Globally, Indigenous people protect over 80 percent of biodiversity yet are alleged to receive less than one percent of climate funding. With the launch of an Indigenous giving circle, Tishiko King—a Torres Strait Islander marine biologist and climate advocate—is making strides to change that.
When I was a young girl I would sit on the balcony and eat lollies with my Athe—my grandpa. I used to run across to the convenience store to get them, then we’d sit there and look out to the ocean—to Sea Country: Our hospital, our teacher, our life. He’d say to me: “If you look after the ocean, the ocean will return you home.”
I didn’t understand the meaning then. But I understood the responsibility of us being saltwater people. Of being connected to the ocean. It wasn’t until I was older that it really started to make sense for me—I began to see firsthand the impacts of mining and dumping and pollution and runoff. In 2011, I joined a cleanup crew for an oil spill off south east Queensland and saw the effect on the grass beds. It reminded me of home, and how the disintegration of our sea grass beds meant my totem—the dugongs—had all relocated elsewhere.
And that’s just the start of it. Zenadth Kes—my home—is currently on the frontlines of the climate crisis. Sea levels here are rising roughly three times faster than the global average, putting much of these islands underwater and leaving our people facing displacement. This has been our reality for as long as I can remember, and since our communities first had to relocate in 1937.
But relocation is no longer an option. Why should we move from our ancestral home? We have been here for 65,000 years. Torres Strait Islander people don’t contribute to national or global emissions. We are the least responsible and the most at risk of losing everything—our homelands, our burial grounds, traditional practices, our language. Everything.
“If you look after the ocean, the ocean will return you home.”
My name is Tishiko King and I’m a proud Kulkalaig woman from the island of Masig, part of the Kulkalgal Nation of Zenadth Kes, known commonly as the Torres Strait Islands. I am using my western education—a privilege for women in our communities—to advocate for climate adaptation and resilience solutions to help Torres Strait Islander people achieve self-determination and to remain on their island home. It’s our responsibility to look after Sea Country so she can look after us.
First Nations in so-called Australia and Indigenous peoples globally are not a monolith. We can’t be homogenized. Every community has unique lores, protocols, practices and deep connection to lands, waters and skies. This is about justice for Torres Strait Islander people. We are a minority within a minority—it’s a deep call to restore sovereignty, heal Sea Country and honour the rights and practises of Torres Strait Island peoples to determine their own futures.
These are the communities experiencing rising seas, catastrophic flooding, biodiversity loss and cultural displacement firsthand. Yet they are actually also the knowledge holders, the land stewards and solution builders who have been protecting ecosystems for generations.
That’s why we made Sea Country — Malu Lag. We screened it in our community first and there were 10 young girls, sitting up front, who came up to me like, “Hey auntie, we can do that too, hey?” That responsibility—and that opportunity—is what drives me.
We are at a pivotal moment for the climate crisis. While its impacts are being felt everywhere, frontline communities, particularly Indigenous peoples, island nations and those historically excluded from decision making bear the heaviest of burdens. But we need to break this cycle, and we can only do that with self-determination.
That’s why I started Just Futures Collab, an Indigenous-led giving circle that enables folk to make untied contributions, with funding going to remote communities that are fighting extractive industries like fracking; experiencing rising sea levels and flash flooding; and bearing the brunt of the climate crisis in all its forms.
These are the communities experiencing rising seas, catastrophic flooding, biodiversity loss and cultural displacement firsthand. Yet they are actually also the knowledge holders, the land stewards and solution builders who have been protecting ecosystems for generations. I believe philanthropy has a crucial role to play in shifting the trajectory of this crisis right now. Less than one percent of climate funding reaches Indigenous communities despite overwhelming evidence that Indigenous-led conservation and climate strategies are among the most effective.
Untied giving—that means giving with no expectation of the funder having any input on the work, nor the recipient having to report back on project progress—is important, because it’s about trust. Trusting our communities to deploy the funds in the way they see fit, and them not having to split their attention between reporting to funders and doing the work. This is wealth redistribution.
Through Just Futures Collab, we want to redistribute resources in ways that are culturally grounded, community directed and accountable to those most impacted. We will ensure funding flows to where it’s needed most, without the bureaucratic barriers. Our aim is to create lasting and equitable outcomes and to galvanise the groups already doing the work—without them having to talk to funders and worry about where the next cheque is coming from.
We want to redirect wealth and reimagine philanthropy. There’s about AUD$1.4 trillion of intergenerational wealth transfer happening right now, and these young people inheriting this money aren’t thinking about the same issues their parents did. They want to invest in their future, sure, but that means something very different to them.
I want you to understand the vast difference between climate action and climate justice. How 1.5 degrees of warming could mean a fighting chance for low-lying island communities, but two degrees will mean that you wield the weapons that can make us or sell us out.
Last year, I returned home to Masig and visited a coconut tree planted by my Aka Mabel. She was my Athe’s wife, and she died a year before I was born. I’m named after her—my second name is Mabel. Coconuts are the most sacred fruit in our culture; the most sacred tree. During that visit I was able to drink coconut water from the tree my Aka Mabel had planted. I can’t think about the significance of that moment without being overwhelmed by emotion.
I want to continue to plant coconut trees for future generations, so they can drink from coconuts we planted. So that they can stay on their island home. Because if you look after the ocean, the ocean will return you home.
Just Futures Collab accepts regular or one-off donations of any amount, with 100% of funds being distributed directly to Torres Strait Islander communities working on climate solutions and resilience on the ground. Donate today to make a difference to those on the frontlines of the climate crisis.
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Tishiko ‘Tish’ King is a climate justice defender, marine biologist and Kulkalaig woman from the island of Masig. She advocates for the future of her people, their home, and their way of life. Founder of the Just Futures Collab giving circle.
