Hira Ishaq

A Memoir from Peshawar: Discovering My Voice in the Climate Crisis By Hira Ishaq - Peshawar I always had a vague sense that something was amiss with our planet. Climate change, melting glaciers, and endangered animals were buzzwords that floated on the edges of my awareness, detached and abstract. They felt like distant echoes from faraway lands, concerns of a world "out there," certainly not of the sun-baked streets of Peshawar where I grew up. My childhood summers were defined by scorching heat, followed by winters that even then felt colder and foggier than the years before. Yet these were merely seasonal quirks, background noise to the rhythm of a typical middleclass household. Nature, to me, meant vacations: the winding roads lined with tall pine trees in Naran, the crisp air of Kaghan, the serene landscapes of Kashmir, and the quiet comfort of shared meals at roadside hotels. I can still recall the joy of collecting smooth, cool pebbles from glacial streams, chasing vibrant butterflies through sun-dappled pine forests, and staring in awe at snowy peaks that seemed to touch the sky. These moments are etched into my memory fragments of a pristine world I believed would always endure. Our family’s dream destination has always been the Maldives, not just because it was a luxurious getaway, but because it represented the possibility of reaching somewhere far beyond our means. It was a place you saw on glossy postcards and travel shows, a vision of paradise. I’d imagine walking barefoot on white beaches, snorkeling through coral gardens teeming with life, and watching fiery sunsets with my parents under swaying palm trees. We didn’t have the resources to go, but that dream kept us going; it was motivation, aspiration, a shimmering beacon of hope for a future earned through hard work. 1 Then, slowly and insidiously, the news began to trickle in. Glaciers were melting in the distant north. Smog, thick and choking, began to blanket our winters, turning familiar landmarks into ghostly silhouettes. Heatwaves arrived each summer, more relentless than the last, so fierce that even the shade offered little reprieve. And then came the reports that struck at the core of my childhood fantasy: the Maldives, my symbol of possibility, might not be there one day, not because we missed a flight, but because it might sink beneath rising tides. That news hit me like a cold, unexpected wave, pulling the vibrant imagery of my dream beneath its dark surface. It wasn’t just about polar bears or distant coastlines anymore; it was about homes, livelihoods, identities, and cultures. It was about a future where my most cherished aspiration, once a vivid and tangible goal, could quite literally drown. My abstract understanding of climate change began to dissolve, replaced by a chilling clarity: our dreams, our world, were already in peril. And I, like so many others, had been blissfully, ignorantly adrift. The real catalyst, however, came in my sixth semester of BS International Relations. I’d enrolled in a course titled Environmental Issues and International Relations, expecting another academic discussion on treaties and protocols. But it was a mandatory group presentation for this class that truly shattered my complacency and pulled me ashore from my detached existence. I remember feeling a strange mix of poetic ambition and intellectual detachment as I prepared my opening lines. I wanted to stir something in the audience, a sense of urgency, maybe even guilt. What I wasn’t prepared for was how profoundly those very words would boomerang back and strike me. 2 I began, my voice echoing slightly in the classroom, with words that felt both powerful and, terrifyingly, self-incriminating: "We often don't pay much attention to climate change. Why? Because if a bear species is going extinct, or some glaciers are melting in another region of the world, we tell ourselves – it's not our business. It doesn't affect us. But we forget, the Earth does not operate in isolation. Neither do we." Saying it out loud, articulating that apathy, felt like I was calling myself out. In that excruciating moment, I saw my own reflection not in a mirror, but in a melting iceberg, a smoky skyline, in the absence of snow where it once fell plentifully. I was one of the very people I was indicting: detached, passive, unaware. It was as if a heavy curtain, previously obscuring my vision and shielding my comfortable ignorance, had suddenly been ripped away. Once lifted, once that light streamed in, it could never be closed again. The truth, once seen, becomes unignorable. The immediate aftermath of that realization was a heightened—almost painful— sensitivity. I started seeing the climate crisis everywhere, not as isolated events, but as interconnected symptoms of a larger, unfolding disaster. Peshawar’s weather, which I had once brushed off as mere "seasonal quirks," began to look drastically different. That summer, I remember stepping outside on a 46°C (115°F) day, feeling the air burn against my skin like a physical assault. Trees drooped, their leaves curled and brittle. Stray animals struggled to find any patch of shade, panting desperately. It wasn’t just hot—it felt apocalyptic, a silent scream from the parched earth. Then came the winter. A thick, oppressive smog engulfed the city for weeks. I recall standing on my rooftop, desperately trying to spot the familiar outline of the mountains that usually framed the horizon, but the hazy, yellowish-gray shroud rendered everything invisible. The air tasted metallic, heavy with pollutants, and it burned my throat with every breath. That’s when it hit me with chilling certainty: we weren’t just reading about the climate crisis—we were living inside it. Another time, a freak hailstorm struck our neighborhood. The ice pelted rooftops and cars with unnatural ferocity, leaving shattered glass and dented metal in its wake. Hailstones the size of golf balls turned the streets white, creating a deceptive, eerie landscape. Children were momentarily excited by the novelty, but the older generation whispered about how unnatural and unsettling it had become—a stark departure from the weather patterns of their youth. These weren’t anomalies; they were raw, visceral warnings, echoing the melting Maldives and distant glaciers right on my doorstep. 