The Best Museums To Visit In Cape Town

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With its rich and storied history, Cape Town has a lot to offer visitors. Our world-class museums showcase a glimpse of the city’s past, delving into struggles and the country’s road to freedom.

Here are some of the museums in Cape Town that are worth the visit.

The Iziko South African Museum 

Right in the middle of the historic Company’s Garden, the Iziko South African Museum is home to 1,5 million items of cultural and scientific significance. You’ll see traditional outfits from the last century, learn more about fossils and ancient insects, and view stone tools made by people 120,000 years ago. 

Location: 25 Queen Victoria Street, Gardens, Cape Town. 
Price: R80. 
Website: Find out more here. 

Iziko Slave Lodge 

The Iziko Slave Lodge is a powerful reminder of the hardships enslaved people once faced in South Africa. As one of Cape Town’s oldest buildings and a place where slaves once called home, it holds centuries of deeply rooted history.. Today, the museum explores the long and painful legacy of slavery through thought-provoking exhibitions, alongside temporary displays that put a spotlight on human rights awareness. Upstairs, the tone shifts slightly with fascinating collections of ceramics, silverware, and even ancient Egyptian artefacts. 

Location: Corner Adderley Street and Wale Street, Cape Town. 
Price: R80. 
Website: Discover more about the museum. 

District Six Museum 

Few areas are as vivid an example of the Apartheid regime as District Six. A once racially diverse and vibrant community, the original residents were forcibly removed from the area when the National Party government declared it a “white group area”. It started taking shape in the late ’80s, just after the powerful Hands-Off District Six conference and officially opened in 1994 with its first exhibition, Streets: Retracing District Six. 

The museum is more than just a collection of photos and artefacts, it’s a living tribute to the people who once called District Six home. Its permanent exhibition, Digging Deeper, shares powerful personal stories from former residents, making it a deeply moving stop for both locals and visitors who want to understand the soul of the city. 

Location: 25A Buitenkant Street, District Six, Cape Town. 
Price: From R60. 
Website: Explore the District Six Museum 

Cape Town Museum of Childhood 

The Cape Town Museum of Childhood is a playful, interactive space that brings joy, memories, and childhood stories to life for kids and grown-ups alike. As the first museum of its kind in Africa, it offers a unique look at how childhood has been experienced, remembered, and celebrated over time. From toys and games to personal stories and cultural traditions, the museum showcases a fascinating collection of childhood-related exhibitions from across South Africa. Whether you’re visiting with little ones or just young at heart, it’s a feel-good experience that invites curiosity, connection, and conversation. 

Location: 3 Milner Road, Rondebosch, Cape Town. 
Price: Free. 
Website: Find out more here. 

Long March to Freedom 

Brush up on your history in the most unique way! The Long March to Freedom is an outdoor exhibition featuring 100 life-size bronze sculptures of South Africa’s most famous heroes. From Nelson Mandela to Walter Sisulu, the Long March to Freedom transports you through the lives of these heroes and their role in the country’s 350-year journey.  

Location: Century Boulevard, Century City, Cape Town. 
Price: Between R20-R75. Children under 6: free. 
Website: Take the tour. 

Long March to Freedom Exhibition, Cape Town

Cape Town Holocaust Centre 

The Cape Town Holocaust Centre stands alongside the South African Jewish Museum and offers a deeply moving and thoughtfully designed experience. Through powerful stories, photos, film, and interactive displays, the museum takes you through one of history’s darkest chapters, the Holocaust, while also shedding light on other genocides around the world. It’s a space for reflection and learning, with exhibitions that are self-guided, allowing visitors to move through at their own pace. The space encourages understanding, empathy, and remembrance. 

Location: 88 Hatfield Street, Cape Town City Centre, Cape Town. 
Price: Free. 
Website: More information here. 

Castle of Good Hope 

Locally known as “The Castle,” this bastion fort is considered the best-preserved example of a 17th-century architectural structure in the world. A bell tower, situated over the main entrance, was built in 1684. The original bell, also known as the oldest in South Africa, was cast in Amsterdam in 1697 and weighs just over 300 kilograms. 

The Castle also acted as the local headquarters for the South African Army in the Western Cape and today houses the Castle Military Museum and ceremonial facilities for the traditional Cape Regiments. 

Location: Darling Street & Buitenkant Street, Cape Town. 
Price: R50 for Adults and R25 for children and pensioners.
Website: Explore more. 

Castle of Good Hope, Cape Town |Iziko Museums

Iziko Bo-Kaap Museum 

Bo-Kaap is one of the city’s most visited destinations. Beyond the iconic colourful houses, the area has an incredibly fascinating history. Many of the residents are descendants of enslaved people from Malaysia, Indonesia and various African countries who were forcibly brought to the city in the 16th and 17th centuries. The Bo-Kaap Museum is the perfect place to discover the history of the area. Be sure to check out depictions of the life of a typical Malay family. 

Location: 71 Wale Street, Schotsche Kloof, Cape Town. 
Price: R80. 
Website: Visit here. 

Robben Island Museum 

This well-known Cape Town attraction has a very chequered past. It was originally a refreshment station for explorers when the Dutch Settlers were in the Cape. It was later used as a leper colony and animal quarantine station. However, the island is most famous for being a political prison during the apartheid regime. Its most notable prisoner, Nelson Mandela, served 18 years in the island’s prison. Visitors to the island can expect an insightful tour by former political prisoners, which includes a visit to Mandela’s cell and a ferry ride.  

Location: Tours depart from The Nelson Mandela Gateway, which is located in the V&A Waterfront, close to the red Clock Tower. 
Price: R600 for adults and R310 for children. 
Website: www.robben-island.org.za 

Warrior Toy Museum

Escape into a childhood dream of toys, models, ships, trucks, aeroplanes and toy soldiers at the Warrior Toy Museum in Simon’s Town. The museum boasts over 4000 model cars, 500 dolls and teddy bears and has a special sale section for those who want to start their own collection. 

