Plantar árvores de mangue na costa do Vietnã está ajudando a proteger contra o aquecimento global - e também está plantando as sementes do empoderamento feminino.

Tran Thi Phuong Tien lembra quando as enchentes vieram. Sentado em seu café na cidade de Hue, onde ela torra seus próprios grãos de café e serve carne escaldante que atrai clientes do outro lado do Rio Perfume, ela se lembra de como a tempestade tropical Eve atingiu a costa em outubro de 1999, batendo na região com mais do que sua média mensal de chuva em apenas alguns dias. A forte chuva, que pousou principalmente rio acima, conspirou com a maré para causar o maior desastre natural para a área no século XX. O mar transbordou agressivamente pelo estreito, ruas despreparadas das comunas e as casas térreas de Hue. A água insensível subiu assustadoramente rápido.

A inundação continuou por quatro dias. Tran e sua família fugiram para a casa de sua mãe. Em um ponto, seu marido pegou um barco de volta para sua casa, mergulhar na água para entrar e sobreviver com um estoque de bebidas energéticas que sobraram do antigo emprego de Tran nos poucos dias que ele passou lá. Funcionários do governo jogavam bolas de arroz cozido pelas janelas das casas do outro lado do rio, mas, do lado dela, a inundação foi muito extrema para até mesmo esforços de resgate escassos como aquele. A maior parte de seus móveis foi destruída. Depois que as águas baixaram, ela viu cadáveres em todos os lugares:cães, gatos, búfalo, humanos. A lama deixada nas paredes se recusou a ceder aos seus esforços de limpeza. Ela ouviu falar de uma família - uma avó, um avô e seus dois netos - que sabiam que iriam morrer e se amarraram para que seus corpos não fossem levados embora.

Estima-se que 600 pessoas morreram nesses poucos dias, e os danos totalizaram cerca de US $ 300 milhões. Saiu da província de Thua Thien Hue, e outros na região centro-norte do Vietnã, com medo da próxima vez que o mar viria reivindicar a terra como sua.

Águas gananciosas freqüentemente mantêm a província em suas garras. Em novembro de 2017, inundações do tufão Damrey afetaram mais de 160, 000 famílias na província, matando nove pessoas, e causando cerca de US $ 36 milhões em danos. Mas é a enchente de 1999 que assombra. Debaixo de sua franja fina, Tran olha para o lago sujo do outro lado da rua de seu café como se se preparando para o que pode vir a ser.

O desastre de 1999 é o que as pessoas em Thua Thien Hue falam quando você pergunta sobre as mudanças climáticas, tão reflexivamente quanto um soluço, como se fosse um exemplo de livro. A conexão não é precisa, explica Pham Thi Dieu My, diretor do Centro de Pesquisa e Desenvolvimento Social, uma organização sem fins lucrativos baseada em Hue. O cíclico, se severo, tempestade teve a sorte diabólica de reunir fortes chuvas, maré alta, e falta de preparação. Mas para Pham, que tem educado a comunidade sobre as mudanças climáticas, a memória foi crucial para despertar os residentes - as mulheres em particular - para a realidade de seu futuro.

O Ministério de Recursos Naturais e Meio Ambiente do Vietnã prevê que, se as emissões permanecerem altas, a temperatura média em Thua Thien Hue aumentará até 3,7 graus Celsius até o final do século 21. A precipitação anual aumentará em 2–10 por cento. O nível do mar subirá até 94 cm. O aumento do nível do mar, combinado com o aumento das chuvas, inundará as planícies baixas onde fica a província. Ao mesmo tempo, a água da qual dependem algumas plantações pode se tornar fatalmente salgada quando as secas da estação seca não trazem chuva suficiente para equilibrar a salinidade da água do oceano. A enchente de 1999, diz Pham, torna mais fácil entender o que está por vir.

Como estratégia, funciona. O exemplo do dilúvio, juntamente com outras mudanças recentes - temperaturas tão altas que os agricultores começaram a plantar arroz à noite, e pouca chuva que deixou as águas salobras demais para o arroz e muitos peixes prosperarem - provou ao povo de Thua Thien Hue que a mudança climática não estava acontecendo, estava aqui.

