Deusdedit Ruhangariyo
ICT
Around the world: Burkina Faso women revive soils with fertilizer trees, Ecuadorian Indigenous groups condemn $47B Amazon oil expansion, B.C. First Nation boosts Beaver language with cards and Indigenous fire management honored at National Landcare Awards in Australia.
BURKINA FASO: Women farmers revive soils with fertilizer trees
Under the fierce July sun in Burkina Faso’s Centre-Ouest, a septuagenarian farmer everyone calls Maan — “grandmother” in Nuni — works a two-hectare plot near Cassou with her 8-year-old grandson, Mongabay reported on Sept. 25.
The layout looks unusual: rows of young and mature trees intentionally spaced among millet, cowpea, and other staples. Its agroforestry polyculture with “fertilizer trees,” a practice the Association for the Promotion of Fertilizer Trees, Agroforestry and Forestry (APAF) has revived using hardy, nitrogen-fixing species.
As the association’s deputy executive director Firmin Hien puts it, “We haven’t invented anything — it’s nothing new to plant trees in fields to enrich the soil,” adding, “Our parents used to do it too, but people abandoned the practice with the arrival of chemical fertilizers.”
For years, Maan Alima Tagnan relied on purchased inputs as her land tired, but price shocks pushed her to reconsider. “At my age, where will I get the money to buy such expensive fertilizer?” she asks, according to Mongabay.
With APAF’s trainings, she and other women learned practical methods tested in Cassou and nearby Bazoulé: planting trees 10 meters apart and 5 meters from crops, watering regularly, weeding, and pruning tops once saplings reach 1-1.5 meters. Over time, they say, dozens of hectares degraded by poor practices have begun to recover, and bees and birds — long absent — have returned.
Scientists say the approach has a clear agronomic logic. Cheick Zouré of Joseph Ki-Zerbo University notes research indicating fertilizer trees can boost soil quality by 30–60 percent via nitrogen, potassium, and phosphorus inputs. Among the species Maan has planted—Albizia stipulata, Ferruginea, and white acacia (Faidherbia albida) — the last is especially prized. As Zouré explains, “It’s an off-season tree that sheds its leaves during the rainy season and provides shade in the dry season, making it essential for maintaining soil fertility in agroforestry systems.” The leaf-drop timing lets crops access light and moisture when they need it most, while deeper roots recycle nutrients from lower horizons.
Adoption is spreading through women’s groups. In Cassou, Les Marolaines president Adjara Diasso recalls considering a different livelihood when her soils failed; now her intercropped millet, cowpea, and sorghum thrive. “Today, everything is going wonderfully, as you can see,” she says, according to Mongabay.
Yet climate variability complicates tree establishment. “Right now, with rainfall no longer sufficient, it’s complicated,” Diasso says, according to Mongabay. “After the rainy season, trees that haven’t developed strong roots die if they aren’t watered — and we don’t have large-diameter boreholes to do the job.” Water access — especially for dry-season care — remains the limiting factor.
A second constraint is tenure. Edwige Ouédraogo, who leads a women’s cooperative in Bazoulé, says many women cultivate land they don’t legally own, making long-term tree investment risky. “As women, we don’t own land. We negotiate with the men so they give us a small portion to cultivate each year. But since it doesn’t belong to us, we can’t plant trees there. For now, we make do with our gardens,” she says, according to Mongabay. Without predictable rights, expanding the method beyond kitchen plots is difficult.
Still, momentum is real. In a country losing an estimated 469,090 hectares of productive land annually, APAF reports steady increases in on-farm tree numbers where training has occurred. The approach is also spreading beyond Burkina Faso, with APAF supporting programs in Senegal and Togo. For Maan and her peers, the payoff is practical and personal: lower dependence on costly chemicals, soils that hold life and moisture longer, and fields that — slowly, visibly — begin to breathe again.
ECUADOR: Indigenous groups condemn $47B Amazon oil expansion
Seven Indigenous nationalities in Ecuador’s Amazon have publicly condemned a sweeping government plan to auction dozens of oil and gas blocks, arguing it imperils ancestral territories and breaches constitutional safeguards, the Associated Press reported on Sep. 24.