Location: 1067 King George Way, Simon’s Town, Cape Town
Opening Times: Daily from 10am to 4pm
Price: Various
Website: bit.ly/3W8zshA 

Toy Museum Simons Town

Rust en Vreugd

Rust en Vreugd was built on what was then the outer limits of the city in 1777 for a high-ranking official of the Dutch East India Company. In the early 1960s, it was restored and converted into a gallery space when William Fehr donated his private collection of works of art on paper (watercolours, prints and drawings) to the people of South Africa. Visitors will get to see part of the collection.

Location: 78 Buitenkant Street, Cape Town City Centre, Cape Town
Opening Times: Thursdays and Fridays, from 9am to 4pm 
Price: R60 (Free entry on commemorative days)
Website: www.iziko.org.za/museums/rust-en-vreugd

Rust en Vreugd, Cape Town | Iziko Museums

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The Maravi Post

‘When Rains Come, Our Hearts Beat Faster’

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Aid, Asia-Pacific, Civil Society, Climate Change, Climate Change Justice, Development & Aid, Disaster Management, Economy & Trade, Editors’ Choice, Environment, Featured, Headlines, Human Rights, Humanitarian Emergencies, Sustainable Development Goals, TerraViva United Nations

Disaster Management

A recent report reveals that Asia faces about 100 natural disasters every year, affecting 80 million people. Beyond the statistics are the disrupted lives, damaged homes, and a cycle of repair that drains communities.

A woman in a remote hamlet in Kashmir, India, migrates to a safer location with her child as floodwater inundates her hometown. Credit: Umar Manzoor Shah/IPS

A woman in a remote hamlet in Kashmir, India, migrates to a safer location with her child as floodwater inundates her hometown. Credit: Umar Manzoor Shah/IPS

SRINAGAR & NEW DELHI, Feb 9 2026 (IPS) – When the rain begins in Kashmir’s capital Srinagar, Ghulam Nabi Bhat does not watch the clouds with relief anymore. He watches them with calculation. How much can the gutters take? How fast will the river rise? Which corner of the house will leak first? Where should the children sleep if the floor turns damp?

“Earlier, rain meant comfort,” said Bhat, a resident of a low-lying neighbourhood close to the city’s waterways. “Now it feels like a warning.”

On many days, the rain does not need to become a flood to change life. Streets fill up within hours. Shops shut early. The school van turns back. A phone call spreads across families, asking the same question, “How is your area?”

For millions across India and the wider region of emerging Asia (a group of rapidly developing countries in the region, including China, India, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Thailand, and Vietnam), this is the new normal. Disasters no longer arrive as rare, once-in-a-generation ruptures. They come as repeated shocks, each one leaving behind repair bills, lost wages, and a deeper sense that recovery has become a permanent routine.

A recent analysis from the OECD Development Centre shows that emerging Asia has been facing an average of around 100 disasters a year over the past decade, affecting roughly 80 million people annually. The rising trend is powered by floods, storms, and droughts. The report estimates that natural disasters have cost India an average of 0.4 percent of GDP every year between 1990 and 2024.

Behind the national figure lies a quieter, more poignant story. It is the story of how repeated climate and weather shocks get absorbed by households and not just spreadsheets. By the savings a family built for a daughter’s education. By a shopkeeper’s stock bought on credit. By a farmer’s seed money saved from the last season.

In the north Indian state of Bihar’s flood-prone belt, Sunita Devi, a mother of three, says she has stopped storing anything valuable on the floor. Clothes sit on higher shelves. The grain container has moved to a safer corner. The family’s documents stay wrapped in plastic.

Local residents in Kashmir's capital, Srinagar, stack sandbags to safeguard their homes from floods in 2025. Credit: Umar Manzoor Shah/IPS

Local residents in Kashmir’s capital, Srinagar, stack sandbags to safeguard their homes from floods in 2025. Credit: Umar Manzoor Shah/IPS

“When water comes, you run with children,” she said. “The rest is left to fate. You can rebuild a wall. You cannot bring back the days you lost.”

Her village has lived with floods for decades, but she says what has changed is frequency, uncertainty, and cost. It is not only about big river floods that make headlines. It is also about sudden waterlogging, damaged roads, broken embankments, and illnesses that rise after the water recedes.

“Earlier we could predict. Now we cannot. Sometimes the water comes fast. Sometimes it stays. Sometimes it leaves and then comes again,” Devi told IPS.

Professor Kaveh Madani, director of the United Nations University’s Institute for Water, Environment, and Health, told IPS that water bankruptcy in Asia should be treated as a national security issue, not a sector issue.

“The priority is shifting from crisis response to bankruptcy management: honest accounting, enforceable limits, protection of natural capital, and a just transition that protects farmers and vulnerable communities,” said Madani.

Across emerging Asia, floods have emerged as one of the strongest rising trends since the early 2000s, the OECD Development Centre report notes. The reasons vary from place to place, but the result looks familiar: disrupted lives, damaged homes, and a cycle of repair that drains communities.

In Kashmir’s capital Srinagar, small shop owner Bashir Ahmad keeps an old wooden rack near the entrance. It is not for display. It is for emergencies. When rain intensifies, he quickly moves cartons of goods off the floor.

“My shop is small; my margin is smaller. One day of water is enough to destroy many things. Customers do not come. Deliveries stop. You just wait and watch,” Ahmad said.

He says the biggest loss is not always the damaged stock. It is the days without work. For families that live week to week, even a short shutdown becomes a long crisis. Rent does not pause. School fees do not pause. Loans do not pause.

The OECD analysis, while regional in scope, points to a hard truth that communities already know. It claims that disasters have economic aftershocks that last long after television cameras leave. When repeated losses occur every year, they reduce growth and reshape choices. Families postpone building stronger houses. They avoid investing in small businesses. They spend more time recovering than progressing.

