The dry wind blows across the fields of Bakuyu Farm in Garissa County.
It is a Saturday morning and Ebla Hassan watches a group of farmers hoist sandbags along the crumbling edge of the Tana River.
“This is our lifeline,” she says quietly. “And it’s disappearing.”
Mrs. Ebla is the Secretary General of the Garissa Farmers Network and has lead a grassroots campaign to protect the riverbanks and restore the region’s rapidly degrading ecosystem.
For years, communities here have depended on the Tana River for farming, beekeeping, and daily survival. But now, a combination of seasonal pressures and environmental exploitation is pushing the fragile landscape and the people who depend on it toward collapse.
“This is the dry season,” Mrs. Ebla explains. “We don’t expect rainfall soon, so the river is low enough for us to intervene. Once the rains come, we won’t have the same access. That’s why we’re acting now.”
But the dry season brings more than opportunity; it brings risk. Mrs. Ebla says illegal charcoal production surges during these months, especially along the riverbanks, where old, indigenous trees that are highly prized for their dense, slow-burning wood are cut down and burned for profit.
“These are the last pockets of native forest in our region,” she says. “And they’re being destroyed.”
On a recent visit to Fardosa One Farm, the evidence of destruction was plain: scorched earth, stumps where trees once stood, and the smell of charcoal smoke hanging in the air.
The riverbank itself was visibly eroded, its protective roots and canopy gone. “What we’re seeing,” Ebla says, “is the slow death of an ecosystem.”
The natural environment has been affected. For the farmers of Garissa, these losses are deeply personal and deeply economic.
Deforestation strips the soil of nutrients, exposing crops to sun, wind, and erosion. Charcoal burning damages soil structure, kills beneficial microbes, and drives out pollinators like bees, further reducing crop yields.
Mrs. Ebla warns of a chain reaction: “No trees, no bees. No bees, no food. It’s that simple.”
Illegal logging brings additional threats. “Cutting down trees disrupts the local water cycle,” she explains. “It affects rainfall, dries up the soil, and invites invasive pests. In the long term, it undermines everything farmers depend on.”
The Garissa Farmers Network has launched a series of community-led interventions. At Bakuyu Farm and other sites, farmers are building temporary dykes using sandbags and planting bamboo to stabilise the riverbanks.
They’re also distributing beehives and setting up riverside apiaries part conservation effort, part economic buffer. “Bees are powerful,” Hassan says. “They give us honey, they pollinate our crops, and their presence helps deter illegal logging.”
Still, these are stopgap measures. The network is calling for more sustained support from county officials, national agencies, and development partners.
“We need tools, resources, and long-term commitment,” Ebla emphasized. “We cannot do this alone.”
She is also pushing for policy change. The group is urging the Garissa County Government to enact a formal ban on charcoal production and illegal logging along the river. Enforcement, she says, is key.
“Laws exist on paper. But unless they’re enforced, our trees will keep disappearing.”
There are plans in motion. The network is working with the Department of Environment and the Kenya Forest Service to begin tree-planting campaigns along the riverbanks.
It’s also developing a contingency plan with local partners to prepare for future shocks, floods, droughts, food shortages.
Mrs. Ebla knows what’s at stake. In both 2023 and 2024, floods devastated farms in the region, washing away crops and eroding soil.
For many, honey production was the only source of income that survived.
“Our beehives saved us,” she says. “Diversifying gave us resilience. But if we lose these ecosystems, we lose everything.”
The message she’s carrying is urgent. “This isn’t just about trees. It’s about food. It’s about income. It’s about survival. If we don’t protect the riverbanks now, we will face hunger later.”
As sandbags rise along the water’s edge, a quiet resolve grows among Garissa’s farmers.
They are on the front lines of the climate crisis. But they are not waiting for permission to fight back.
