For coastal communities worldwide fishing is a critical source of income and sustenance. In 2023, global fish production reached an all-time high of 185 million tonnes in a $362 billion industry, with aquaculture accounting for over half of all fish consumed by humans. Approximately half the world’s population relies on fish as a major source of protein, indicating its significance in global diets. This growth and reliance on fish production highlights the sector's vital role in global food security and nutrition.
There’s a global and mainstream debate about whether we need to dramatically scale back overall fish consumption, primarily driven by environmental and health concerns. For many, especially those in coastal communities or inland regions with freshwater species, eating fish is a necessity rather than a luxury.
However, the impact on the ocean's ecosystem from the relatively modern non-selective methods of fishing is a growing concern. Large-scale extraction techniques, including the use of vast nets and bottom trawling, are profoundly detrimental to the environment.
For the fisherfolk, these techniques often represent the most efficient manner to catch the largest quantity in the shortest amount of time, this optimization being paramount when it comes to cutting down key costs such as fuel. However, in the process they’re taking more than can be naturally replenished and are causing significant collateral damage to marine ecosystems..
So, there’s an ongoing debate when it comes to the fish industry. It’s acknowledging the fish industry’s importance nutritionally and economically versus the cost of environmentally detrimental fishing practices to support said industry. But in certain parts of Sri Lanka, fishing is not only important for survival in the 21st century, but in its most basic form, a way of life.
As we consciously explored the far northwest of Sri Lanka, we made our way to the small coastal community of Mannar, a locale where fishing has been deeply ingrained in the community for generations. Within this district, fishing represents the major income source for its population, home to 14,990 fishing families, roughly 48% of the overall population as of 2017. This region's history and culture are deeply intertwined with the sea, where humans and natural ocean resources once coexisted harmoniously.
Historically, fisherfolk in northern Sri Lanka, including Mannar, have provided sustainable amounts of fish to their families and communities—taking only what was required and leaving plenty available for tomorrow. This mindset created a special bond among those working on the beaches and out to sea. It created a mindset of understanding, sharing and empathy.
At 5am, as we walked along the traditional fisherman beach areas, we met 75-year old P.S. Kurus Thaaluvadu who has been at the job for five decades. For him, fishing is his life’s work, and he has no plans to retire anytime soon.
He explained that when he was a boy, there used to be an abundance of fish in these waters beyond what we could have ever imagined. They were near the shore, and easier to catch. But today, that’s not the case. Things are much harder now, requiring the use of more boats, more fishing gear and more people needed to facilitate the practice. While we required some translations to understand most of his native Sri Lankan dialogue, there was no confusion in one statement he made in perfect English, “I’ve seen much change.”
His counterpart, Michael Dias, another 75-year old who’s been at this since he was 15, explained that the manual labor we were witnessing on the beach was a way to keep the rhythm. The fisherfolk work in unison to delicately handle and maintain all the nets critical to their production. Keeping the nets in perfect condition not only allows them to perform efficiently, but is also cost effective in extending the net’s longevity, as replacing them here is no cheap initiative.
This also reduces the rate at which torn or tangled nets are discarded or thrown away from the boat on the job, lessening the risk of them ultimately becoming “ghost nets”—those that are lost or abandoned out at sea. The fisherfolk use a song to keep their pace, and have learned over the decades how to work in sync with one another. At the end of the morning, they take what they need for their families and send the rest of the catch off to the market.
Today, P.S was particularly excited, as they had caught enough needlefish for him to take some home. He beckoned us to come see his cherished prize and had his friends hold up their share of the catch for us to marvel at. Oddly, we felt almost at home with these kind and seasoned men who had dedicated their lives to the sea, albeit in a much different way than we had.
Rows of colorful, patterned boats lined this traditional fishing beach. Each boat represented a different team that would launch at different times and collect fish from different areas. As we walked from boat to boat, we met more friendly fisherfolk, welcoming us into their world. Curious about where we were from, they asked us an assortment of colorful questions while Hafsa Jamel, Programme Manager with the Lanka Environment Fund (LEF), helped with translation.
Established in June 2019, the LEF is a non-profit organization committed to enhancing environmental conservation in Sri Lanka. Its primary objective is to bolster ongoing conservation and environmental projects while nurturing a culture of care and responsibility towards the island's natural splendor and intrinsic value.
Central to the LEF’s ethos is the empowerment of local communities, a goal supported by strategic investments in local environmental initiatives. Their approach emphasizes local engagement and stewardship, recognizing the critical role of community involvement in preserving and enhancing Sri Lanka's unique environmental landscape. And one of their newest grant projects was called the Mannar Region Systemic Solutions (aka MARESSOL) Project in partnership with the IUCN, Suganthi Devadason Marine Research Institute in India and lead researchers with SALT Lofoten.