Announced in August by the Ministry of Energy and Mines, the “hydrocarbon roadmap” aims to modernize the sector and attract investment through contract renegotiations and new licensing rounds — 49 projects whose value exceeds $47 billion, according to officials. Indigenous organizations counter that 18 of those proposed blocks overlap their lands — an area roughly the size of Belgium — and say they were not properly consulted despite court rulings striking down earlier procedures.
“The government is pushing ahead with plans to auction 18 oil blocks in our ancestral territories without free, prior and informed consent. That is a constitutional and international right the state is violating,” said Nemo Guiquita, a Waorani leader with the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of the Ecuadorian Amazon, according to AP.
He added that past mobilizations forced companies to back away, but authorities are reviving expansion: “There have been protests, lawsuits and companies forced to withdraw in the past, but now they are once again offering up Amazon oil fields,” Guiquita said, according to AP. “We are resisting, and we call on the international community to oppose this expansion and help protect the Amazon and our rights.”
The Noboa administration argues its plan follows existing regulations and has pointed to a 2012 consultation as still valid. It has also advanced parallel reforms that environmental and Indigenous leaders see as rollbacks: moving to eliminate Ecuador’s independent Environment Ministry and supporting a law allowing private and foreign co-management of conservation areas. Critics say both steps erode protections and heighten risk for communities already contending with drilling, roads, and deforestation.
On the ground, resistance is intensifying.
“The Amazon is not for sale. We will defend our territories because we have not been consulted — this is our home,” said Nadino Calapucha, a Kichwa leader, according to AP.
The dispute is unfolding amid a state of emergency and a national strike over fuel prices, extractive projects, and the government’s failure to honor the 2023 Yasuní referendum. “Ecuador already showed its will in the Yasuní referendum, when 59% voted to keep oil in the ground. Yet the government insists on imposing extraction, violating our rights,” Calapucha told the AP.
Oil remains Ecuador’s top export and has historically supplied up to a third of government revenue, yet output — around 480,000 barrels per day — has trended downward over the past decade. Successive administrations have tried to counter the decline by courting foreign capital in the Amazon and sub-Andean regions.
In April 2025, international firms submitted bids for four oil blocks, and the government signaled additional auctions in late 2025 and 2026. Opponents insist new rounds will collide with legal challenges and local organizing.
“Ecuador’s plans to auction new oil blocks in the Amazon are doomed to fail,” Kevin Koenig, Amazon Watch’s director for climate, energy and extraction industry told AP. “Indigenous resistance, civil society mobilization, and growing international pressure will continue to expose these projects as illegitimate, unlawful, and unfinanceable.”
For the Andwa, Shuar, Achuar, Kichwa, Sapara, Shiwiar, and Waorani peoples, the core demand is straightforward: suspend the auctions, respect court rulings, and undertake genuine, good-faith consultation before any decisions that could irreversibly alter their forests and lives.
CANADA: B.C. First Nation boosts Beaver language with cards
Cheyenne Kaiser-Conant isn’t fluent in the Beaver language yet, but every hand of cards brings her closer, CBC News reported on Sept. 27.
“I’m working towards it. I grew up with my grandma speaking the language with us, so I can understand some things, mostly like, ‘hey, go turn off that light,’ or, ‘how cold is it?’ or ‘how much is it?’ — and things like that,” according to CBC.
A member of the Prophet River First Nation in northern British Columbia and a student of Indigenous governance at Yukon University, she says formal resources are scarce. The bigger hurdle, though, is everyday practice. “One of the challenges is just being able to practice it more, with more people,” she told CBC News. “Being able to use words that you can practice every day … I think is the most important part to get people speaking.”
That need for daily, low-friction use sparked a simple idea with outsized momentum: a deck of playing cards that turns ordinary games into language sessions. Kaiser-Conant teamed up with Ben Barrett-Forrest, a Victoria-based designer from the Yukon known for illustrated card decks.
“She knew I made these decks of playing cards. And so she had the brilliant idea to, ‘wait a second, let’s get Ben in here and see if we can make a really engaging resource using this amazing language and this really keen community,’” Barrett-Forrest recalled, according to CBC News. “So then we started working on it.”