Então, quando Pham abordou as filiais locais da União Feminina do Vietnã, com uma ideia simples para ajudar a terra e o mar a resistir ao perigo que se aproxima, ela encontrou voluntários dispostos. Eles não precisaram de marchas ou compromissos de superpotências mundiais para catalisá-los para a ação. As mulheres de Thua Thien Hue estavam prontas para se resgatar. E ao fazer isso, eles se juntaram a um movimento global para preservar e restaurar uma das ferramentas mais cruciais e difundidas - embora negligenciada - para impedir a destruição causada pelo clima:as árvores de mangue.

Le Thi Xuan Lan está rindo de mim. Eu mereço. Estamos caminhando em direção ao seu pequeno retângulo de água, uma caneta delimitada por baixo, diques de areia cercando-o da lagoa Tam Giang ao longo da costa central do Vietnã. Lá, ela colhe camarão e caranguejo para complementar o dinheiro que ganha recolhendo o lixo em sua comuna três vezes por semana. Mas para chegar ao lago dela é preciso cruzar uma ponte - se é que você pode chamar assim. Tubos de bambu cinza unidos e reforçados por tubos estreitos, pranchas verticais estendem-se por uma entrada. Um único poste horizontal feito de bambu oferece uma grade frágil que inspira pouca confiança. A ponte se estende por apenas 30 pés ou mais, mas sou desajeitado e tenho medo de deixar cair meu caderno e gravador, então eu agarro o corrimão com as duas mãos e pego a ponte de lado. Atrás de mim, Le, quem tem 61, uiva de tanto rir e pula na ponte sem se segurar. Atrás de nós dois, o Mar da China Meridional é plano e calmo, como se planejasse continuar assim.

Mais cedo naquele dia, nossos pés afundaram no calor, Preto, costa mole por um trecho de árvores de mangue de 16 meses que ela ajudou a plantar. As árvores jovens pareciam meninos soldados, magro e esguio, suas cabeças verdes, folhas coriáceas pairando a apenas trinta centímetros acima da água. Le, vestida com um moletom rosa e calça preta - coberta da cabeça aos pés, apesar do ar fervente, como é o caso no sudeste da Ásia - abaixou-se para limpar as algas das raízes ainda tenras. Ela jogou fora uma pedra que tinha parado nas proximidades, como uma mãe limpando comida do rosto de uma criança. Manter as pequenas árvores livres de qualquer coisa que possa impedir seu crescimento é vital para seu sucesso. E seu sucesso, ela sabe, é vital para sua sobrevivência. Em alguns anos, os manguezais estarão lá para evitar que as enchentes engulam toda a sua aldeia. Ou então ela espera.

Os manguezais são uma prova do milagre das árvores. Dos 60, Cerca de mil espécies de árvores na Terra, apenas os manguezais toleram água salgada. Eles prosperam onde a água doce se mistura com o oceano, um pouco além das costas de mais de 90 países no Sudeste Asiático, América do Sul, América do Norte, África, o Oriente Médio, Caribe e Pacífico. Seus espessos emaranhados de raízes pegajosas capturam sedimentos do rio, reduzindo assim a erosão da praia e evitando que os poluentes fluam para o oceano. Uma faixa de manguezais de 100 metros de largura pode reduzir a altura de uma onda em até dois terços. Eles sequestram carbono três a cinco vezes mais poderosamente do que a floresta tropical de terras altas.

Os manguezais costumam ser chamados de "viveiros do mar" - seus aglomerados são criadouros de peixes e crustáceos. Embora seja difícil obter estimativas exatas, é provável que centenas a milhares de espécies de peixes passem seu ciclo de vida em torno dos manguezais. Os pesquisadores estimam que 80 por cento da população global de peixes depende de ecossistemas de mangue saudáveis, e, por sua vez, 120 milhões de pessoas em todo o mundo dependem deles para obter renda. As aves migratórias também vivem em manguezais.