“Disasters are no longer exceptional events. They have become recurring economic shocks. The problem is not only the immediate damage. It is the repetition. Repetition breaks household resilience,” Dr Ritu Sharma, a climate risk researcher based in Delhi, said.

Sharma says India’s disaster losses should not be viewed as a headline percentage alone.

They should be viewed as accumulated pressure on ordinary life.

“A flood does not only damage a bridge. It delays healthcare visits. It interrupts immunisation drives. It breaks supply chains for food and medicines. It can push vulnerable families into debt traps. What looks like a climate event becomes a social event. It becomes a health event. It becomes an education event.”

In the report’s regional comparisons, the burden is uneven. Some countries face higher average annual losses as a share of GDP, especially those exposed to cyclones and floods. India’s size allows it to absorb shocks on paper, but that size also means more people remain exposed. From Himalayan slopes vulnerable to landslides to coastal districts bracing for cyclones to plains dealing with floods and heat, risk is spread across geography and across livelihoods.

Prof. Nasar Ali, an economist who studies climate impacts, says the real damage is often hidden in the informal economy.

“A formal sector company can claim insurance, borrow on better terms, and restart faster. A vegetable vendor cannot. A small grocery shop cannot. A family with a single daily wage earner cannot. Their loss is immediate and personal. They also take the longest to recover,” Ali said.

He believes disaster impacts also deepen inequality because the poorest households lose what they cannot replace.

“A damaged roof for a rich family is a renovation problem. A damaged roof for a poor family can mean sleeping in damp rooms for weeks, infections, missed work and children dropping out temporarily.”

The report also turns attention toward a policy question that has become urgent across Asia: how should governments pay for disasters in a way that does not repeatedly divert development funds?

The analysis highlights disaster risk finance, tools that help governments prepare money in advance rather than relying mainly on post-disaster relief. This includes dedicated disaster funds, insurance mechanisms, and rapid financing that can be triggered quickly after a shock.

For communities, the debate may sound distant. But the outcomes are visible in the speed of recovery and the dignity of response.

“When a disaster happens, help should come fast,” said Meena Devi, who runs a small grocery shop in Jammu’s RS Pura area and has seen repeated waterlogging during intense rains. “We close our shop. Milk spoils. People cannot buy things. Then we borrow money to restart. If support is slow, we fall behind.”

She said her biggest fear is not a single disaster but the feeling that another one is always near.

“If it happens once, you survive. If it happens again and again, you get tired from inside,” she said.

For Sharma, preparedness must be more than emergency drills. It must include planning that reduces exposure in the first place.

“Some risks are unavoidable, but many are amplified by where and how we build,” she said. “If cities expand without drainage capacity, or if construction spreads into floodplains, then disasters become predictable. That is not nature alone. That is policy.”

In Srinagar, Bhat says residents often feel they fight the same battle every year. Cleaning drains. Stacking sandbags. Moving belongings. Calling relatives. Watching the river level updates. The work looks small, but it is exhausting because it never ends.

He pointed to marks on a wall that show where water once reached.

“We always think, maybe this year it will be better,” he said. “Then rain comes, and your heart starts beating faster.”

Asked what would make him feel safe, he did not talk about big promises. He spoke about basics. A drain that works. A road that does not collapse. A warning that comes early. Help that comes on time.

For Sunita Devi in Bihar, the dream is even simpler: a season where the family can plan without fear.

“We want to live like normal people. We want to save money, not spend it on repairing what the water broke,” she said.

IPS UN Bureau Report

  Source

The Top Climate Leaders Are Now in The Global South

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Biodiversity, Climate Action, Climate Change, Conferences, COP30, Development & Aid, Economy & Trade, Energy, Environment, Global, Green Economy, Headlines, Labour, Natural Resources, TerraViva United Nations

Opinion


As climate leaders gather in the Amazon, the world’s green transformation is speaking with a southern accent—powered by markets, technology, and a new economic logic.

Belém—30th Conference of the Parties (COP30). Credit: Antônio Scorza/COP30

Belém—30th Conference of the Parties (COP30). Credit: Antônio Scorza/COP30

OSLO, Norway, Nov 11 2025 (IPS) – When world leaders now gather in Belém, Brazil for the UN climate conference, expectations will be modest. Few believe the meeting will produce any breakthroughs. The United States is retreating from climate engagement. Europe is distracted. The UN is struggling to keep relevant in the 21st century.

But step outside the negotiation tents, and a different story unfolds—one of quiet revolutions, technological leaps, and a new geography of leadership. The green transformation of the world is no longer being designed in Western capitals. It is being built, at scale, in the Global South.

Ten years ago, anyone seeking inspiration on climate policy went to Brussels, Berlin or Paris. Today, you go to Beijing, Delhi or Jakarta. The center of gravity has shifted. China and India are now the twin engines of the global green economy, with Brazil, Vietnam and Indonesia closely behind.

Erik Solheim

This is not about rhetoric; it is about results. China accounts for roughly 60 percent of global capacity in solar, wind, and hydropower manufacturing. It dominates in electric vehicles, batteries, and high-speed rail. China’s 93 GW installation of solar in May 2025 is a historic high and exceeds the monthly or short‐term installation levels of any other country to date.

China has made the green transition its biggest business opportunity, turning green action into jobs, prosperity and global leadership. China is now making more money from exporting green technology than America makes from exporting fossil fuels.

India, too, is reshaping what green development looks like. I was in Andhra Pradesh last month, when I visited a wonderful six-gigawatt integrated energy park—solar, wind, and pumped storage. It delivers round-the-clock clean power. There is nothing like that in the West. In another state, Tamil Nadu, an ecotourism circuit is protecting mangroves and marine ecosystems while creating local jobs in tourism. The western state of Gujarat, long a laboratory for industrial innovation, has committed to 100 gigawatts of renewables by 2030, with the captains of Indian business – Adani and Reliance – driving large-scale solar and wind investments with the state government.