The project drew in classmates from language and art courses to contribute photos, paintings, beadwork, and other original art. The group landed on a nature theme, then curated a starter vocabulary that learners would actually use. “So then it was just this big brainstorming session where all of the students were throwing out words that they would love to have translated,” Barrett-Forrest told CBC News.
“And then we kind of edited those down.” The final 52-card deck pairs Beaver-language words with pronunciation guides, English meanings, and an illustration—Kaiser-Conant even added her beadwork for the card meaning “bee.”
The cards didn’t launch alone. To help families, teachers, and youth programs build repetition into play, the team produced a companion coloring book and a bingo game. Across the set, there are 190 words and translations, designed to cycle naturally through regular use. The response was immediate: “They all disappeared immediately,” Barrett-Forrest said of the first run, according to CBC News. Community bingo nights using the new materials drew enthusiastic crowds. “I think that was very heartwarming for the elders in the community to see the old Beaver language being used so enthusiastically by these kids.”
With proof of demand, the team is already sketching thematic expansions — household items, family terms, and more — to broaden daily contexts and reinforce recall through repetition. “I think there’s just so much potential to continue releasing these resources,” Barrett-Forrest said, according to CBC News. “I think we’ve got a lot of momentum now and it feels like there’s some really exciting potential here.”
For Kaiser-Conant, the cards are less a product than a practice: a way to normalize Beaver in kitchens, classrooms, and community halls. By turning conversation-ready words into games, learners can stack small wins — hand after hand, night after night — until the language that once lived mostly in elders’ memories finds fluent footing with a new generation.
AUSTRALIA: Indigenous fire management honored at National Landcare Awards
The Dampier Peninsula Fire Working Group has been recognized with the 2025 First Nations Landcare Collaboration Award at the National Landcare Awards, held at the Gold Coast Convention and Exhibition Centre, National Indigenous Times reported.
The Western Australia–based collective brings together Indigenous rangers and partner organizations to restore landscape health through cultural fire, blending traditional knowledge with ecological science to curb large wildfires and protect cultural, ecological, and economic values across the peninsula.
For rangers on Country, the national spotlight validates a decade of steady collaboration. Nyul Nyul ranger Preston Cox called the award a milestone for an initiative that grew from local resolve to change how fire is managed.
“Extremely proud this Indigenous-led group has been recognized nationally,” he said, according to National Indigenous Times. “It’s a really big deal for us, when we started over 10 years ago, we thought enough is enough of seeing our land burn – and here’s the proof of what can be achieved.” The program’s emphasis on Indigenous leadership, knowledge-sharing, and regional coordination has underpinned practical outcomes—more strategic, seasonal burning and partnerships that hold through intense dry seasons.
Bardi Jawi ranger Phillip McCarthy said the recognition underscores the strength of working together across language groups and agencies. “It feels really good, was amazing to come all this way, it’s our first time over here to the Gold Coast,” he said, according to National Indigenous Times. “Over the years we’ve worked collaboratively, and it really matters and it’s great to get this recognition.” For the group, awards matter less as a finish line than as leverage to keep expanding on-Country training, equipment, and cross-cultural planning that prevent damaging late-season fires and support biodiversity.
From the partner side, Paul Buckland of Rangelands NRM described the long-running partnership as both practical and inspiring. “It’s really exciting to work with these land managers, building this collaboration across the peninsula – it’s been an incredible journey,” he said, according to National Indigenous Times. The collaboration model—ranger groups coordinating with land managers, scientists, and regional bodies—has become a reference point for other remote regions looking to align cultural practice with contemporary landcare frameworks.
Hosted by ABC Gardening Australia presenter Costa Georgiadis, this year’s ceremony recognized 11 national winners. Alongside the Dampier Peninsula Fire Working Group, recipients included Holbrook Landcare Network (NSW), which received the Bob Hawke Landcare Award; Dr Susan Orgill (ACT) for the General Jeffery Soil Health Award; and Bryce Watts-Parker (VIC) for the NextGen Landcare Award.