Tudo isso torna o plantio dessas árvores um projeto ideal para um tipo de preparação para a mudança climática conhecida como adaptação baseada no ecossistema - o aproveitamento de recursos naturais para construir resiliência às mudanças climáticas. Pode ser melhor compreendido pelo que não é:cinza. Paredes do mar, reservatórios e diques construídos com materiais duros são o oposto da adaptação baseada no ecossistema (AbE). Essas estruturas são normalmente o resultado de decisões e financiamento de cima para baixo. EbA, por contraste, é ascendente e focado na conexão entre as pessoas e seu ambiente. É mais eficaz, disse Philip Bubeck, que pesquisa adaptação às mudanças climáticas na Universidade de Potsdam, na Alemanha, se os humanos diretamente entrelaçados com um determinado ecossistema são aqueles envolvidos em salvá-lo. O plantio de manguezais é um exemplo de AbE. Outros incluem reflorestamento para eliminar a insegurança alimentar no México, o estabelecimento de áreas de não pesca, e remoção de lixo em áreas urbanas na África do Sul.

As soluções baseadas na natureza para a adaptação às mudanças climáticas nem sempre são levadas em consideração. Embora EbA como um conceito formalizado tenha mais de dez anos, um relatório recente das Nações Unidas observou que apenas 1 por cento do investimento global em infraestrutura hídrica vai para essa abordagem. Bubeck diz que porque os projetos envolvidos são geralmente pequenos e locais, os governos nacionais têm pouco controle, o que pode causar tensão em países onde os funcionários do governo estão acostumados a dar as ordens. Os bons resultados podem levar anos para se revelarem, e isso geralmente é muito longo para a política.

Tudo isso está mudando lentamente. Projetos baseados na natureza estão ganhando mais atenção - e mais financiamento. Os pobres, vulnerable people who are most susceptible to the damage that climate change will bring are finally being included, consulted, and heard. In Thua Thien Hue, that means women.

Women's inequality makes them particularly vulnerable to the hazards of climate change. In Vietnam, says Pham, "women have important roles but are not fully recognised by society." Their resilience is hampered by social, cultural and political disadvantages. Because they are the primary caregivers to children, the elderly and the sick, women are not as free to seek shelter from the storm when doing so means moving to another location. They often earn money in the so-called "informal sector"—selling noodle soup or roasted pig on the sidewalks of Hue, por exemplo, or caring for a young family at home—leaving them financially insecure, especially when calamity strikes. And they tend to hold far fewer roles in the government, which means their particular needs, such as hygiene requirements, often aren't part of disaster management discussions.

Pham wanted to change that. Growing up in rural Quang Binh province, she liked the floods that arrived every year during her childhood. "I played in the water, it was fun, " ela diz, "and we had no school during the floods." But 1999 changed that. "I saw so many people dying, " says Pham, now 40. At her office at the Centre for Social Research and Development (CSRD), a merciful air conditioner hums faintly in the background. A few men and women work in near silence while Pham's four-year-old daughter tries to keep herself busy. A sizeable fish tank containing just a single plant sits on a shelf above the blonde wood table where we're sitting.

Climate change was still emerging as a national issue when Pham started working here in 2008. The following year, the team here joined researchers from the Institute for Environmental Studies and Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, both in the Netherlands, on a wide-ranging project known as ADAPTS, funded by the Dutch Foreign Ministry. In Vietnam, this focused on planting mangroves and also fruit trees for the shade and extra income they provide.

The project achieved its aims of planting trees and galvanising locals to protect their homes. It also attracted the attention of the government, which then asked CSRD to draft a province-based action plan for climate change adaptation. But Pham knew whatever they did next had to address gender inequality, an issue that was baked into CSRD's mission and also was proving essential for climate change adaptation.

Women were crucial to protecting their communities against the intensifying natural hazards and healing them afterwards, Pham and the founding director of CSRD, Thi Thu Suu Lam, wrote in 2016. "However, women are underrepresented in decision-making at all levels." And with little time to spare for learning, women couldn't do much to prepare for disasters beyond stacking their furniture.

One morning in a small, coastal village called Ngu My Thanh, populated by about 220 households, I watch as neighbours build a fish trap together. Mothers and daughters tie white netting onto long, thin dowels that stretch from the porch into the house. "We worry about it, " says Vui, one of the mothers, when I ask her about climate change. Her tone is casual and her adaptation plan is limited. "We can arrange the furniture in the house, " ela diz, "and stock food." The daughters, around ages 8 to 12, know little if anything about rising global temperatures or the threat that poses to Vietnam. "They haven't learned anything yet, " another woman says, as if she's been asked to prove Pham's point. "They're busy earning their lives, they don't have time."