These are not pilot projects. They are national strategies. And they are succeeding because the economics have flipped.

The cost of solar power has fallen by over 90 percent in the last decade, largely thanks to the intense competition between Chinese solar companies. Battery storage is now competitive with fossil fuels. What was once an environmental aspiration has become a financial inevitability. In Indian Gujarat, solar-plus-storage projects are already cheaper than coal. Switching to clean energy is no longer a cost—it is a saving.

That is why climate action today is driven not by diplomacy, but by economics. The question is no longer if countries will go green, but who will own the technologies and industries that make it possible.

Europe, long the moral voice of the climate agenda, now risks losing the industrial race. After years of blocking imports from developing countries on grounds of “inferior” green quality, it now complains that Chinese electric vehicles are too good— too cheap and too efficient. Europe cannot have it both ways. The world cannot build a green transition behind protectionist walls. The markets must open to the best technologies, wherever they are made.

President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva of Brazil understands this new reality. That is why he chose Belém, deep in the Amazon, as the site for climate talks. The location itself is a statement: the future of climate policy lies in protecting the rainforests and empowering the people who live within them.

Forests are not just carbon sinks; they are living economies. When I was Norway’s environment minister, we partnered with Brazil and Indonesia to reward them for reducing deforestation. Later, Guyana joined our effort—a small South American nation where nearly the entire population is of Indian or African origin.

Guyana has since turned conservation into currency. Under its jurisdictional REDD+ programme, the country now sells verified carbon credits through the global aviation market known as CORSIA. In the third quarter of this year, these credits traded at USD 22.55 per tonne of CO₂ equivalent, with around one million credits sold through a procurement event led by IATA and Mercuria.

The proceeds go directly to forest communities—building schools, improving digital access, and funding small enterprises. It is proof that the carbon market can deliver real value when tied to real lives. You cannot protect nature against the will of local people. You can only protect it with them. Last year in Guyana, I watched children play soccer and cricket beneath the jungle canopy—a glimpse of life thriving in harmony with the forest, not at its expense.

That, ultimately, is what Belém should represent: not another round of procedural debates, but a vision for linking markets, nature and livelihoods.

The Global South has also sidestepped one of the West’s greatest political failures: climate denial. In India, there is no major political party—or public figure, cricket star or Bollywood artist—questioning the reality of climate change. Leaders may differ on ideology, but not on this. Across Asia, from China to Indonesia, climate action unites rather than divides. Because here, ecology and economy move together.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India puts it simply: by going green, we also go prosperous. President Xi Jinping of China and President Lula of Brazil share that same message—a vision that draws people in, instead of lecturing them. It is this integration of growth and sustainability that explains why the Global South is moving faster than most of the developed world.

None of this means diplomacy is irrelevant. The UN still matters. But its institutions must evolve to reflect the realities of the 21st century. The Security Council, frozen in 1945, still excludes India and Africa from permanent membership. Without reform, multilateralism risks losing its meaning.

Yet, while negotiations stall, transformation continues. From solar parks in Gujarat to high-speed rail across China, from mangrove tourism in Tamil Nadu to carbon markets in Guyana—climate leadership is happening in real economies, not in press releases.

Belém will not deliver a grand agreement. But it doesn’t need to. The world is already moving—faster than our diplomats.

The story of Belem will not be written in communiqués, but in kilowatts, credits, and communities.

The real climate leaders are no longer in Washington or Brussels.

They are in Beijing, Delhi, São Paulo, and Georgetown.

The future of climate action is already here.

It just speaks with a southern accent.

The author is the former Executive Director of the United Nations Environment Programme and Norway’s Minister for Environment and International Development.

IPS UN Bureau

 

The Top Climate Leaders Are Now in The Global South

Posted on by admin

Biodiversity, Climate Action, Climate Change, Conferences, COP30, Development & Aid, Economy & Trade, Energy, Environment, Global, Green Economy, Headlines, Labour, Natural Resources, TerraViva United Nations

Opinion


As climate leaders gather in the Amazon, the world’s green transformation is speaking with a southern accent—powered by markets, technology, and a new economic logic.

Belém—30th Conference of the Parties (COP30). Credit: Antônio Scorza/COP30

Belém—30th Conference of the Parties (COP30). Credit: Antônio Scorza/COP30

OSLO, Norway, Nov 11 2025 (IPS) – When world leaders now gather in Belém, Brazil for the UN climate conference, expectations will be modest. Few believe the meeting will produce any breakthroughs. The United States is retreating from climate engagement. Europe is distracted. The UN is struggling to keep relevant in the 21st century.

But step outside the negotiation tents, and a different story unfolds—one of quiet revolutions, technological leaps, and a new geography of leadership. The green transformation of the world is no longer being designed in Western capitals. It is being built, at scale, in the Global South.

Ten years ago, anyone seeking inspiration on climate policy went to Brussels, Berlin or Paris. Today, you go to Beijing, Delhi or Jakarta. The center of gravity has shifted. China and India are now the twin engines of the global green economy, with Brazil, Vietnam and Indonesia closely behind.

Erik Solheim

This is not about rhetoric; it is about results. China accounts for roughly 60 percent of global capacity in solar, wind, and hydropower manufacturing. It dominates in electric vehicles, batteries, and high-speed rail. China’s 93 GW installation of solar in May 2025 is a historic high and exceeds the monthly or short‐term installation levels of any other country to date.

China has made the green transition its biggest business opportunity, turning green action into jobs, prosperity and global leadership. China is now making more money from exporting green technology than America makes from exporting fossil fuels.

