Mnemba’s Fishing Communities: Holding on to a Changing Sea

In June 2024, I found myself once again in Mnemba, Mozambique, camera in hand, on assignment for the Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS). I had been all over Mozambique before, living and working in different corners of this beautiful country. I had visited Mnemba before too, but this time, something felt different.

Maybe it was the golden light stretching across the water at dawn, painting the fishing boats in amber hues. Maybe it was the rhythmic sound of the waves, a heartbeat pulsing through every moment. Or maybe it was the people—the men and women of Mnemba’s fishing communities, who, despite everything, still smiled, still welcomed me, still treated me as one of their own.

Before the first sliver of sunrise broke the horizon, I was already walking barefoot along the shore. The scent of salt and damp nets filled the air. Around me, the fishermen were at work, their hands rough and calloused as they secured lines and checked their gear. Some worked in silence, their focus unshaken. Others laughed, voices carrying over the lapping waves.

But the men were not the only ones working. The women moved with quiet strength and steady purpose, weaving nets, carrying baskets, and preparing the day's catch. Further down the beach, a group of women waded knee-deep in the shallows, scanning the seafloor for shellfish. One of them, an elder named Amina, greeted me with a knowing smile. "The sea is our life," she said, hands sifting through the sand. "But it is not the same sea my mother knew."

She told me how the catches were smaller, how they now had to walk farther to find food. Her daughter, barely sixteen, worked beside her, learning the trade passed down through generations. Yet even as they labored, they laughed, their resilience as unwavering as the tides.

Later, I followed a group of spear fishermen slipping into the shallow waters. Their movements were fluid, practiced, as they swam through the seagrass beds, spears poised, searching for octopus and reef fish. Seagrass, often overlooked, is one of the most important marine habitats, sheltering juvenile fish and providing food for countless species. The fishermen dove deep, disappearing beneath the surface, only to emerge minutes later, triumphant with their catch.

Underwater, I captured the reefs in all their textured beauty—intricate coral formations twisting and sprawling like underwater forests. The colors were impressive, the structures vibrant, but something was missing. The reef fish, once darting between the corals, were almost entirely gone. On some large coral bommies, there were evident signs of bleaching. The ecosystem felt eerily still as if life had slowly drained away.

Over 90% of Mozambique’s annual fish landings come from small-scale fishers, but their catches have declined by nearly 30% in the past 25 years. Illegal and unregulated fishing—much of it from foreign fleets—drains the country’s fish stocks, leaving local fishermen struggling to compete.

Despite everything, they worked. For their children, for their community, for a future they refused to let slip away.

The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and the people of Mnemba continue their quiet, unrelenting fight for the sea that has sustained them for generations. The ocean has changed, and it will continue to change. The question is whether, years from now, there will still be enough left for those who know it best.