Pham had global support for her conviction that any future project on climate resilience had to address gender inequality. The Sendai Framework for Disaster Risk Reduction, a 15-year, non-binding agreement put forth by the United Nations in 2015, called for more attention on the role of women in disaster risk management. Mulheres, it stated, "are critical to effectively managing disaster risk." And yet Pham also knew that in Vietnam, being critical didn't mean being treated that way. Em 2016, por exemplo, the Flood and Storm Control Committee of Thua Thien Hue included one female member but the province planned projects and policies "without meaningful consideration of [women's] capacities, needs and interests, " Pham and Thi wrote. Members of the province's Women's Union told Pham and Thi that their involvement was passive at best.

As Pham prepared for the next project, she knew this inequality had to be addressed first and foremost. And she believed that doing so would make all the difference when it came to safeguarding the future of Thua Thien Hue.

Em 2017, Pham and the Dutch team received $500, 000 for a new mangrove project, the one for which Le Thi Xuan Lan planted trees. Called ResilNam, it is funded by the Global Resilience Partnership Water Window, a collection of public and private organisations that awards money from Z Zurich Foundation, a private Swiss grant foundation supported by the Zurich Insurance Group.

Drawing on the knowledge of locals, the team identified two spots for planting mangroves. One site, Hai Duong, where Le had laughed at me, had never seen mangroves before. The other was two hours south in a rural district called Loc Vinh, where locals had once been forced to flee as American soldiers moved in to destroy a Viet Cong base. Lá, mangroves already flourished in the warm, jade-green waters where the Bu Lu River flows into Lang Co bay, where desolate beaches lure pale vacationers. The ResilNam project offered a chance to expand their reach.

Starting in March of 2018, just after flood season, locals at each site planted hundreds of trees, mostly purchased from nurseries in nearby provinces. In Loc Vinh, about 20 men and 10 women planted enough trees to cover two hectares of coastline. For each day's work they earned 250, 000 dong (about $11, or enough to buy ten loaves of bread in Hue), paid from ResilNam grant money.

Beginning in the late afternoon, after the tide receded for the day, the men dug holes 20 to 30 cm deep, two metres apart, and the women planted the trees. Healthy mangroves nearby fed their inspiration. Regard for the landscape they'd been forced out of during the war fed their motivation.

"Growing mangroves makes things more beautiful, " says Le Cuong, 55, who helped plant the mangroves and built a fence to protect the saplings. The late afternoon planting sessions filled the workers with a sense of purpose, "because we were helping to do something to protect the environment." The ResilNam team estimates that 12, 000 people will directly benefit from the new mangroves, with an additional 180, 000 people reaping some tangential reward.

But ResilNam wasn't just about planting trees; it was also about planting seeds. Pham and the research team held workshops and other events within several communes to educate women and engender confidence to voice their needs. They organised focus groups for women to discuss how severe weather shaped their lives and what they could do about it. They also established a micro-credit programme that lets households in the village encompassing one of the mangrove sites borrow funds; caring for the mangroves during that year is part of the loan agreement.

At the local branches of the Women's Union, members learned about climate change and held karaoke sessions with a song list themed entirely on the topic of flooding. Women were trained to host tours of the mangroves, which will generate income for them. The capacity-building efforts of ResilNam reached 300 women directly and, a equipe estimou, another 1, 500 by proxy.

The project worked. At the first community meetings with the ResilNam team, only men talked. Mulheres, many of whom couldn't read or write, didn't speak. "They were marginalised, " says Pham. Gradually the women spoke up. And the ones who went first encouraged others to do the same. For Pham, the change she has seen among women in Thua Thien Hue has been just as significant as the new mangroves, if not more so. "That is the biggest achievement, " she says. Communes that held men-only activities have now opened those events to women. And, says Pham, women have a stronger voice in the plans and policies set by the Flood and Storm Control Committee.