India, too, is reshaping what green development looks like. I was in Andhra Pradesh last month, when I visited a wonderful six-gigawatt integrated energy park—solar, wind, and pumped storage. It delivers round-the-clock clean power. There is nothing like that in the West. In another state, Tamil Nadu, an ecotourism circuit is protecting mangroves and marine ecosystems while creating local jobs in tourism. The western state of Gujarat, long a laboratory for industrial innovation, has committed to 100 gigawatts of renewables by 2030, with the captains of Indian business – Adani and Reliance – driving large-scale solar and wind investments with the state government.

These are not pilot projects. They are national strategies. And they are succeeding because the economics have flipped.

The cost of solar power has fallen by over 90 percent in the last decade, largely thanks to the intense competition between Chinese solar companies. Battery storage is now competitive with fossil fuels. What was once an environmental aspiration has become a financial inevitability. In Indian Gujarat, solar-plus-storage projects are already cheaper than coal. Switching to clean energy is no longer a cost—it is a saving.

That is why climate action today is driven not by diplomacy, but by economics. The question is no longer if countries will go green, but who will own the technologies and industries that make it possible.

Europe, long the moral voice of the climate agenda, now risks losing the industrial race. After years of blocking imports from developing countries on grounds of “inferior” green quality, it now complains that Chinese electric vehicles are too good— too cheap and too efficient. Europe cannot have it both ways. The world cannot build a green transition behind protectionist walls. The markets must open to the best technologies, wherever they are made.

President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva of Brazil understands this new reality. That is why he chose Belém, deep in the Amazon, as the site for climate talks. The location itself is a statement: the future of climate policy lies in protecting the rainforests and empowering the people who live within them.

Forests are not just carbon sinks; they are living economies. When I was Norway’s environment minister, we partnered with Brazil and Indonesia to reward them for reducing deforestation. Later, Guyana joined our effort—a small South American nation where nearly the entire population is of Indian or African origin.

Guyana has since turned conservation into currency. Under its jurisdictional REDD+ programme, the country now sells verified carbon credits through the global aviation market known as CORSIA. In the third quarter of this year, these credits traded at USD 22.55 per tonne of CO₂ equivalent, with around one million credits sold through a procurement event led by IATA and Mercuria.

The proceeds go directly to forest communities—building schools, improving digital access, and funding small enterprises. It is proof that the carbon market can deliver real value when tied to real lives. You cannot protect nature against the will of local people. You can only protect it with them. Last year in Guyana, I watched children play soccer and cricket beneath the jungle canopy—a glimpse of life thriving in harmony with the forest, not at its expense.

That, ultimately, is what Belém should represent: not another round of procedural debates, but a vision for linking markets, nature and livelihoods.

The Global South has also sidestepped one of the West’s greatest political failures: climate denial. In India, there is no major political party—or public figure, cricket star or Bollywood artist—questioning the reality of climate change. Leaders may differ on ideology, but not on this. Across Asia, from China to Indonesia, climate action unites rather than divides. Because here, ecology and economy move together.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India puts it simply: by going green, we also go prosperous. President Xi Jinping of China and President Lula of Brazil share that same message—a vision that draws people in, instead of lecturing them. It is this integration of growth and sustainability that explains why the Global South is moving faster than most of the developed world.

None of this means diplomacy is irrelevant. The UN still matters. But its institutions must evolve to reflect the realities of the 21st century. The Security Council, frozen in 1945, still excludes India and Africa from permanent membership. Without reform, multilateralism risks losing its meaning.

Yet, while negotiations stall, transformation continues. From solar parks in Gujarat to high-speed rail across China, from mangrove tourism in Tamil Nadu to carbon markets in Guyana—climate leadership is happening in real economies, not in press releases.

Belém will not deliver a grand agreement. But it doesn’t need to. The world is already moving—faster than our diplomats.

The story of Belem will not be written in communiqués, but in kilowatts, credits, and communities.

The real climate leaders are no longer in Washington or Brussels.

They are in Beijing, Delhi, São Paulo, and Georgetown.

The future of climate action is already here.

It just speaks with a southern accent.

The author is the former Executive Director of the United Nations Environment Programme and Norway’s Minister for Environment and International Development.

IPS UN Bureau

 

Rajagopal PV’s Blueprint for Another World: Peace

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Active Citizens, Africa, Asia-Pacific, Civil Society, Conferences, Editors’ Choice, Featured, Global, Headlines, Human Rights, Humanitarian Emergencies, Peace, Population, Sustainable Development Goals, TerraViva United Nations

Peace

Rajagopal P.V. at the International Civil Society Week (ICSW2025) in Bangkok. Credit: Zofeen Ebrahim/IPS

Rajagopal P.V. at the International Civil Society Week (ICSW2025) in Bangkok. Credit: Zofeen Ebrahim/IPS

BANGKOK, Nov 4 2025 (IPS) – “If nations can have defense ministries, why not peace ministries?” asks Rajagopal PV, the soft-spoken yet formidable founder of Ekta Parishad. “We are told to see issues through a gender lens—why not a peace lens? Why can’t we imagine a business model rooted in non-violence or an education system that teaches peace?”

Founded in 1989, Ekta Parishad—literally Forum for Unity—is a vast people’s movement of more than 250,000 landless poor, now recognized as one of India’s largest and most disciplined grassroots forces for justice.

To Rajagopal, these aren’t utopian dreams—they’re blueprints for a possible world.

Over the decades, Ekta Parishad has secured land rights for nearly half a million families, trained over 10,000 grassroots leaders, protected forests and water bodies, and helped shape key land reform laws and policies in India.

All this has been achieved not through anger, but through disciplined, nonviolent marches that stretch across hundreds of kilometers. Along the way, many leaders have walked beside him—among them, the current Prime Minister of Armenia.

In an age marked by deep disorder—where wealth concentrates in few hands, poverty spreads, and the planet itself trembles under human greed—the 77-year-old Gandhian remains unshaken in his belief that peace alone can redeem humanity.

“We must rescue peace from the clutches of poverty and all its evils,” he told IPS on the sidelines of the International Civil Society Week, standing on the football ground of Bangkok’s Thammasat University.

