~Munabe Aly
There was a time when clean air was not something we had to think about. Breathing felt natural, effortless. Dust pollution was not part of daily life, and terms like air quality, environmental degradation, or respiratory risk were rarely discussed in ordinary conversations. The karewas stood quietly in the background, stable and enduring, acting as natural guardians of the land, the air, and the communities living around them. Nature felt dependable something we could trust.
These karewas were not empty stretches of land. They were living systems. Almond trees, walnut groves, grasses, and native plants covered their surface, binding the soil and supporting birds, insects, and small wildlife. Scientifically, they functioned as ecological buffers reducing soil erosion, regulating local temperature, and preventing dust from becoming airborne. Their vegetation played a crucial role in maintaining soil fertility and sustaining agriculture in nearby areas. What looked like natural beauty was, in reality, a finely balanced ecosystem.
That balance has now been disturbed.
With the start of large-scale mining in the karewas, silence was replaced by the constant sound of heavy machinery. Bulldozers and excavators began cutting through layers of earth that had taken thousands of years to form. Each layer removed released fine particulate matter into the air dust so small that it remains suspended for long periods and travels far beyond the mining site. This is not ordinary dust; it includes PM10 and PM2.5 particles, which scientific studies link directly to asthma, chronic bronchitis, reduced lung function, and cardiovascular problems.
What was once fresh air has become increasingly difficult to breathe.
At certain times of the day, visibility drops sharply. The air turns hazy, almost fog-like, except it burns the throat instead of cooling it. Dust settles everywhere on roads, rooftops, crops, clothes, and inside homes. Shoes cleaned in the morning are coated again by afternoon. Windows cannot be kept open. This is no longer an occasional inconvenience; it has become a routine part of daily life since mining began in and around our village.
The damage is not only physical, but deeply emotional.
These karewas were once spaces where people walked, children played, and communities felt connected to the land. Today, passing through them means enduring noise, dust, and discomfort. The sense of peace that once existed has been replaced by anxiety about health and safety. A landscape that once gave life now generates stress.
Ecologically, the karewas have been pushed toward collapse. Stripped of vegetation and topsoil, they are no longer capable of supporting biodiversity or regenerating naturally. Without plant cover, erosion accelerates, groundwater recharge decreases, and the land slowly turns barren. This is not a temporary loss it is the destruction of a system that sustained generations.
Dust pollution never comes alone. It affects breathing, visibility, cleanliness, agriculture, and overall quality of life. Children, the elderly, and outdoor workers suffer the most, despite receiving little to no benefit from mining activities. The economic gains are short-term and limited, but the environmental and health costs are shared by everyone.
This change did not happen overnight, but today its consequences are impossible to ignore. Development is meant to improve human well-being, not undermine it. When natural systems like karewas are reduced to dust for short-term profit, the long-term cost is paid by the environment and by communities who had no real choice in the matter.
The question we must ask ourselves is not complicated: Can progress still be called progress when it steals clean air, clear vision, and peace of mind? Protecting nature does not mean opposing development. It means choosing development that is responsible, informed, and sustainable. Because once karewas turn into dust, science tells us one thing clearly there is no easy way back.
~Munabe Aly (22 Dec, 2025)