Today is World Environment Day. As I sit with my laptop open, staring out the window, I feel a lump in my throat. The sky looks the same, the breeze feels familiar—but something deep inside has shifted over the years. I am not who I used to be. There was a time when I thought climate change was just a term from textbooks or foreign news headlines. A distant concept. Something that happened to “other people.”
I was born in Banaripara, Barisal, a city hugged by the rivers of southern Bangladesh, where the air carries the scent of salt and the land feels like it’s holding its breath. But when I was three, my family moved to Dhaka because of my father’s job transfer. He was the eldest son, carrying the weight of supporting his four younger siblings and our grandparents, all while working a government job he landed after passing his HSC, never having the chance to finish his degree. Back in Barisal, our family home near the Shandha River has been battered by floods and storms four times, each one eroding the land a little more. Growing up in Dhaka, I didn’t think much about it, climate change wasn’t a topic in my school, among my friends, or in our cramped city apartment. But every visit to Barisal brought the reality closer: the 30-minute walk to my Dadabari, my grandparents’ house – has shrunk to a 30-second stroll. The Shandha River is practically at their doorstep now, and the cost of relocating is a burden my father’s stretched income can’t bear. The anxiety in my family’s eyes, especially my grandparents’, is a quiet storm, one I didn’t understand until much later.
It wasn’t until I joined the Amra Notun Network as a participant and turn into an employee of BRAC that I found a name for this fear: climate anxiety. This journey is a revelation, a room full of young people from places like Khulna, Satkhira, and Bhola, sharing stories that mirrored mine. A fisherman from Barguna talked about nets coming up empty because of saltwater intrusion. A woman from Patuakhali described her village shrinking as the sea claimed homes. This experience is giving me language to describe the knot in my chest, the one that tightens every time I hear about another cyclone brewing in the Bay of Bengal. It also showed me I wasn’t alone. So, I started to know about climate anxiety.
What Is Climate Anxiety?
Climate anxiety is the heavy, gnawing fear that the world we love is slipping away. It’s the panic that hits when you see your childhood playground underwater or hear about wildfires in Australia, floods in Pakistan, or heatwaves in Europe. For us in coastal Bangladesh, it’s not abstract – it’s the muddy water seeping into your kitchen, the salt ruining your rice fields, the constant question of whether your home will survive the next storm. The American Psychological Association defines it as “a chronic fear of environmental doom,” often paired with feelings of helplessness, grief, or guilt. A 2021 Lancet study found that 59% of young people aged 16–25 globally feel “very” or “extremely” worried about climate change, with many saying it affects their daily lives. In Bangladesh, where 80% of the land is less than five meters above sea level, that worry feels like a second skin.
In The Misleading Bengal Delta, anthropologist Camelia Dewan captures the stakes: “The Bengal Delta is not a passive victim of climate change; it is a landscape shaped by centuries of human decisions, now unraveling under the weight of rising waters.” This hits home. The Shandha River isn’t just a river—it’s a force that’s reshaping my world. Our home in Barisal has been rebuilt four times since I was a child, each time a little closer to the edge. The riverbank, once a place for evening chats with my cousins, is now a crumbling ledge. Dewan’s book also points out how colonial-era embankments and poorly planned development have made places like Barisal more vulnerable. These systemic failures amplify our anxiety, making it feel like we’re fighting both nature and history.
Why Coastal Bangladesh Feels This So Deeply
For people in coastal Bangladesh, climate anxiety is woven into daily life. Take my neighbor, Rahima Apa, a widow who grows vegetables to support her three kids. Last year, a cyclone flooded her small plot, and the saltwater left the soil barren. She told me, “I don’t know if I should plant again or just give up.” Her voice trembled, not just with sadness but with the weight of uncertainty. That’s climate anxiety, knowing the rains might not come, or worse, they might come too hard, and there’s little you can do about it.
Then there’s my cousin, Sohel, who used to fish in the Shandha River. He’s 22, my age, and dreams of opening a small shop, but the fish are disappearing. Rising temperatures and salinity have driven them deeper or away. “I feel like I’m failing my family,” he confessed one evening, staring at the river. His anxiety isn’t just about fish, it’s about his future, his identity as a provider. Across coastal Bangladesh, stories like these are common. In Bhola, a friend from the cohort shared how her village lost 10 homes to erosion last year. In Satkhira, farmers are abandoning rice for shrimp farming because the soil is too salty, but even that’s a gamble with unpredictable storms.
The science backs this up. Bangladesh is one of the most climate-vulnerable countries, with the IPCC projecting that 17% of its land could be submerged by 2050, displacing millions. But numbers don’t capture the human toll – the sleepless nights, the whispered prayers during cyclones, the guilt of wondering if you could’ve done more. As Dewan writes, “The Delta’s vulnerability is not just environmental; it’s a story of power, neglect, and inequity.” Colonial policies drained wetlands for profit, and modern mismanagement has left us with crumbling embankments that can’t hold back the tides. This history makes our anxiety feel like a debt we didn’t ask to inherit.
