The lives of Bajo female fishers amidst the climate crisis

The sea is the lifeblood of Musna Labaso. For over two decades, this 40-year-old woman has relied on catches from the waters of Gorontalo.

Since 2003, residents of Bajo Village, Tilamuta District, Boalemo Regency, have been accustomed to spending days at sea, often venturing far to islands distant from their settlements. Unfortunately, the situation has changed in recent months. Rising waves and unpredictable weather have forced Musna to restrain herself; she can no longer sail freely into the open sea and only dares to operate in shallow waters.

Last March was the last time she reached her distant fishing grounds. Disaster struck when the small boat that served as her livelihood was destroyed by large waves. Nevertheless, Musna has not stopped. She continues to fish by hitching rides on other fishermen’s boats, equipped with simple gear such as nylon ropes, lead weights, and worm bait.

“If the weather is bad, we cannot go far. I no longer have my own boat because it was destroyed by waves. So, if I want to go fishing, I have to join someone else’s boat,” she said.

Musna’s catch has plummeted sharply. Where she previously brought home 10 kilograms of fish a day, or up to 20 kilograms if fishing for two days in the open sea, her average catch has now shrunk to about four kilograms. Species such as goropa, katambak, and oci are becoming increasingly difficult to catch.

“We used to get a lot. Now the results are very small; fish are becoming harder to find,” Musna lamented.

The decline in marine catches directly correlates with her income. Ironically, market price uncertainty exacerbates the situation. When weather is poor and fish supplies are scarce, selling prices on land often plummet due to the declining purchasing power of a community affected by long droughts. When fish prices soar, residents choose to switch to other food staples.

This condition traps Musna in two uncertainties: the threat of danger at sea and price instability in the market. For this woman living alone, there is no other employment option besides relying on the sea.

“If I do not go fishing, I have no other job. I seek my daily necessities from this sea,” she revealed.

Hoping for a boat again

Without her own boat, Musna’s range of movement is limited. Her hope now rests on government assistance so that she can return to sailing independently to sustain her life.

“I hope I can have a boat again so that I can go fishing without always having to hitch a ride,” Musna said.

A similar fate befalls Rusmi Copa (53), a fellow female fisher and single mother from Bajo Village. Rusmi no longer has a boat because her canoe was destroyed. Now, she relies on her brother’s boat.

“If I do not go with my brother, I cannot go fishing,” said Rusmi.

Hitching a ride on someone else’s boat means the catch of bobara or oci fish must be shared. The burden increases when faced with operational fuel costs, which reach 5 to 10 litres per trip. When high waves strike, the diesel purchased often goes to waste without bringing in any results. Furthermore, bad weather frequently forces them to be absent from fishing for months.

“We have spent the capital for fuel, but sometimes we only get a few fish,” she complained.

When catches are abundant, Rusmi delivers them to collectors. If the catch is small, she takes it to the auction site. However, when there is no money to bring home, Rusmi relies on small, leftover fish that are dried into salted fish. This simple processing serves as a lifeline to ensure the family’s food supply is maintained on land.

Eroded purchasing power

For Musna and Rusmi, the changes they face do not only originate from the sea. In the waters, extreme weather determines whether they can work. However, the problem does not end when they return to land.

Musna noted that long droughts are eroding the purchasing power of land-based communities. As a result, the fish they bring home cannot always be sold at a fair price.

“Sometimes it is hard to get fish. Even if we do, the price is not necessarily good,” said Musna.

Fishers are squeezed from two directions. Sea conditions determine the accessibility of the catch, while the land economy determines the selling value.

For female fishers like Musna and Rusmi, the loss of income does not immediately stop life’s necessities. Rusmi and Musna must find ways to keep their kitchens running when high waves prohibit them from fishing. Small fish that cannot be sold are dried into salted fish to maintain family food security.

“If we cannot go fishing, we have to think about what to eat. That is why we save and dry those small fish so that there is food,” said Rusmi.

This is where the climate crisis demonstrates its multi-layered impact. Days without fishing are not merely a loss of potential income, but a direct threat to food availability on the dinner table.

The impact of the climate crisis, often discussed in global forums, is tangibly present in their daily lives: the sea determines income, the land determines the exchange value of the catch, and at home, they must keep life moving amidst total uncertainty.

Between the turbulent sea and the affected land, Musna and Rusmi continue to endure. Because when job opportunities on land are almost non-existent, the increasingly fierce sea remains their only mainstay.