“And it can be done,” he insists—and his life is proof. In 1969, the centenary year of Mahatma Gandhi’s birth, the Government of India launched a unique exhibition on wheels, a ten-coach train carrying Gandhi’s life and message across the nation. Rajagopal was part of the team that curated and travelled with it.

“For an entire year, we journeyed from state to state. Thousands of schoolchildren would gather at railway platforms, their faces lit with curiosity, waiting to meet Gandhi through our displays,” he recalls.

Yet somewhere along those long railway tracks, Rajagopal began to feel that displaying Gandhi’s ideals wasn’t enough. “The exhibition was beautiful,” he says, “but what was the use of preaching non-violence if we couldn’t live it, breathe it, and bring it to life?”

That realization led him to one of the most daring experiments in peacebuilding India had ever seen—negotiating with the feared bandits of the Chambal valley. “It was 1970,” he recalls. “We moved cautiously, first meeting villagers on the periphery to build trust. Once we had their confidence, we sent word to the dacoits: we wanted to talk. With the government’s consent, we ventured into what we called a ‘peace zone’—often by night, walking for hours through deep ravines—to meet men the world only knew as outlaws.”

The dialogues continued for four years. Eventually, as many as 570 bandits laid down their arms before a photograph of Mahatma Gandhi—a sight India had never seen before. The government, in turn, promised they would not face the death penalty and would receive land and livestock to rebuild their lives. Rehabilitation took another four painstaking years, but it was a victory of conscience over fear.

“They didn’t just surrender their weapons—they surrendered their anger,” Rajagopal says quietly. “There was real repentance, and that takes time—but it lasts.” His commitment came at a cost. At his ashram—a spiritual retreat he had founded—he was threatened, beaten, and ordered to abandon his peace efforts. He talked them through to accepting his presence.

“Today that same region is heaven,” he smiles, his eyes crinkling with memory. “Fifty years ago, people trembled at sunset—terrified of the bandits. Today, you can travel at 2:00 pm in the night, where fear ruled once.”

The mass surrender may have looked like a triumph for the state, but Rajagopal urges people to look deeper. “It’s the invisible violence—poverty, injustice, and oppression—that breeds the visible one: dacoities, kidnappings, and killings,” he explains.

Though Rajagopal and his companions had ended one form of violence, the deeper, quieter kind—born of poverty and neglect—still festered. Until that was confronted, he knew, peace would remain incomplete.

Years of working alongside the poor had taught him one truth: non-violence needs structure. If India’s Indigenous and landless communities were to be heard, they had to be organized.

“We began training young people from dozens of villages,” he says. “They went door to door, teaching others not only about their rights—especially the right to land—but also how to claim them peacefully.”

With that foundation, a five-year plan took shape. Each village home chose one member to take part. Every day, the family set aside one rupee and a fistful of rice—a humble but powerful act of commitment.

They even created a “playbook” of possible scenarios—how to stay calm under provocation, how to respond to setbacks, and how to practice non-violence in thought and action. “In one of our marches, a truck ran over three of our people, killing them,” he recalls softly. “There was grief, but no retaliation. Instead, they sat in silence and meditated. That was our true test.”

In 2006, 500 marchers walked 350 kilometers from Gwalior to Delhi, demanding land rights. Nothing changed. But they didn’t stop.

A year later, in 2007, 25,000 people—many barefoot—set out again on the national highway. “Imagine that sight,” Rajagopal says, eyes gleaming. “Twenty-five thousand people walking for a month, powered only by hope.”

The march displayed not just India’s poverty but also its power—the quiet power of the poor united. It was among the most disciplined mobilizations the country had ever seen. “There was one leader for every hundred people,” Rajagopal explains. “We walked by day and slept on the highway by night. Those in charge of cooking went ahead each morning so that by sundown, a single meal was ready for all.”

In a later march, Rajagopal recalls, the government sent a large police force. “I was worried,” he admits. “I called the authorities to tell them this was a non-violent protest—we didn’t need protection. The officer replied, ‘They’re not there for you; they’re here to learn how disciplined movements should be.’”

Along the route, villages greeted them like family—offering bags of rice, water, and prayers. “There was never a shortage of food,” Rajagopal smiles. “When your cause is just, the world feeds you.”

By the time the march reached Delhi, the government announced a new land reform policy and housing rights and agreed to enact the Forest Rights Act.

The government dispersed the marchers with hollow promises and the reforms never happened.

So Ekta Parishad planned an even larger march—a Jan Satyagraha of 100,000 people in 2012.

“Halfway through, the government came running.”

Rajagopal’s face lights up as he recalls the event. “They agreed to our ten-point agenda and signed it in front of the people. That moment was historic—governments almost never do that; the Indian government certainly never does it!”

The agreement included land and housing rights, a national task force on land reform, the prime minister’s oversight of policy implementation, and fast-track courts to resolve land disputes.

Today, because of these long, barefoot marches, more than three million Indigenous people in India now have legal rights to land and housing. The struggle also gave birth to India’s Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation, and Resettlement Act—a landmark in people’s movements.

“The Act also safeguards fertile land,” Rajagopal explains. “Before the government can acquire any area, a social impact study must be done. And if farmland is taken, the owners receive four times its value in compensation.”

“The purpose of our marches,” Rajagopal says, “is not to fight the government, but to win it over. The government is not the enemy; injustice is. We must stand on the same side of the problem.”

For Rajagopal, peace is not a sentiment but a system—something that must be built, brick by brick, through dialogue and respect. “Non-violence,” he says, “isn’t passive. It’s active patience—listening, accepting differences, never policing thought.” The same principle, he believes, can heal families, neighborhoods, nations—and the world itself.

His next mission is to create a Youth Peace Force, ready to enter conflict zones and resolve disputes through dialogue. He has also launched the Peace Builders Forum, or Peace7, uniting seven countries—South Africa, Japan, Costa Rica, Switzerland, Canada, India, and Armenia. His dream is to expand it to Peace20, where, as he smiles, “wealth will never be a criterion for membership.”