Queensland honorees included Grant and Carly Burnham for the Climate Innovation Award and Leather Cattle Co for the Sustainable Agriculture Award. Other awardees were Vivienne Briggs (TAS), Merri Creek Management Committee (VIC), Kingston Beach Coastcare (TAS), Nell Chaffey (NSW), and Tavish Bloom (VIC).
The National Landcare Awards spotlight individuals, groups, and organizations building a more sustainable future through on-ground action and community leadership. For the Dampier Peninsula Fire Working Group, the national recognition affirms a simple thesis: cultural fire, carried by Indigenous rangers and allied partners, is not only about reducing risk — it’s about caring for country in ways that sustain culture, livelihoods, and biodiversity for the long term.
My final thoughts
My final thoughts for the month of September have raced across four continents, where a quiet counter-narrative is taking root — one that treats culture not as ornament but as infrastructure.
In Burkina Faso, Ecuador, Canada, and Australia, communities are showing that the most durable technologies for a livable future are sometimes the oldest: trees that feed the soil, languages that bind memory to daily life, fire used as medicine rather than threat, consent as the first clause of development.
In Burkina Faso’s Centre-Ouest, Maan Alima Tagnan bends over a two-hectare plot laced with “fertilizer trees.” The rows are unassuming, the results not. Nitrogen-fixers lift nutrients, soften hardpan, woo back bees and birds. As APAF’s Firmin Hien says, “We haven’t invented anything — it’s nothing new to plant trees in fields to enrich the soil.” The modern twist is restraint: replace dependency on costly inputs with a choreography of spacing, pruning, and patience. In an age that prizes the instantaneous, this is a politics of seasons — a public policy of roots.
Far downriver on the hemisphere’s other flank, seven Indigenous nations in Ecuador are fighting a $47-billion auction of oil and gas blocks that overlap territories “roughly the size of Belgium.” Their case is not nostalgia; it is constitutional. “The government is pushing ahead…without free, prior and informed consent,” Waorani leader Nemo Guiquita warns. “The Amazon is not for sale…this is our home,” adds Kichwa leader Nadino Calapucha. The referendum that told the world to keep Yasuní’s oil in the ground was not merely environmental symbolism. It was an assertion that prosperity cannot be balanced atop broken law and broken trust—and that extraction without consent is not development but a deficit, entered in red in both ledgers: ecological and civic.
In northern British Columbia, Cheyenne Kaiser-Conant shuffles a different deck. Each card in a community-built pack carries a Beaver-language word, a pronunciation guide, and an illustration. The game is simple; the wager is profound. “Being able to use words that you can practice every day…is the most important part to get people speaking,” she says. When a language returns to the kitchen table, governance follows: children learn how obligations travel through kinship, how knowledge is carried, who has authority to light the ceremonial fire or to refuse an industrial one.
And on Western Australia’s Dampier Peninsula, Indigenous rangers accept a national award not for a miracle but for meticulousness. Cultural burning, planned with ecological science, turns catastrophic wildfires into cool, early-season mosaics; habitat survives; seedbanks persist; smoke becomes a signal of stewardship. “Enough is enough of seeing our land burn – and here’s the proof of what can be achieved,” says Nyul Nyul ranger Preston Cox. Fire, like law and language and water, is a tool whose outcome depends on who holds it and why.
What unites these scenes is not romance about the past but rigor about the future. Agroforestry is data-rich agronomy. Free, prior, and informed consent is jurisprudence. Language revitalization is systems engineering for identity. Cultural fire is climate adaptation with peer-reviewed outcomes. Together they argue for a development test that is both ancient and exacting: Do our projects deepen capacity where they land — soil that feeds itself, laws that consent to themselves, tongues that teach themselves, landscapes that heal themselves?
We live amid declarations that salvation will arrive through unprecedented speed. The stories from Cassou, the Amazon, Prophet River, and the Dampier Peninsula suggest the opposite: endurance comes from precedent — practices already proven, scaled with care, governed by consent. If we are wise, we will stop treating these communities as case studies to be admired from afar and start treating them as engineers of the common good. The blueprint is on the table. Our task is to follow it, and to fund it, before the margin of error burns, dries, or drills away.