Le Cuong, who is 55, takes me, along with my translator, out in his canoe-like boat to see the mangroves he and his neighbours have planted by Lang Co bay. He stands as he rows past enormous fishing nets and ramshackle huts where fishermen can nap in the shade while their traps catch their targets. He has to keep his mouth open to hold his conical hat in place because the string holding it under his chin is too loose. He is tanned and muscular and although he is clean-shaven, he has let a few white facial hairs sprouting from a mole grow several inches long. He tattooed the words "sad for my life" on his arm when he was 20 and upset with himself for not managing to travel overseas. Agora, gliding through the bay, he is happy—happy to have done something to help the next generation, happy to have people to help, happy to expand the mangrove forest.

But it isn't all happy in the bay. Le is sad for the life of the year-old mangroves. They have failed to grow. Where trunks should be thickening, spindly sticks poke the air, a handful of leaves sprouting from their tops. They look like a long row of pencils with decorative erasers, the tropical equivalent of Charlie Brown's sparse little Christmas tree. Próximo, lush, older mangroves drop their green-bean-like fruits towards the water and extend their green-bean-like roots up towards the sky. Oysters cover the bark where the trunks meet the water and ducks wander in their shade. These old-timers are doing everything mangroves are supposed to do, but they can't show the young, new shoots the way. The ResilNam team aren't sure why the trees haven't thrived here. Le suspects they planted the saplings at the wrong time of year and too deep in the water.

It is a somewhat cautionary tale. "There are so many failures all over the world, " says Ali Raza Rizvi, who manages the ecosystem-based adaptation programme at the International Union for Conservation of Nature and works with the Global Mangrove Alliance, a hub for sharing data and developing projects centred on saving mangroves. "It's not easy." The uncertainty faced by new saplings is one of several reasons that the priority needs to be on protecting current mangrove forests, says Rizvi. About 25 percent of the global mangrove population has been lost since 1980, with between 12 and 20 million hectares remaining worldwide. Asia lost up to a third of its mangroves between the 1980s and 1990s. In South-east Asia, the trees have been uprooted mainly by aquaculture, but also by palm oil refineries, construction and rice agriculture. The degradation has slowed, but a 2015 study reported that it is currently continuing at 0.18 percent per year.

Even if the trees are replaced, restoring the ecosystem that had developed around them could take years. The trees themselves need seven to ten years to become substantial enough to slow storm surges, shrink waves, and sequester enough carbon in their roots to make a difference. Por contraste, the amount of carbon dioxide released each year from the roots of destroyed mangroves worldwide may equal the annual emissions of Myanmar. "Let's protect and conserve the mangroves that we have, " says Rizvi, "and then restore."

Hoang Cong Tin, an environmental scientist at Hue Sciences University, says that we should not view mangroves as independent ecosystems. Em vez, they are part of a bigger ecology that also includes sea grass and salt marshes. Particularly when it comes to gauging the ability of these species to sequester carbon, the coastal ecosystem must be viewed—and preserved—as a whole, says Hoang.

Ainda, mangroves at the planting sites where the trees were new to the location are thriving. They show all the promise of becoming the ecological marvels that their ancestors have proven to be.

On a hot weeknight in July, Trinh Thi Dan, 58, emerges from her evening swim in the Perfume River. She's one of many "aunties" who bathe in the river twice a day, using large plastic bottles roped around their bodies as flotation devices (many of them can't swim) and dressed in clothing rather than bathing suits. She often carries trash out of the river when she leaves. A couple of days earlier, she pulled out a dead dog. "The river is like a mom hugging you, " she says. She wants to protect it. Another auntie, Tran Thi Tuyet, 57, soon joins her on the grassy bank. "Our group is addicted to the river, " she says. Tran sometimes makes it all the way home having forgotten to remove the garbage she's stashed in her clothing while swimming.

Tran directs the Women's Union in her town and has planted mangroves as part of ResilNam. O projeto, ela diz, transformed the women of her commune. "It's totally different to how it was before the project, " says Tran. The women are more confident. They have more skills and knowledge. They are better equipped to take action before, during and after a flood. They are equal with men. "The men have to admit the contribution of women and accompany them side by side, " says Tran. She says she feels happy to be among those who've helped their environment.

As she speaks, the stillness of dusk descends over the river. Mountains, sky and water melt together into a trio of indigo. Birds circle above. Tran goes to join the few women still bobbing in the dark, placid water. She plans to swim to the other side.

Este artigo apareceu pela primeira vez no Mosaic e é republicado aqui sob uma licença Creative Commons.