IPS UN Bureau Report

 

Vanishing Wisdom of the Sundarbans–How climate change erodes centuries of ecological knowledge

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Bapi Mondal and his wife Shanti in Bangalore. Climate change has forced the couple from their traditional livelihoods in the Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

Bapi Mondal and his wife Shanti in Bangalore. Climate change has forced the couple from their traditional livelihoods in the Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

BANGALORE & PAKHIRALAY, India, Oct 15 2025 (IPS) – Bapi Mondal’s morning routine in Bangalore is a world away from his ancestral village, Pakhiralay, in the Sundarbans, West Bengal. He wakes before dawn, navigates heavy traffic, and spends eight long hours molding plastic battery casings. It’s not the life his honey-gathering forefathers knew, but factors like extreme storms, rising seas, and deadly soil salinity forced the 40-year-old to abandon centuries of family tradition and travel miles away to work in a concrete suburban factory.

Bapi still remembers his traditional skills—walking through a mangrove forest to find a tree with a honeycomb, mending boats and fishing nets, and singing and acting in the traditional plays. His 19-year-old son, Subhodeep—working alongside in the factory—has lost the heritage.

Bapi’s home, the Sundarbans—the world’s largest mangrove forest—is on the frontlines of climate change, and local livelihoods are taking the hit. In this watery maze where land and sea meet, villagers who once relied on fishing, honey collection and farming are now grappling with rising tides, saltier water, and more frequent storms. For many, life is becoming a struggle to hold on to centuries-old ways.

Sea levels in the Sundarbans are rising nearly twice the global rate, flooding villages and forcing families out. Saltwater ruins rice fields and ponds, making farming and fishing harder. Mawalis, the honey gatherers, also struggle as climate change disrupts flowering and damages mangroves, reducing wild bee populations.

A fisherman in Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

A fisherman in the Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

The crisis doesn’t end with the water. Salinity, once held at bay by freshwater flows, is climbing year after year, disrupting both fishing and farming. Pollution, ill-managed embankments, and overexploitation of resources add to the challenge. As incomes shrink and lands disappear, thousands leave for nearby cities, hoping for work but often finding only life in urban slums.

City life is unforgiving for migrants like Mondal. He spends eight grueling hours on his feet, molding battery casings six days a week in harsh factory conditions. At the end of each day, he returns to a small one-room apartment. He shares this space with his wife Shanti and son, Subhodeep. The family struggles financially. Bapi earns ₹19,000 per month (about USD 215)—barely enough to get by. Despite the hardships, he says the work is still his choice.

“A hard choice, but a choice,” he explains.

Morning rush is hectic for the Mondal family. He points to the wall clock and asks his wife to pack lunch quickly. “All three of us work in different factories in the area,” Mondal says. “We all have to reach work by 8 am.”

Gopal Mondal and his family in the Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

Gopal Mondal and his family in the Sundarbans. Gopal still ventures into the forests to collect wild honey. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

Shanti, Bapi’s wife, spends her days at a garment factory pressing clothes with a hot iron. She works eight-hour shifts with just one weekly break, earning ₹15,000 per month (about USD 169). Their 19-year-old son, Subhodeep, has also joined his father at the plastic factory. All three now work in Bommasandra, Bangalore’s industrial belt, pooling their wages to survive.

The migration has split their family apart.

“We have an 11-year-old daughter who lives with my in-laws in the Sundarbans,” Shanti explains. The cost of city life forced them to leave their youngest child behind. “It breaks my heart to be apart from my daughter, but we want her to have a good education and life—that’s why we sacrifice,” says Shanti. Her daughter attends school back in the village.

Her job gave her economic independence and a voice in family decisions, like building their new house. Bapi’s family, rooted in the village for centuries, were Mawalis, honey gatherers who knew the forest through knowledge passed down generations.

Still Rooted

Bapi’s father, Gopal Mondal, still ventures into the dangerous forests of Sunderbans. He risks tiger attacks and deadly cyclones to collect wild honey. But the forest that once fed families is now failing them.

Climate change has disrupted everything. Cyclones strike more often and with greater force. The natural flowering cycle has gone haywire. Fish populations in the waters have crashed.

“The honey harvest keeps shrinking and prices keep falling,” Gopal explains.

As Gopal tried to hold on to tradition, his son Bapi could no longer see a future in the same waters and forests.

“The forest no longer provides enough honey or fish,” Bapi shares. The rhythms his ancestors lived by for centuries suddenly made no sense. Faced with shrinking opportunities, Bapi tried other work back home. Besides going to the jungle for honey with his father during the season (April-May), he operated a van gaari—a battery-powered three-wheeler with a wooden platform for passengers. But even that barely paid enough to survive. “There was a time when I struggled to buy a saree for my wife,” he recalls. Migration was the only choice left.

A boat ferries passengers in Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

A boat ferries passengers in Sundarbans. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

From Forests to Factories

Apart from forced migration, climate change erodes memory, identity, and ancestral knowledge. Leaving the Sundarbans has cost the family more than a homeland.

Bapi still carries traditional skills—navigating treacherous waters by boat and collecting honey deep in the forest.

“I know how to catch shrimp and crabs from the river and sea,” he says. “My father and uncles taught me these skills when I was young.”

His wife, Shanti, nods, adding that she was an expert crab and shrimp collector back in the Sundarbans. “I think I still have it in me,” she says with quiet pride.

But the chain of knowledge is breaking. “I could not pass on that wisdom to my son,” Bapi admits with regret.

Subhodeep represents this lost generation. He finished tenth grade and left his village to join his parents in Bangalore. He has not learned the skills that defined his family for generations. “I have never entered the forest to collect honey or fish back in the village,” Subhodeep explains. “My parents were against it.”

