By MICHAEL ABLEMAN
In the early 1970s while living in California, I became aware of two visionary initiatives in a faraway place called British Columbia: the Agricultural Land Reserve (ALR), devoted to protecting farmland for future generations, and the Islands Trust, whose mandate was to protect the unique environment of a small chain of islands located off the west coast of the province.
The idea that the people of British Columbia had come together to give legal protection to the lands that feed our bodies and to the natural environment that feeds our souls seemed almost unbelievable in an era when unrestrained greed and consumption were the coin of the realm.
At the time I looked to our northern neighbors with glowing admiration, seeing the ALR and the Islands Trust as beacons of light, amazed that protection of the natural world and consideration of future generations was not just an idea or a dream, but that it had been codified and made into law.
As a young man, these two far-sighted initiatives gave me an almost quixotic view of this province, and I am sure became the seed for my eventual move here some 30 years later.
My experience living and farming in California at the time could not have been more different. During my tenure on a small farm there, all of my farming neighbours sold out to developers, believing that their most valuable crop was the land itself. In a remarkably short period of time an entire agricultural valley with 30 feet of fertile topsoil and a perfect Mediterranean climate was incorporated, paved over and built on, and our little farm became an island floating in a sea of tract homes and shopping centres.
There were a few of us sounding the alarm, reminding the community that without good land there could be no good food. We rallied to save that little farm from its zoning for 52 condominiums, were successful in placing the land under a covenant that protected it forever, and formed a non-profit to own the farm. But the battle to protect that land and keep it going continues to this day, and I have come to see that land and its legal protection only holds fast when those who are in power are in alignment. The original vision is essential, but the real work is in maintaining and protecting that vision, and that work never ends.
When I first moved to Salt Spring I thought that living on an island would be good discipline as every human interaction, material consumption, bit of waste and morsel of food would have clear links, impacts and reactions. On an island, if you are paying attention, the feedback loop is immediate. There is no vast landmass where the ripples of one’s actions and interactions can radiate over long distances and large populations in a grand anonymous dilution.
Reality came quickly and with unusual force. Soon after moving here I was introduced to our version of Mordor, the Crofton mill, a stone’s throw from our shores, when they proposed burning tires, railroad ties and coal to fuel their power boilers. A group of us got together and organized and stopped them, engaging Neil Young and others to perform at a Clean Air concert in Duncan. But while this effort was successful, in the end it too was a temporary band aid, and the energy and will to address the real problem with the pulp mill could not be sustained. So while tires and railroad ties and coal are not smoldering away at the Crofton mill, it still continues to pollute our air and waters. Once again, opposition and activism are only the beginning; the real work is in sustained and ongoing protection, and that work never ends.
If we consider the earth itself as an island floating in a sea of space, in fact our only ship at sea, we might reconsider how we take care of it. We have an unusual opportunity right here and right now to do something extraordinary, by reinforcing and strengthening the “preserve and protect” mandate, not diluting and changing it.
The Islands Trust Act guides us in how to do that, and in spite of the wrangling and desire to manipulate and change its language, the act is pretty clear. There is no ambiguity around the words “environment” or “coastline and sheltered waters,” no question about the meaning of “natural features” or “vegetation and wildlife” or “continuous tree cover,” and there is no debating something so core to our ability to survive here — our reliance on groundwater — which is totally dependent on intact forests. We can argue over and twist and analyze the language, but the words are clear.
The Islands Trust, just like the ALR, both of which have been under assault since their inception, are far from perfect. Each of these extraordinary initiatives depend on humans to manage and govern them in the real world. The pressures of population, economics and access and affordability of housing are real and cannot be ignored. But too often those issues become a goodwill guise that hide less philanthropic motives, and too often we are told that the tension is between human needs and those of the natural environment as if we are separate from, not a part of, the natural world we inhabit. The answer may be in embracing this complexity.
There is zero wisdom, only arrogance, in rushing to change the rules that have protected these islands for more than 50 years. We need more time for open dialogue, more consultation with First Nations, more careful and thoughtful consideration of all that is at stake.
Islands are wonderful metaphors for our existence on earth, reminding us of our independence and our interdependence, of real limits and of boundless space, all mirroring the paradox we now face.
We live on an island, maybe we can start thinking and acting like one.
The writer is an island farmer and author.