All about fostering sustainable fishing practice, the initiative addresses the issue of Abandoned, Lost, and Discarded Fishing Gear (ALDFG) in the Gulf of Mannar and Palk Strait. MARESSOL intends on bringing policy makers, the private sector and environmental organizations together in focusing efforts to promote better management solutions.
This region, designated as the Gulf of Mannar Biosphere Reserve, stands out for its exceptional biodiversity and vital role in global fisheries. It serves as a habitat for numerous marine species, some of which are critically endangered. Not to mention, the Gulf's rich nutrient content makes it one of the world's most productive fishing grounds.
With two years of meticulous research, LEF and its partners approach includes engaging in meaningful conversations with local authorities, producers and those using the gear. By bringing together a broad spectrum of stakeholders within the fishing sector, LEF has the ability to engage in dialogue about policy with government bodies, raise community awareness, and implement pilot programs for upcycling or recycling retired fishing equipment.
While spending our mornings on the traditional fishing beaches with our newfound friends, P.S. and Michael, it was impossible not to notice two things: the amount of gear that was cared for and the amount of gear that was discarded. When we asked why the equipment was discarded in this way, the answer was simple—there’s nowhere else for it to go. And that’s why LEF, alongside the project’s partners, are here.
In the world of traditional Sri Lankan fishing, the variety and use of nets are a testament to the harmony between the fisherfolk and their environment. Observing the teams meticulously handle their nets is a study of precision and care. In stark contrast, the illegal monofilament nets pose a severe threat. Made from a single filament string, these nets contribute significantly to the ocean pollution crisis by indiscriminately entangling marine life.
The presence of ghost nets in the natural environment, whether abandoned or discarded, is not just a direct violation but a threat to the biodiversity of crucial habitats like the Gulf of Mannar. Bridging the gap between sustainable fishing practices and the urgent need to address this growing crisis is critical for preserving the delicate balance of these marine ecosystems.
From their morning efforts, the fishing teams were each bringing in approximately 100 kilograms (220 pounds) worth of fish, representing an average catch for them. Speaking to one fisherman, he recalled bringing in close to 1,500 kilograms (3,330 pounds) of fish one day in the past year, a cause for celebration all around. Decades ago, there were rarely any consistently bad catches, but today that’s far from the case. And it’s bottom trawlers that are predominantly to blame for the decline in the success of these fishermen.
The practice of bottom trawling by fisherfolk from Tamil Nadu, India, who are entering Sri Lankan waters, has severely impacted their livelihoods. Bottom trawling involves dragging a large net system across sea beds for fish, but this non-selective ‘catch all’ method pulls in a variety of unsolicited marine life, including coral and seaweed, thus destroying spawning grounds and depleting future catch. While this method is banned in Sri Lanka, the lack of surveillance and regulation allows the practice to continue, making it one of the most destructive methods out to sea.
Venturing to another side of the Mannar peninsula, we left the traditional fisherman to see the commercial activity instead. Long gone were the sound of any rhythmic songs, the community feel and the warm welcomes. Here, it was clear the focus was all about the bottom line. In fact, we felt an immediate sense of distrust among these fishermen as to why we were even there, or what we might be trying to unearth. As we walked up and down the beach, it was clear we were unwelcome as outsiders.
The conflict between Sri Lankan and Tamil Nadu fisherfolk has simmered for over a decade, occasionally erupting in violence. The tensions are not just between the fisherfolk but also involve confrontations with the Sri Lankan Navy, which has led to arrests and even casualties among Indian fisherfolk.
With the end of the 30-year civil war and the lifting of restrictions on fishing off the coast of the Northern Province, Sri Lankan traditional fisherfolk have returned to their full work zone, only to find themselves in somewhat of a “David versus Goliath” battle with the trawlers. The trawler fishing companies are well-funded and boast powerful political allies, and so it often feels this battle can only head in one direction.
Despite the Indian government's acknowledgment in 2004 that this practice had to be halted, it continues in the Palk Bay. While their government has introduced schemes for the transition such as the buyback of trawlers, progress has been slow. And with that comes more marine debris and ocean pollution than you could imagine.
The small coastal community of Mannar, once thriving on traditional fishing practices, now faces complex challenges. Economic pressures, environmental concerns, and competition from trawling boats are reshaping the life and future of this fishing-dependent community. That’s where the success of MARESSOL is critical, as it will help to shape the future of these ecosystems that these communities depend on.
As dawn broke over the Sri Lankan coast, we encountered P.S. again, immersed in his craft alongside his team. In his native language, he had asked us the previous day if we would see each other again. His simple question, steeped in sincerity, had moved us more than we expected. We promised to find him, yet without phones or any means of contact, it felt like a hopeful wish. But there he was, in the same spot, his smile and nod amidst the rhythmic song of his team reaffirming our silent promise.
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