Protecting the Planet on Earth Day, and Every Day
‘Our environmental legacy is a testament to the power of collective action’ | Photo: Lumerb, Adobe Stock

Protecting the Planet on Earth Day, and Every Day

On 22 April, 1970, founders of the modern environmental movement created and organised the very first Earth Day. Since then, the Earth Day Network — also known as EARTHDAY.ORG has been mobilising over 1 billion people annually on Earth Day, and working every other day of the year to protect the planet.

So what sparked this revolution in saving the environment, and focused efforts around a day of awareness and action every April? It all started in the United States…

Earth Day’s birthday: why and when it all began

With the advent of the Industrial Revolution in the US, as technological advancements drove mass manufacturing, energy consumption and resource extraction increased. Industry inevitably creates industrial waste, and for over a century, factories and production plants dumped chemicals into rivers, leached toxins into the ground and spewed fumes into the air.

Unprecedented productivity and growth, yet with no thought for the environmental consequences and no accountability to the people who suffered or the places that were affected.

Someone had to do the industrial work. How would everyone get to their jobs in the factories and otherwise? From a slow start, between 1900 and 1915 the number of cars in America jumped from just 8,000 to more than 2 million. As the century rolled along, further tens of millions hit the roads, which multiplied and expanded to accommodate them.

In a culture that prized independent movement often at the expense of developing or improving public transport infrastructure a car-centric country emerged, with an overwhelming reliance on private cars to get from point A to point B, sometimes with no other option. (In fact, the slow collapse of public transit has only continued to this day.)

All the emissions contaminating the atmosphere took a visible toll. The growing pall of smog over cities from the 1950s into the 1960s and beyond was a sign of the wrong sort of progress: pollution as prosperity. But there was finally something else in the air a catalyst for change was on the way.

Clearing the air: the Chrysler Building in New York City smog, May 1973 | Chester Higgins / Documerica, Unsplash

A watershed moment: the dawn of a movement

Late in the 1950s, marine biologist Rachel Carson, having written the highly praised Sea Trilogy about the world’s oceans, became a full-time nature writer. In her next work, Silent Spring published in 1962, Ms Carson spotlighted conservation’s crucial importance and sounded the alarm on synthetic pesticides.

Selling over half a million copies in 24 countries, the book galvanised readers raising awareness about the links between pollution and public health, and promoting a regard for our environment and all the living organisms in it.

In January 1969, a major spill near the city of Santa Barbara poured millions of gallons of crude oil into the waters off California’s coast, severely affecting wildlife. Intense media coverage fuelled public outrage, and conservation-minded politicians also took notice in particular, Senator Gaylord Nelson of Wisconsin.

Senator Nelson proposed a nationwide environmental ‘teach-in’ at college campuses on 22 April, 1970, and he recruited Denis Hayes, an activist with a lifelong love of nature, to coordinate the effort. The movement expanded to a wider network of organisations and groups across the United States, as more events were planned from coast to coast.

With the creative talents of Madison Avenue advertising boss Julian Koenig on board, the teach-in event became known as Earth Day, a name and concept which gained media attention and captured the national imagination, spurring engagement.

As EARTHDAY.ORG explains, ‘Earth Day inspired 20 million Americans — at the time, 10% of the total population of the United States — to take to the streets, parks and auditoriums to demonstrate against the impacts of 150 years of industrial development which had left a growing legacy of serious human health impacts.’ There were participants in 2,000 colleges and universities, about 10,000 primary and secondary schools, and hundreds of American communities.

Saving our seas: Rachel Carson furthered conservation with her nature writing | Photo: Francesco Ungaro, Unsplash

How the movement’s effects continue to be amplified

The ripples of that first awakening of an environmental movement have reached ever outward as worldwide networks have formed, and as awareness has grown.

In the travel sphere, through a focus on conservation, over time ethical and responsible practices have emerged. Destination-centred tourism came to the forefront in discussions around how we can be an asset as voyagers, instead of a burden. Sustainable tourists realised that we not only have to look after the places we call home, but we must do the same for the destinations we visit.

At Resonate, by putting this responsibility in focus, our contributors and team members have not only raised some big issues, but also offered possible solutions. Subject experts from Jo Hendrickx, who showed how we can find strategies to avoid single-use plastic when travelling, to Jean-Claude Razel, who took us on a transition trip from growth to sufficiency, opened our eyes to shifts in how we can benefit destinations.

Resonate’s co-creators, Linda Veråsdal and Raj Gyawali have also looked at answers to key questions, from Linda’s examination of how eating locally nourishes host communities to Raj’s thoughts on effective ways to help in the aftermath of a natural disaster. As our editor, I myself have tried to highlight ways to tread more gently on the planet, whether we’re leaving no trace of our presence or simply lightening the load.

Everyone in our community takes to heart the idea that every day is Earth Day, and we acknowledge that we have no alternative but to cherish, respect, and protect this big, beautiful blue marble of ours. After all, it’s the only one we have.

Making sustainable choices: we can plan for the future by harnessing renewable energy | Photo: Serge Le Strat, Unsplash

What you can you do to be part of the Earth Day movement

While the first Earth Day concentrated on the United States, its national coordinator, Denis Hayes, went on to found the Earth Day Network and took it global, expanding the initiative to 170 nations over the subsequent four decades.

