is that I took the most flights in the last year, and that too for climate advocacy work like going to the United Nations and the Conference of the Parties to meet and engage with people [including] decision makers,” said Sriranjini Raman, a student and community organiser who has previously worked with Fridays For Future (FFF) India, a global climate-strike movement led by young people. “It makes me feel so guilty that my individual emission is probably more than so many communities in India. I really don’t know how to deal with it.”
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Gang of guilt
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Who to turn to
Mohini Singh, a Bangalore-based psychologist who has also worked with TINEB’s volunteers, explained how the constant invalidation of work done by young climate activists adds to their mental health woes. “In the Indian context, anxiety itself is not given weightage. While you’re provided with support from loved ones when you go through a breakup or an academic failure, climate anxiety is not something everyone experiences, so you don’t get any help,” said Singh.
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Towards solidarity
However, the chilling effects of Ravi’s arrest have changed the course of climate activism for many in the country. While protecting the planet is essential, so is protecting one’s online privacy. From organising workshops to sharing campaign documents, a lot of what activists do is online and, therefore, could be monitored and used against them by those opposed to their cause. No one knows what words like “strike” and “action” could mean for those in power. The “toolkit” in question that Ravi was arrested for was also seen as a call to wage a social, cultural, regional, as well as an economic war against India as opposed to the basic purpose it served — that of being a collection of resources that can be used by individuals to learn about an issue, the farmers’ protests in Ravi’s case.
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“We are now alert and conscious all the time,” said Sania Rehmani, a member of TINEB. “Our website got banned while we were campaigning against the draft Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) Notification 2020. We were so spooked. For so long, my teammates have been pushing me to get a VPN (Virtual Private Network).”
Roadblocks
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“It’s been difficult to spread the word about climate change through social media. It’s really challenging to convince people that climate change deserves attention, while they still need to fight for basics like economic empowerment and political rights,” said Ohri.
As they nervously watch the lack of initiative taken by “grown-ups,” who by default have more power than them, giving up is not an option for many young activists, not even when there are opportunities for building more comfortable lives. “People have told me to get a job in the tech field but, in my heart, I know things are bad. I can’t overlook that,” said Lakshay, who preferred to be known by only his first name, a 24-year-old who has worked with the Delhi chapter of FFF. Goyal even changed the likely trajectory of her career, so that she could do more for the planet. “I was a commerce student, but now I’m pursuing my masters in environment and sustainable development studies. I wish that what I learned from the movement was taught in schools,” she said. Raman spoke about how young people are always caught in the dilemma between working for a corporation where they can gain experience and make a lot of money, and taking a paycut and working on solutions to prevent the planet from dying. The choice for her, though, is a clear one. “Having value-driven jobs will reduce eco-anxiety. Knowing that I am working for an organisation that is contributing to the economy as well as climate justice would definitely make me feel less anxious compared to [working for] one that just wants to generate profit,” said Raman.
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The fight for climate justice also shapes their romantic relationship choices. A partner could be the closest person in someone’s life, and finding one with shared values on climate isn’t an option for some – it’s a must. When fighting in a battered world, having someone who invalidates their fear of environmental doom is the last thing they want. “More than looks and a sense of humour, I see if they are interested in climate justice,” said a 25-year-old climate activist, who preferred not to reveal their name. “It’s an instant turnoff when I [meet] someone who’s apolitical, denies my fears of the climate crisis and boasts about their flight and cab journeys. It all boils down to envisioning a shared future. And I can’t be with someone who doesn’t realise how climate change is going to shape that future.”Alice Barwa, 24, an Adivasi educator and researcher, explained how it was infuriating for her to learn that in spite of coexisting with nature for centuries, Indigenous communities like hers are at the forefront of the climate crisis. Recounting her experience of attending COP26 (the 26th UN Climate Change Conference of the Parties), held in Glasgow, last year, Barwa stressed on how her privilege made the journey possible. “I have access to those radical spaces and to social media, and I know the language and the elite vocabulary those people use to communicate. They listened to me because I spoke in their language. People in my community have more experience and knowledge than I do, [but] they can’t access these platforms. I aim to work on bridging that gap.”
Token gestures
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Barwa explained how saddening it is for her to see her community’s presence being tokenised in the climate justice space. “Even if I had the language, I’ve seen how we are patronised on international platforms. It’s less about my opinion and more about my presence as an Indigenous person on their forum. Half the time, I was not even asked what I did. It came down to: ‘You’re an Adivasi, just represent the community.’”