I come from a tiny village in the north of Spain,

a place surrounded by nature. When I was a

child, our school instilled in us the value of

water conservation, since Spain has always

been a dry country. This was also happening at

a time when there was a particular television

campaign, the memory of which is vivid in my

mind. It featured a song and a child’s voice

asking her father about where the river and

forest had gone. The song’s haunting lyrics

painted a vivid picture of a future where nature

might disappear if we didn’t protect our water

resources. That sense of loss of nature if we

didn’t care for water was etched in my mind

forever. This feeling was new for me then, but

one that has endured until today.

As a teenager, I loved going to a beautiful

water reservoir near the mountains during

the summer. It was a peaceful getaway from

the crowded beaches, where my friends and

I would swim, kayak, and hang out on the

shoreline. Years later we continued to go there

to get away from the city and our busy lives.

Even as adults, me and my friends still visited

this place of peace that was also a symbol of

summer days. 

Years f lew by and I moved from my hometown

to Amsterdam. On one particularly hot

afternoon,  when I had gone back for a brief

summer visit, I suggested to my childhood

friend, Anna, that we went to our beloved

reservoir, just the two of us. The day was

perfect for a swim, it was over thirty-f ive

degrees and, since it was August, we knew

that the reservoir would be a more secluded

option than the crowded beaches. When I

asked her she hesitated brief ly, and told me

that she had heard on television that the water

level had dramatically dropped. We decided to

go anyway and see the situation for ourselves,

as it couldn’t be that bad. I expected it to look

different, but was not ready for what I saw.

The water was much, much lower. The parts

where we used to swim in rich, clean water

were empty, and the plants that used to be

underwater were all dried up. It was shocking.

The afternoon was turning grey, which added

to the hostility of the scenery. I remember

standing there in silence, next to my friend,

both looking at the overwhelming white colour

where there once had been a lot of green. We

walked in silence for a bit, trying to f ind a nice

spot that resembled the place that we used to

know, but eventually gave up and drove home

in silence. It felt like the scary distant future

we’d heard about as children in that haunting

song, was no longer an upsetting possibility,

but that it had become our reality. 

Since then, every year, as summer

approaches, we talk about the water reservoir

and how nice it would be to swim there one

more time. There’s always an air of sadness

when we bring it up, but before changing the

subject we still say that we still might be able

to do it one day. The longing for that place is

a powerful reminder that climate change is

not some distant, abstract notion, but a stark

and pressing reality that affects us all; it’s

happening now and right next to our home.

Helena Style Muñoz