My Awakening: A Story from the Heart
Let me share a moment that changed me. It was during an Amra Notun Network training in Dhaka last year. A woman named Ayesha (Pseudonym), from a village in Barguna, stood up to speak. Her hands shook as she described her home being swept away by Cyclone Amphan in 2020. “We rebuilt with what little we had,” she said, “but now the sea is closer, and I can’t sleep when it rains.” Her brother, only 12, wants to be a teacher, but they’re struggling to afford school fees because their crops keep failing. Her story broke something open in me. I saw my sister in her eyes, my brother in her brother. Our home in Barisal had survived Amphan, but the fear of losing it lingered like damp rot.
That day, I realized climate anxiety isn’t just personal – it’s collective. It’s the shared weight of a fisherman in Bhola, a farmer in Satkhira, a sister in Barguna. But youth network also showed me hope. Ayesha wasn’t just sharing her pain; she was organizing her community to plant mangroves as natural barriers against erosion. Another youth I met in Khulna, a 19-year-old, had started a youth group to clean plastic from rivers. Their courage lit a fire in me. I couldn’t just sit with my fear, I had to move.
Turning Anxiety into Action: A Call to the Youth
Climate anxiety can feel like wading through mud, but it’s also a signal that we care deeply. It’s a call to act, to protect the places and people we love. Here’s what I’ve learned, and what we, the youth of coastal Bangladesh and beyond, can do:
- Learn and Share Knowledge: My journey started with understanding. Books like The Misleading Bengal Delta or This Is the Way the World Ends by Jeff Nesbit gave me context. Join groups like Fridays for Future Bangladesh or local networks like Amra Notun. Share what you learn – over tea, on X, or in WhatsApp groups. I learn and inspire from my colleague, Imran bhai, share his resilience journey to everyone and started talking about climate change at home.
- Take Small, Local Actions: Big changes start small. In Barisal, I joined a mangrove planting drive last month. We are planning to plant 200 saplings along the Shandha River, each one a tiny shield against erosion. You can start composting, use cloth bags, or fix leaks to save water. Every action counts. In Satkhira, youth groups are building rainwater harvesting systems – simple, but life-changing.
- Amplify Coastal Voices: Our stories matter. Share the struggles of people like Rahima Apa or Sohel on social media or blogs. I shared about Barisal’s erosion with other district’s youth, and it sparked messages from people in Cox’s Bazar, Khulna and other area is facing similar issues.
- Push for Systemic Change: Write to local leaders, join protests, or support policies like stronger embankments or renewable energy. I decide to start attending Barisal’s town council meetings, nervous but determine, to demand better flood defenses. In Dhaka, youth groups are lobbying for climate education in schools, arrange climate strike every year – join them or start your own.
- Care for Your Mental Health: Anxiety can be crushing. I’ve found solace in sketching the Shandha River – it helps me process the changes. Talk to friends, write in a journal, or join support groups like Climate Cafe.
- Build Community: The Amra Notun Network showed me we’re stronger together. Organize cleanups, tree-planting drives, or workshops. Last week, my friends and I cleaned plastic from a Barisal canal. Seeing kids join in, laughing as they worked, reminded me we’re not alone.
Looking to the Horizon
As I write this, I’m thinking about the Shandha River, I am sense that its waters glinting under the June sun. It’s beautiful, but it’s also a reminder of what’s at stake. My family’s home, Rahima Apa’s garden, Sohel’s dreams , they’re all tied to this land, this water. Climate anxiety is heavy, but it’s also a spark. It’s proof we love this world enough to fight for it.
Dewan’s words echo in my mind: “The Bengal Delta is a living, breathing entity.” It’s up to us to keep it alive. To the youth reading this, let’s turn our fear into fuel. Plant a tree, share a story, raise your voice. The river may be closer than it was, but so is our power to change things. In coastal Bangladesh, we know the weight of water but we also know the strength of community. Let’s act, together, before the tide takes more.
Reference
Hickman, C., Marks, E., Pihkala, P., Clayton, S., Lewandowski, R. E., Mayall, E. E., Wray, B., Mellor, C., & van Susteren, L. (2021). Climate anxiety in children and young people and their beliefs about government responses to climate change: A global survey. The Lancet Planetary Health, 5(12), e863–e873. https://doi.org/10.1016/S2542-5196(21)00278-3
Friend, R., & Thinphanga, P. (2018). Misleading the Mekong: Climate change, development and transboundary waters. In T. Schneider-Mayerson & M. LeMenager (Eds.), Environmental futures (pp. 115–132). Springer.
Islam, M. M., & Hasan, M. (2020). Climate-induced human displacement: A case study of Bangladesh. International Social Work, 63(3), 386–399. https://doi.org/10.1177/0020872818799449
Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). (2023). Climate Change 2023: Synthesis Report. https://www.ipcc.ch/report/ar6/syr/
UNICEF. (2021). The climate crisis is a child rights crisis: Introducing the Children’s Climate Risk Index. United Nations Children’s Fund. https://www.unicef.org/reports/climate-crisis-child-rights-crisis