3 What followed in that presentation, the deeper dive into the facts, the politics, and the hidden power plays, truly opened my eyes. One revelation hit me with the force of a physical blow, a betrayal that festered: climate denialism. I had naively believed it was a matter of simple ignorance or misinformation, perhaps a lack of access to scientific data. The truth was far more sinister, more calculated. It wasn't just a belief; it was an industry. An organized, meticulously crafted, and well-funded propaganda machine, relentlessly driven by those who profited immensely from environmental destruction. We learned about the Exxon climate cover-up, a revelation that shook me to my core. As early as the 1970s, Exxon’s own scientists had meticulously warned the company about the catastrophic dangers of burning fossil fuels. But instead of sounding the alarm, instead of shifting their business model towards sustainability, Exxon chose to hide the truth. They launched sophisticated disinformation campaigns, funded fake research organizations to sow doubt, and aggressively lobbied against any climate policies that threatened their bottom line. They did everything they could to protect their profits, even if it meant knowingly destroying our planet. Similar tactics were used by powerful corporate lobbies pushing for deforestation. I learned how these "climate butchers in suits" actively obstructed the passing of climate justice bills, spending millions to manipulate public opinion and sway legislation. This allowed them to continue burning down ancient rainforests in Indonesia for palm oil extraction, displacing indigenous communities and wiping out entire ecosystems. These weren't just business decisions; they were acts of violence against the planet and its people, meticulously planned and ruthlessly executed. And the worst part? They knew it. They knew exactly what climate change was doing. They caused it, and they kept us in the dark, feeding us lies while we clung to the comforts they sold us: plastic-packed convenience, fossil fuel dependence, fast fashion, rampant deforestation. These "sweet poisons" were consumed blindly, all the while we ignored what we were losing in the long run. It was no longer a conspiracy of silence; it was a carefully crafted symphony of misinformation, and for years, we had danced to their tune, oblivious to the ecological cost. The anger this knowledge ignited within me was profound, a righteous fury that burned with the heat of Peshawar's summers. It wasn't just a fleeting emotion; it was a deep, unsettling. That anger didn’t stay bottled up. I started looking for ways to turn my indignation into meaningful action. That’s when I joined a youth initiative at Bara Gali hill station with IOM. High in the mountains, surrounded by nature, we spent a week exploring the 4 SDGs.especially those linked to environmental protection and sustainable communities. We discussed how education fosters environmental consciousness and how local efforts connect to global outcomes. The week ended with a clean-up drive. Walking through such beauty with a heavy bag of plastic bottles, wrappers, and debris was heartbreaking. It felt surreal to see nature’s elegance marred by human carelessness. But in that sadness was a spark of hope —hope that our generation, aware of the harm, is also capable of healing. The clean-up felt like more than removing trash; it was a clearing of apathy from within. It made me reflect: What if every student were taught environmental ethics, not just facts? Education, I realized, must go beyond the classroom—it must build conscience. A pivotal moment came when I joined the Green Narrative Fellowship by Taqalum, supported by Skill Our Future, the Movers Programme, and YECAP. This fellowship was transformational. It helped me unlearn past misconceptions, relearn truth, and grow into an active agent of change. I facilitated two Movers4GreenJobs workshops, including an advanced Climate Action session. Just weeks earlier, I was a passive participant. Now, I stood in front of my peers, guiding discussions and shaping solutions. These workshops expanded my understanding of climate action—it’s not just protests or policy, but also green careers, innovation, and especially storytelling. The energy in the room was electric. It proved that hope, when shared and acted upon, becomes power. Mentors like Mam Rida Ashraf and Arooj Khan were instrumental. They didn’t just tell us we could make a difference—they created space for us to lead. Their belief in us turned abstract concepts into real projects. Their support helped me find the voice I had long kept hidden. As an International Relations graduate, I now view global politics through a climate lens. Climate change is not just an environmental issue—it’s a human rights crisis, a development challenge, and a security threat. It fuels inequality, displaces communities, and exacerbates global conflict. Everything is interconnected. My dream is to integrate environmentalism into international relations through climate diplomacy, policy advocacy, or peacebuilding. I want to call out greenwashing, hold power to account, and amplify the voices of vulnerable communities at the global table. As a child, my dream was to visit the Maldives. Now, my dream is to preserve places like the Maldives. To ensure future generations experience the same wonder I did. This isn’t just a fight for cleaner air or greener spaces—it’s a fight for justice, memory, and legacy. To anyone who feels too small to matter: I was you. I am you. But I found my voice—and even if it shakes, I’ll keep using it. Because silence is no longer an option. 5