By James Alix Michel
VICTORIA, Seychelles, Aug 10 2026 (IPS)

I have spent my life on an island. From the granite hills of Mahé, one can watch the sun rise over an ocean that has fed, protected and defined the Seychellois people for centuries.

James Alix Michel

That same ocean is now warmer than at any point in recorded history, and this summer, watching the news from abroad, I have felt something I did not expect to feel again in my lifetime.

The horizon no longer glows only with the soft light of dawn. Across Canada, Europe and the Americas, it has glimmered this year with the harsh, reddish hue of wildfire smoke. “The Earth is burning” is no longer a slogan. It is a description of an ordinary Tuesday in Ontario, or a July afternoon in Barcelona.

Consider what has actually happened these past months. Canada has watched more than three million hectares of forest burn this year — an area roughly the size of Belgium — prompting the government to declare its highest level of national fire preparedness and to deploy its armed forces alongside thousands of firefighters. In northwestern Ontario, a single blaze, the Thunder Bay 36 fire, has become the largest ever recorded in that province’s history. Researchers who studied the season found that nearly all of that destruction, some 94 percent of it, occurred in just five weeks, as heat and drought converged.

Across the Atlantic, the story repeats with a different accent. This past June was the hottest ever recorded in western Europe, and the world’s oceans registered their warmest June surface temperatures on record, according to the World Meteorological Organization. Spain’s Fabra Observatory in Barcelona logged 40.5°C on 8 July, its hottest reading in more than a century of measurements. Germany saw 252 weather stations break all-time records. France recorded its hottest day ever, with a national average temperature of 30°C, and declared a red heat alert across 58 of its departments — nearly the entire country.

I did not grow up believing a nation the size of France could be placed, almost in its entirety, under a single heat emergency. This year, it happened.

In the Middle East the temperature this year has exceeded 52 degrees.

None of this is accidental, and none of it is isolated. It is one planet, one atmosphere, one ocean, responding as any system does when energy keeps being added to it.

I am not a scientist. But I have spent decades in rooms with scientists, diplomats, fishermen and island elders, and I have learned to translate what they know into language anyone can use. Burning oil, coal and gas fills our atmosphere with gases that trap heat close to the Earth, much as a blanket traps warmth against the body. The thicker that blanket becomes, the more aggressively a hotter atmosphere pulls moisture from soil and vegetation — what scientists call rising vapor pressure deficit, and what the rest of us might simply call atmospheric thirst. A thirsty atmosphere turns living forests into dry tinder faster than rainfall can replace what has been lost. At the same time, this extra heat is disturbing the great rivers of wind that once reliably carried cooling weather across a region and moved on. Increasingly, they stall, and heat domes settle over a country for weeks rather than days. When millions of hectares then burn, they release carbon stored for decades, adding still more heat-trapping gas to the air. Fire feeds warming, and warming feeds fire.

It is a loop that does not correct itself. We must correct it.

Small island states are not spectators to this crisis; we are its early warning system. Seychelles does not burn as Ontario or Andalusia does, but our coral reefs bleach and die in ocean heat that barely registers as news elsewhere, and our fishing communities feel shifts in current and temperature years before those shifts appear in a headline.

This is why, a decade ago, my government joined nearly two hundred nations in Paris in agreeing to hold the rise in global temperature well below 2°C above pre-industrial levels, and to pursue every effort to limit it to 1.5°C. That agreement entered into force in November 2016. It remains, imperfect as it is, the clearest promise the nations of the world have ever made to one another about the only atmosphere we share.

We are not keeping that promise quickly enough. Scientific trackers that once projected we would not cross 1.5°C of warming until the middle of this century now estimate, per Europe’s Copernicus Climate Change Service, that we could cross that threshold as early as 2029.

That is not a distant date. Children born this year will not yet be teenagers when it arrives.

I refuse fatalism, because fatalism has never protected a single reef, forest or coastline. What the science asks of us is not mysterious: cut greenhouse gas emissions sharply and immediately, retire dependence on coal, oil and gas far faster than current pledges allow, and invest seriously in the resilience of communities already living through fire seasons, heatwaves and rising seas.

It also asks something specific of leadership. Every government that signed the Paris Agreement carries a responsibility to honor it not as rhetoric for a summit stage, but as a commitment kept in national budgets, energy policy and disaster preparedness. And it asks something of every citizen: to demand of our leaders the urgency the data requires, not merely the urgency that is politically convenient.

The forests burning in Canada, the heat scorching Spain and France, and the reefs bleaching in the Indian Ocean are not separate stories. They are chapters of the same story, and we are the ones still writing its ending.

The Earth is burning. Whether it keeps burning, or whether we finally act as one species sharing one planet, remains, for now, our choice to make.

The author served as President of the Republic of Seychelles from 2004 to 2016 and is a longtime advocate for ocean conservation and the blue economy.

IPS UN Bureau

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