This Earth Day, Remember Palestine by Diana Alghoul

Climate change is no longer something we can ignore. It’s not a distant threat or a debate for future generations. It’s here, and for many in the Muslim world and beyond, it’s already tearing through homes, crops, and entire ways of life. 

At Muslim Aid, we’ve seen it first-hand. We've responded to floods that swallowed entire villages in Bangladesh and Pakistan. We’ve sent emergency aid after earthquakes in Myanmar, Afghanistan and Morocco. We’ve helped communities facing the harsh reality of drought in Somalia where 4.4 million people – nearly a quarter of the population – could face “crisis” levels of food insecurity, because of the catastrophe at hand. 

We supported those who were made internally displaced because of the effects of climate change and rebuilt their homes. However, simply rebuilding is not enough. Climate change is already reshaping where people can safely live, and the numbers are staggering. The United Nations estimates that by 2050, more than 216 million people, three times the size of the UK population, could be forced to migrate within their own countries due to rising seas, droughts, and other climate-related pressures. 

But responding to disasters isn’t enough. 

We build with foresight. When the 2023 Turkiye-Syria earthquake struck, not a single home we had built in Syria was destroyed. That’s because they were designed with resilience in mind—strong foundations, local materials, and structural integrity that could withstand the unexpected. This approach isn’t just sustainable—it’s lifesaving. And it’s a model we apply across every country we work in. 

As Muslims, this work begins with faith. The Qur’an reminds us that the Earth is a trust: “And do not commit abuse on the Earth, spreading corruption” (Qur’an 2:60). Be it corruption of the tongue, hand, or overuse of fossil fuels. 

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) told us not to waste water, even when standing by a river. These teachings aren't metaphors. They are commands. Blueprints for how to live in harmony with the world around us. 

I spoke about this last October at our Championing Muslim Communities in the Climate Conversation event ahead of COP29. I spoke as a Palestinian, and for many of us, this issue is not theoretical. Climate injustice is written into our histories, into our landscapes, into our songs. 

Take Ya Zareef Al Tool, one of our oldest folk songs. I remember my grandmother singing it to me as a child, not knowing then what it meant. 

“O handsome man, stop as I speak to you. You’re going to foreign lands, but your own is better for you.” 

It’s the voice of the land itself, calling out to a refugee. It became clear to me, later, that this song was sung to represent the cultural connection to land in the face of displacement. 

This deep cultural personification of the land is coupled with knowing how Palestinians, known as natural workers of the earth, are known for their falahi (peasant) culture. The falahin of Palestine have tilled their soil, harvested olives by hand, and turned toxic local plants such as louf into food. This way of life is not just agricultural; it is spiritual and reflects a worldview where land is not owned, but an extension of the self, where olive trees are part of the family treasure, and water is gathered with reverence and viewed as a blessing. 

That’s why the devastation we see in Gaza is not just one of the world’s worst humanitarian crises we’ve seen in modern history, it’s an attack on the very philosophy that shapes the Palestinian identity; my identity and my ancient, yet still somehow social media trendy, culture. 

The destruction doesn’t end with the blast. Over 1.8 million people—more than half of them children—urgently need clean water, sanitation, and hygiene. Without it, they may die not from airstrikes, but from thirst. From cholera. From infections. From the slow violence that lingers after the bombs fall silent. 

And the crisis runs even deeper. The bombardment of Gaza has not only destroyed infrastructure, but poisoned the ground itself. More than 40 million tonnes of rubble now cover the territory, according to the UN Environment Programme. Rubble laced with asbestos, toxic chemicals, heavy metals, and human remains. Contaminated aquifers and chemically altered soil may render vast areas of Gaza unsafe for agriculture or habitation for years to come.  

This isn’t just temporary displacement; it is the calculated denial of a people’s right to live, grow food, and access clean water on their own land. This last 18 months of consistent and indiscriminate bombardment has poisoned the soil, leaving agricultural land and water resources not just unsuitable, but dangerous for the civilians of the enclave. We must remember that this is not the aftermath of a natural disaster, but a form of deliberate violence that can only be defined as ecocide; unfolding not in days, but across generations in the same way we still watch the effects of ecocide in Quang Tri in Vietnam and Halabja in Iraq. Destruction of this scale is proof of how the environment can be used as a weapon of war, and we are watching this happen in one of the most densely populated areas in the world. 

This reality is not limited to Gaza but can be seen across Palestine, where environmental degradation runs deeper than the debris. Fertile land has been seized or cut off by settlements. Water sources are over-extracted and diverted, leaving Palestinian communities struggling for access. Even the soil itself is being exhausted, bulldozed, poisoned, and stripped of life. What is unfolding is not only a humanitarian crisis, but the slow erasure of a people’s relationship with the land they have cultivated for generations. This is why we must shift the way we talk about the environment. 

It’s not just about trees or recycling or plastic straws. It’s about survival. About justice. About the right to live with dignity on land that nourishes rather than harms.It’s about working with the ancient cultures that have tended the land far before climate change metrics even existed and protecting the people who hold those traditions dear to them. 

This isn’t just happening in Palestine. Across the Global South, Indigenous communities are facing the same violence—land stolen, water polluted, ecosystems sacrificed to meet short-term political and economic aims. In Brazil, where COP30 climate conference will be held, Indigenous peoples protect over 20% of the Amazon rainforest, yet face rising threats from deforestation, mining, and state neglect. They are the ones protecting some of the world’s most vital ecosystems. Ecosystems we all rely on. From the olive groves of Palestine to the forests of the Amazon, frontline communities are being punished not for destroying the Earth, but for protecting it in the spirit of our own Islamic tradition of Stewardship of the Earth. 

As our Creator reminds us:  

"And [mention, O Muhammad], when your Lord said to the angels, 'Indeed, I will make upon the earth a successive authority (Khalifa).' They said, 'Will You place upon it one who causes corruption therein and sheds blood, while we declare Your praise and sanctify You?' Allah said, 'Indeed, I know that which you do not know.'" -  Surah Al-Baqarah (2:30) 

Our responsibility is undeniable. 

As the world prepares for COP30, the urgency is clear: we must centre those who have lived in balance with the land for generations, not only as victims, but as leaders in shaping the planet’s future. Climate justice cannot exist without land justice, and it cannot be decided in rooms that exclude those most affected: the global majority. 

This Earth Day, from Palestine to Congo, from the Brazilian Amazon to the Himalayas of Kashmir, let’s remember: the environment is not separate from the humanitarian issues we fight for every day. It is at the very centre of them.