Bon bibi temple in Pakhiralay village. Along with losing traditional livelihoods, religion and cultural life are also in jeopardy. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

Bon bibi temple in Pakhiralay village. Along with losing traditional livelihoods, religion and cultural life are also in jeopardy. Credit: Diwash Gahatraj/IPS

The irony is stark. Bapi’s parents encouraged him to learn these ancestral skills. But when environmental collapse made these traditions dangerous and unprofitable, Bapi chose to shield his son from them.

For the Mondals, the forest has become too dangerous and unreliable.

“Going to collect honey or catch fish is very unpredictable now,” Bapi explains. Catch volumes have fallen, and tiger attacks have grown. Bapi’s family knows the risk; his grandfather was killed while gathering honey in the forest.

Years earlier, a tiger also attacked Gopal Mondal. He was luckier—he escaped alive but still carries scars on his hand.

These brutal realities shaped Bapi’s decision about his son’s future. “I don’t want my next generation to have such a risky occupation,” he says. The choice is clear. Families can either cling to dangerous traditions that no longer pay enough to survive or abandon their ancestral practices for safer work in distant cities.

Are there other reasons behind the changes in the Sundarbans?

“We can’t just blame climate change and ignore human activities making things worse,” says Professor Tuhin Ghosh of Jadavpur University’s School of Oceanographic Studies. Human activity and climate change create a deadly combination.

People cleared mangroves for farms and fish ponds and built embankments that blocked tidal flows. The result is salt contamination, poisoned soil and water, vanishing species, and a broken landscape.

Uninhabitable Home

About 4.5 million people live across the Sundarbans region in Bangladesh and India. A recent survey reveals the massive scale of climate migration: nearly 59% of households have at least one family member who has moved away for work.

Some studies report 60,000 people migrated from parts of the Sundarbans by 2018. But household surveys show much higher rates because they measure affected families, not just individuals.

These local figures reflect a much bigger crisis. Across Bangladesh, weather-related disasters displaced 7.1 million people in 2022 alone, showing how climate change drives mass movement.

On the Indian side in West Bengal, researchers document large seasonal and permanent migration flows to cities and other states. Families routinely send members to work elsewhere, though official counts are scarce.

Loss Beyond Dollars

Over the past two decades, the Sundarbans has been hit by cyclones made stronger by climate change. They uprooted thousands and caused millions in losses. But beyond disaster relief and migration, a quieter crisis unfolds: the erosion of centuries-old ecological wisdom, culture, and tradition.

Gopal Mondal, in his early sixties, sits outside his modest home in Pakhiralay. When asked about protective equipment for his dangerous work collecting honey in the Sundarbans forest, he holds up a small amulet—a tabeej.

“This and my prayers to Bon Bibi are my protection,” says Mondal, who leads a team of honey collectors into the mangrove forests. “They shield us from storms and babu (tigers).”

The elderly collector recites mantras passed down through generations—teachings from his father or cousins, though he cannot recall exactly who taught him.

“The whole community worships Bon Bibi,” he explains simply

For Sundarbans communities like Mondal’s, Bon Bibi—the “Lady of the Forest”—is a guardian of the mangroves. For centuries, fishermen, honey collectors, and wood gatherers have sought her protection in tiger territory and cyclone-prone waters. Her worship is more than faith; it reflects the people’s bond with a dangerous yet life-sustaining environment, offering both comfort and identity where safety tools are scarce.

When asked about traditional knowledge slipping away from his family, Mondal’s weathered face shows a faint smile.

“Earlier, every fisherman’s family had someone —a son or grandson—who knew how to repair torn nets or mend boats,” he explains. “But in my family, things are slowly changing. My grandsons and sons live too far away, and their visits home are too short to learn these skills.”

The honey collector pauses, watching the distant mangroves. “The younger generation shows very little interest in our profession,” he adds quietly.

Climate migration expert M. Zakir Hossain Khan of Change Initiative, a Bangladesh-based think tank focused on solving critical global challenges, warns that climate-driven displacement from the Sundarbans is destroying centuries-old ways of life that depend entirely on deep knowledge of the forest and rivers.

Fishermen carry rare knowledge of tides, breeding cycles, and mangrove routes, passed down through years of practice. With youth leaving for city jobs, few inherit it. Honey gatherers know how to find hives, protect bees, and survive in tiger territory. As young people turn away, honey collection is fading from the Sundarbans.

A Vanishing Heritage

This generational shift reflects a broader transformation across the Sundarbans. Traditional skills that once defined coastal communities—net weaving, boat building, reading weather patterns, and forest navigation—are disappearing as young people migrate to cities primarily  for employment and a few for education.

“Similarly, mangrove-based handicrafts and boat-making using leaves, bamboo, and mangrove wood to make mats, roofing materials, and small boats demand both ecological understanding and artisanal skill, which are now rarely passed down,” comments Khan from Change Initiative.

He adds that herbal medicine and spiritual rituals practiced by local healers using plants like sundari bark and hental are also at risk, as migration and urbanization erode the cultural setting that sustains them.

Culture at Crossroads

Ghosh, who has spent over 30 years working in the Sundarbans, points to a troubling pattern.

“Migration is killing our folk arts,” he says. “Bonbibi stories, jatra pala theater, fishermen’s songs—they’re all disappearing. The people who used to perform during festivals are getting old. And there’s no one to replace them.”

The Sundarbans face a cultural crisis. Traditional performances that once brought villages together during religious festivals now struggle to find performers. Young people who might have learned these arts from their elders are instead leaving for cities for a better life

Once central to life in the Sundarbans, folk traditions like Jatra Pala, Bonbibi tales, and fishermen’s songs now fade with their aging performers. With few young apprentices, a rich cultural heritage risks disappearing—leaving behind a region not just economically changed, but culturally empty.

Note: This story was produced with support from Internews’ Earth Journalism Network

IPS UN Bureau Report

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