The Sundarbans, a vital mangrove delta, faces existential threats from rising sea levels and climate change.
As men migrate for work, women like Amina endure harsh conditions to sustain their families.
The region's cultural heritage and biodiversity are at risk, demanding urgent action to protect this crucial shield against climate disasters.
At dawn, Amina, 32, wades waist-deep through brackish water, her hands trembling slightly as she collects prawn seeds, the last thread of livelihood holding her family afloat. The sting of salt on her skin mirrors the bitterness in her heart. The water she drinks is the same toxic source, the soil she tends is becoming poison, and her husband left years ago for Kolkata in search of work he never found. Each year, the rising tides creep closer, swallowing lands and hopes alike.
Amina’s story is not unique. It is the heartbeat of the Sundarbans. This vast mangrove delta, sheltering 4.5 million people and the world’s largest population of Royal Bengal tigers, is more than geography. It is home, history, and heritage. But relentless sea-level rise measured at 3.9mm annually, more than twice the global average, is erasing this sanctuary. Satellite images reveal some areas sinking by 3 cm yearly. The World Bank warns a 45 cm rise by century’s end could drown three-quarters of the delta, forcing millions into a future unmoored and uncertain.
Migration is a slow heartbreak unfolding daily. Research from Jadavpur University shows 51 per cent of Sundarbans households now have at least one member working away. Men leave for distant cities. Women stay behind, holding the household and community together in a shrinking world.
For women like Amina, survival means long hours wading through saline water to collect prawn seeds, one of the last income sources. The water burns their skin, seeps into wounds, and poisons their bodies. A study by SaciWATERs found that 77 per cent of women in surveyed villages suffer from menstrual and reproductive disorders linked to contaminated water and salt exposure. Doctors witness a troubling rise in urinary tract infections, irregular bleeding, and skin diseases. Yet stigma shrouds these ailments in silence, forcing women to suffer privately and painfully.
This silent suffering ripples outward. A Terre des Hommes and West Bengal Commission for Protection of Child Rights study revealed a 55 per cent rise in child marriages over the last decade in climate-hit villages. Families desperate and fearful for their daughters’ safety amid economic collapse see early marriage as escape. In Gosaba block alone, 76 underage marriages were recorded between 2019 and April 2022.
Education is the next casualty. Floods wash away textbooks and supplies. Schools serve as cyclone shelters, forcing children out of classrooms for months. UNICEF reports that 70 per cent of students miss school during floods, with dropout rates reaching 27 per cent in the hardest-hit regions. Childhoods are lost beneath rising tides, dreams drowned in the quest for mere survival.
The Sundarbans are literally disappearing. In 25 years, four islands—Bedford (Suparibhanga), Lohachara, Kabasgadi, and South Talpatti—have vanished. Lohachara was the world’s first inhabited island lost to climate change, displacing over 6,000 souls.
Ghoramara Island, once over 10 square kilometres in 1969, has shrunk to just five today. Its population has plummeted from 25,000 in the 1960s to 3,000. Four of its seven villages have been swallowed by the sea; the rest partially submerged. Locals say the island looks like “a half-eaten piece of bread” from the ferry, a haunting metaphor for what climate change devours.
Mousuni Island, 24 square kilometres and the region’s second most vulnerable, faces a grim future. WWF India warns that over 15 per cent of its southern land will vanish by 2030. The sea rises here 8 to 12mm annually, three to four times the global average. Between 1979 and 2011, 3.82 square kilometres were lost to erosion along its western bank.
Even Sagar Island, the delta’s largest with over 200,000 residents, is under siege. The sea has advanced to within 450 metres of the Kapil Muni Temple, which draws millions annually for the Gangasagar Mela. Sagar has lost about 50 square kilometres, one-sixth of its area, forcing climate refugees from nearby islands to resettle there.
The disasters come with terrifying regularity. Cyclone Amphan in 2020 unleashed $15 billion in damage, displacing millions. In 2021, Cyclone Yaas forced 1.5 million evacuations. Most recently, Cyclone Remal’s 111 km/h winds and 12-foot storm surges in May 2024 destroyed nearly 40,000 homes and plunged over 27 million into darkness. Each storm compounds the last, hardening the people’s resolve but exhausting their strength.
Yet amid devastation, the Sundarbans’ people remain fiercely connected to their land through profound traditions. Before entering the mangroves, residents Hindu and Muslim alike pray to Bonbibi, the guardian spirit of the delta. Bonbibi teaches that humans are part of nature, not its masters: take only what you need and respect the fragile balance.
Her shrines pepper the islands, quiet sentinels of hope and humility. After long days spent wading through saltwater, women like Amina kneel in these shrines, praying for their families, their land, and another year of survival. Their prayers carry equal parts desperation and defiance, a haunting reminder of lives lived on the climate crisis frontline.
The Sundarbans are Bengal’s frontline defence against climate disaster. These mangroves absorb storms that would otherwise devastate Kolkata, sequester carbon far more efficiently than rainforests, and nurture irreplaceable biodiversity.
Losing them would strip Bengal of its shield, forcing millions into repeated displacement and erasing a culture that has safeguarded this coast for centuries. It would mean abandoning communities whose only fault is living where the climate crisis hits first. Most tragically, it would extinguish the futures of children especially girls whose dreams are already bartered away for survival.
The people of the Sundarbans need more than sympathy. They need urgent investment in embankments, clean water, women’s healthcare, climate-resilient livelihoods, and targeted climate adaptation funding from national and global sources. Without decisive action, Ghoramara, Mousuni, and Sagar will join Bedford and Lohachara beneath the waves, taking not just land but a way of life.
Sreoshi Banerjee and Raktimava Bose are associated with Potsdam Institute for Climate Impact Research (PIK) and National Council of Applied Economic Research (NCAER) respectively
Views expressed are the authors’ own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth