This essay, by Maisha Islam, is one of three winners of the 2024 Sustainability Writing Awards hosted by the Office of Sustainability. You can read more about Maisha here.
The summer of 2022 completely changed how I thought about environmental challenges. I found myself caught between two worlds: the bustling, chaotic cities and the quiet, serene villages of Bangladesh. Each place told a different story, but both were deeply connected to the global realities of climate change and environmental degradation.
Dhaka, the capital city, was overwhelming. The streets were alive with honking cars, clattering rickshaws, and vendors shouting over the noise. A thick haze of smog lingered in the air, evidence of unchecked emissions. Red and brown water ran through the faucet, with a metallic smell hinting at years of industrial waste. On the roadsides, piles of litter—chip bags, plastic bottles, and scraps of cloth—formed a graveyard of consumerism. Tall, gray buildings dominated the skyline, pushing out the last traces of greenery and leaving the city feeling suffocated.
In contrast, my grandmother’s village felt like a breath of fresh air—quieter, greener, and more alive. The air was crisp, filled with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves. Clay houses nestled among lush fields painted a picture of serenity. But even here, the impact of environmental degradation was visible. Ponds that had once been clear were now filled with trash. My mother often told me stories about swimming in those ponds as a child, but her memories took on a bittersweet tone as I saw firsthand how much had changed over the years.
When I returned to the United States, I noticed how conversations about the environment in low and middle-income countries often focused on blame. People pointed fingers at those who litter or criticized governments for not doing enough to enforce environmental laws. I used to think the same way, but the stories my relatives and family friends shared gave me a new perspective. For them, litter was just one part of a much larger problem. Rising food prices made basic meals challenging, especially for staples like onions, essential in Bangladeshi cooking. Many children worked instead of going to school to help support their families, while adults worked jobs for barely enough pay to survive. One relative put it bluntly: “When you’re worried about whether your children will eat, who has time to think about litter?” Her words stayed with me. They made me realize that in places where survival is a daily fight, environmental concerns often take a backseat to more immediate needs.
That summer taught me something I hadn’t considered before: environmentalism is a privilege. In countries like the United States, where economic stability provides a foundation for sustainability efforts, people can focus on recycling campaigns, renewable energy projects, and climate action plans. But in places like Bangladesh, immediate survival comes first. Climate realities aren’t just about the environment—they’re deeply intertwined with poverty, inequality, and systemic neglect. These contrasting experiences reshaped how I think about sustainability. I now see that it can’t be a one-size-fits-all solution. True sustainability requires recognizing the unique challenges and priorities of every community. It’s not just about individual actions like recycling or reducing pollution. It’s about building resilience, addressing systemic inequalities, and ensuring that environmental action is accessible to everyone.
At UW–Madison, I’ve connected with peers from all over the world, each with their own experiences of climate change. Hearing these stories helped me understand how interconnected our experiences are, yet how different the impacts can be depending on where you live. These conversations reinforced my belief that solutions to climate challenges must balance environmental priorities with the social and economic realities communities face. Sustainability isn’t about applying a blanket solution everywhere; it’s about tailoring approaches to meet the specific needs of each place and its people.
To make sustainability meaningful, we have to approach it with empathy and nuance. This means listening to communities and understanding their struggles, their cultures, and their needs. By engaging without judgment, we can foster collaboration and develop solutions that address real, pressing issues. Sustainability fails when it overlooks the social and economic factors that shape people’s lives. But when we center empathy, sustainability can become a tool for empowerment that balances environmental goals with human needs and creates pathways that are inclusive and effective.
As I reflect on my journey, I return to the lessons I learned from my family. My mother’s stories of swimming in clear ponds and my relative’s words about survival remind me that while the impacts of climate change affect everyone, the paths toward sustainability are deeply personal and community-driven. Working toward a more sustainable future means embracing the complexity of each community’s reality.
This perspective has deeply influenced both my academic and personal growth. I am preparing to study abroad, where I hope to explore how environmental issues intersect with urgent survival challenges faced by different communities. This experience will help me better understand how to address immediate needs while also tackling the deeper, systemic causes of environmental crises. By incorporating environmental action into broader efforts to build resilience and promote accessibility, we can create a future that addresses both the pressing needs of today and the challenges of tomorrow. Only then can sustainability truly become accessible to all.