This December, I returned to El chbabya الشبابية, the village where my family’s roots run deep. For generations, this quiet corner of Djerba represented balance and harmony, a place where nature, culture, and community coexisted seamlessly. I had always imagined it as a sanctuary of timeless beauty, where the white domes of traditional menzels blended with the soft greens of olive and palm trees. These menzels, more than just homes, were ecosystems that sustained their inhabitants while respecting the fragile land they were built upon.
But the Djerba I encountered this time felt different, as if it was bracing itself against an onslaught. December, which once brought a sense of quiet, was unusually busy. Roads were bustling, and the landscape seemed scarred by unchecked construction. The menzels I had grown up hearing about, with their self-sufficient design and harmonious relationship with nature, were disappearing. Their land had been parceled into smaller plots, hosting oversized villas that bore no respect for the island’s architectural identity or environmental limits. It wasn’t just the visual discord of these villas with their shimmering pools and neatly trimmed lawns—it was the overwhelming realization of what they represented: a way of life that Djerba cannot sustain.
Water, once carefully managed through traditional systems, is now consumed in astronomical quantities. The aquifers that the island depends on are drying up, polluted by poorly managed wastewater and over-extraction. Swimming pools, lawns, and gardens designed for modern luxury have no place in an ecosystem already stretched thin. And yet, these villas continue to rise, each one a symbol of disregard for the island’s finite resources. The garbage they produce, coupled with the growing consumerism fueled by hypermarkets like Jio and the newly opened malls, adds to the strain. Where families once lived off the land in self-sustaining menzels, today’s inhabitants rely on packaged goods and plastics, creating mountains of waste that overwhelm the island’s limited capacity to manage it.The environmental degradation is already stark, but the looming threat of climate change casts an even darker shadow over Djerba’s future. Rising sea levels could submerge parts of the island within decades, eroding its coastlines and displacing its people. Hotter temperatures and unpredictable weather patterns will strain water supplies further, making agriculture—already fragile—almost impossible. Saltwater intrusion into the island’s aquifers is no longer a distant possibility; it’s a reality that will only worsen as the seas rise. I can’t help but imagine a future where the olive trees that once defined this landscape wither away, the aquifers are poisoned, and the island is left barren, its beauty and culture reduced to memories.
Djerba is not alone in its struggles. I think of Boracay in the Philippines, where unregulated development and untreated waste led to environmental collapse so severe that the government shut the island for six months to clean up. Even today, the scars of its overdevelopment remain. In Bali, unregulated tourism has drained water sources and created mountains of plastic waste, tarnishing its reputation as a tropical paradise. Santorini, with its iconic whitewashed buildings, grapples with overcrowding, water shortages, and the loss of its traditional character. Djerba, too, risks becoming another cautionary tale, where the land that once drew people from around the world is consumed by the very forces it failed to control.
It’s hard to shake the feeling that it might already be too late to save Djerba. What remains now is mitigation, a desperate effort to slow the decline and preserve what little is left. Water management must be prioritized, with strict limits on consumption and better systems for treating wastewater. The unregulated construction of villas must stop, and zoning laws must be enforced to protect what remains of the island’s identity. Waste management systems must be overhauled, with a focus on recycling and reducing the reliance on plastics. And as a community, the people of Djerba need to return to some of the principles that sustained their ancestors: respect for the land, for its limits, and for the fragile balance that makes life here possible.Still, I can’t help but feel that these efforts, as necessary as they are, won’t be enough to fully protect the island from the ravages of climate change. Rising seas, hotter summers, and dwindling resources are a reality we cannot escape. But mitigation, however late, is better than surrendering to despair. Djerba may never be the island of my ancestors again, but perhaps it can still be a place worth fighting for.
As I stood in El chbabya الشبابيةthis December, I couldn’t help but think about the generations who came before me, who lived on this land and understood its rhythms. Their lives were shaped by the island, as much as they shaped it. What will we leave behind for the generations to come? Will they remember Djerba as a place of beauty and culture, or as a cautionary tale of what happens when paradise is lost?El chbabya الشبابية, the place where my family’s story began, deserves better. Djerba deserves better. But it will only get better if we act now, with urgency, commitment, and respect for the land that has sustained us for so long. The time to act is not tomorrow or next year. It’s now—before Djerba becomes nothing more than a memory.
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