Strains between Malé and the atolls in the Maldives

In his book Descent into Paradise, the journalist Daniel Bosley begins one chapter by asking, "As the seas rise, how long can the islanders really stay on the islands?" The following excerpt from the book follows various Maldivian governments' promises of land reclamation and mega-development projects, to the detriment of the environment and atoll communities and their culture. The United Nations' recent projections suggest the Maldives' population will rise by close to a million by mid-century, with a full two-thirds of its people being drawn to Malé. Pledges to bypass regional hubs and continue relocating communities to the Greater Malé area do not take into account the costs of mass migration and the political and social issues reported by previously relocated communities. Bosley writes, "While some people on the smallest islands expressed a desire to relocate to the capital, many of the so-called raajjethere meehun (country people) … view Malé more as a necessary evil than a gleaming opportunity for a better life."

For thousands of years, the highly dispersed Dhivehi civilisation has carved out resilient and independent communities, subsisting in harmony with their environment. Indeed, the medieval scholar Al-Biruni's description of islanders made them seem semi-nomadic, simply transplanting their kadjan huts and palm trees to the next island whenever their ocean (or jinn) landlords served notice. But since the waves of development washed through, leaving concrete roots on every island, a society comprised of over 120 villages with fewer than a thousand people has become harder to sustain. Before the tsunami hit, the number of inhabited islands had hovered at around 200 for centuries. President Ibrahim Nasir had forcefully depopulated eighteen islands that lacked a quorum of forty men for Friday prayers – including Kalhaidhoo – but had allowed their return in 1975. We met islanders on Gaafu Alif Kondey who still joyously commemorate the return with their own little "Independence Day", as well as some on Alif Alif Rasdhoo who can only cast resentful glances across the channel where they'd found a new resort blocking their own minivan (independence/freedom). The former president Maumoon Abdul Gayoom had grasped the thorny subject of population consolidation in the late nineties, finding limited success with voluntary schemes, and instead launching the further-centralising Hulhumalé artificial island project, inaugurated just months before the tsunami had forced the issue. By the 2014 census, over a dozen communities had been officially relocated to other islands, though on our trip north we'd found many of their "new" homes empty a decade later, still waiting for electricity and sewerage systems.