Advocacy as Resistance to Fire

Every dry season in my state, the hills begin to hold their breath. The air turns brittle, leaves turn crisp underfoot, and somewhere in the distance a thick cloud of smoke rises against the sky. Forest fires have become a seasonal tragedy here. What were once rare and accidental blazes are now, far too often, the result of deliberate arson. Earlier it was a matchstick tossed, a fire lit and abandoned, a belief that the forest is endless and will somehow forgive us. However, now it is different.

Dry winter this year has left our forests dangerously exposed. With little moisture in the soil and vegetation, even a small flame can race across slopes faster than human regret. Pines crackle, oak leaves smoulder, and entire hillsides turn black within hours. Wildlife flees or perishes. Soil life is destroyed. Springs weaken and dry earlier in the summer. The damage does not end when the flames die. It lingers for years, and even before the forest can rise out of it, once again another arson happens.

While I type this out, I can see the forest on the hill in front of my window, burning. And yet, despite witnessing this cycle again and again, I refuse to give in to despair. I choose to remain hopeful, not out of naivety, but out of resolve. Hope, for me, is an action. It is the decision to keep doing what feels right even when it seems insignificant. I believe people can learn. Slowly perhaps, painfully at times, but they can. Awareness grows one conversation at a time, and responsibility spreads when someone is willing to speak up.

Whenever I get a chance, I plant trees. Not as compensation for loss and not as a grand gesture, but as an act of faith. I try to involve villagers whenever I can and discuss about various forest trees. I try to be equally careful about the smaller things, the ones most people dismiss. I discourage bonfires lit merely for ambience. A crackling fire may feel romantic on a cold evening, but smoke is still smoke. It adds to an already stressed atmosphere and normalises burning as leisure. I often hear that one small fire makes no difference, that it is just a drop in the ocean. But oceans are made of drops, and cultures are shaped by habits no one questions.

The real challenge lies deeper. Short term profits hide long term damage in the eyes of those who indulge in these acts of arson. A patch of land cleared quickly. Fresh grass falsely promised. A temporary financial gain. What is forgotten is the cost paid by everyone else. Water scarcity. Poorer soils. Hotter summers. These fragile hills are suffering !

There was a time when restraint came naturally. Kul devtas – the family deities, and gram devatas – the village deities, were not merely symbols of faith. They were moral boundaries. Sacred groves, forests, and springs were under their protection. Fear and reverence worked together to prevent harm. Today, that fear has faded. The deities remain in stories and rituals, but their presence in daily action has weakened. The forest no longer feels sacred to those who burn it.

Since that invisible boundary has eroded, we must now build a conscious and visible one. Strong advocacy is no longer optional. It is the only way forward. Awareness must move beyond posters and one time meetings. It needs to enter everyday conversations, village gatherings, schools, and local decision making spaces. People must see the direct connection between fire and hardship. When springs dry, crops suffer, landslides increase, and summers grow harsher, the link becomes undeniable.

Just a couple of days back, I was discussing this with a close friend of mine. There seems to be just one way forward.

Empowered villagers are the true frontline. No forest department can watch every ridge and valley. But a village that feels ownership of its forest can. Community led fire watch groups, early reporting systems, and local accountability create protection where distant laws cannot. When forests belong to everyone, burning them becomes a social offence, not just a legal one.

Advocacy must also restore pride. Protecting forests should be seen as strength, not inconvenience. Reviving local stories, memories, and traditions that connect people to their landscape can rebuild emotional ties. When identity is rooted in the land, setting it on fire becomes an act of betrayal, not convenience.

Short term profit thrives in silence. It weakens under collective awareness. When harmful acts are questioned openly and consistently, they lose their power.

The forests are resilient. They have survived storms, ice ages, and millions of years of change. From the time these mountains emerged from the sea, the forests have always stood and reigned. What they struggle to survive now is human indifference and greed. Replacing that indifference and greed with knowledge, courage, and collective responsibility is our task.

As long as there are hands willing to plant, voices willing to speak, and communities willing to protect, I will continue to remain hopeful.

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