That brings us to today, when EARTHDAY.ORG has become ‘the world’s largest recruiter to the environmental movement, working with more than 150,000 partners in over 192 countries to drive positive action for our planet.’ In 2025, that positive action has a theme of ‘Our Power, Our Planet’ as smart, renewable energy choices took centre stage.

That’s a lot of good work accomplished and still being done, but there’s much more yet to do. And 22 April — or whatever day you happen to be reading this — is the perfect day to consider how we can each be a part of the bigger picture.


Find out more about how you too can stand up, speak up and show up at EARTHDAY.ORG

Emily Cathcart

Resonate Team

From her base in Ireland, Emily Cathcart was delighted to join Resonate as a Content Manager and has been revelling in the opportunity to collaborate with writers worldwide ever since. Emily enjoys encouraging authors through the creation process and also helping non-writers to tell their tales — all with Resonate’s ethical principles in mind. When she isn’t busy commissioning or editing, she can be found, camera in hand, seeking out-of-the-way discoveries for her own site that’s literally All About Dublin. And when Emily’s not working on any/all of the above, she’s writing articles and photo essays as a freelance journalist for publications from boutique magazines to national newspapers.

Time to Read:  5 Minutes
Resonate Team: Emily Cathcart
22 April 2025
Category:
From the Editor

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San Alejo Market: Medellín’s Living Tapestry of Time
In its carefully crafted memories, there’s more here than could ever be carried home. | Photo: Luis Echeverri Urrea

San Alejo Market: Medellín’s Living Tapestry of Time

The first Saturday of March breaks over Medellín with a golden shimmer, the kind of light that promises stories in every shadow. I make my way to Parque Bolívar, where San Alejo Market (Mercado Artesanal Sanalejo) unfurls like a monthly ritual.

For years, as a Medellín resident, I’ve surrendered countless mornings to this centuries-old flea market, yet it never grows old. It’s more than a place to barter for oddities — it’s a breathing archive of paisa culture, where artisans, collectors, and everyday locals weave a tapestry of memory and resilience. 

The market greets me with a rush of scents: the musty tang of old vinyl, the sharp bite of polished leather, and the faint caramel whisper of arepas blistering on a griddle. Parque Bolívar, dwarfed by the solemn Catedral Basílica Metropolitana, sheds its weekday quiet for a riot of stalls. Antique clocks murmur time beside handwoven baskets, their straw still redolent of Antioquia’s hills.

I linger at a table strewn with Colombian relics — faded tango posters curling at the edges, porcelain cups chipped from decades of use. San Alejo Market feels like Medellín’s attic, its treasures dusted off for a single day of reunion.

San Alejo Market
Parque Bolívar sheds its weekday quiet for a Saturday riot of stalls | Israel Kolawole

I find Don Rafael amid the chaos, his stall a shrine to vinyl records stacked like sacred texts. His hands, as lined as the records he sells, lift a scratched LP of Carlos Gardel. “This played in the tango bars of the ’50s,” he rasps, voice thick with smoke and nostalgia. He paints a Medellín of swirling skirts and dimly lit cantinas, a golden age when Gardel’s voice was the city’s heartbeat. I hand over a few crumpled pesos — not because I own a turntable, but because the weight of that disc feels like holding history itself. Rafael’s eyes crinkle with a smile, and I wonder how many mornings he’s spent here, keeping the past alive one sale at a time.

A few rows down, Sofía’s stall glows with a quieter magic. She’s young, maybe 25, her fingers deft as they twist copper wire into earrings that catch the sun. Her table brims with jewellery — bracelets threaded with colours borrowed from coffee fields, necklaces echoing the sashes of paisa farmers. “My abuela taught me,” she says softly, her voice cutting through the market’s din. She’s reviving a craft that might’ve faded, threading tradition into every knot. I buy a bracelet, its weave rough against my wrist, and feel the pull of generations in its weight. Sofía is San Alejo’s future, proof that the old ways — her grandma’s ways — can bloom anew.

San Alejo Market’s pulse quickens as noon nears. I pass a vendor tapping at a vintage typewriter, its clatter a staccato hymn, and another offering jars of panela syrup, sticky-sweet and dark as molasses. Kids chase each other with wooden tops spinning in their palms while an old man haggles over a suitcase, its leather scarred with tales of forgotten trips. The air buzzes with paisa slang — sharp, lilting, alive — and laughter weaves through the clink of coins. It’s messy, loud, and utterly Medellín.

San Alejo Market
Here time doesn’t slip away — it gathers in every stall, every voice | Israel Kolawole

Hunger tugs me to a food stall, where a woman tends a griddle slick with oil. She hands me an arepa, its edges crisp and golden, and a cup of tinto so black it stains my teeth. I bite into the arepa, the cornmeal warm against my tongue, and sip the coffee, its bitterness grounding me. From here, I see San Alejo in full: a kaleidoscope of faces — wrinkled vendors, bright-eyed kids, couples arm-in-arm — all framed by the park’s worn stones.

As the sun climbs higher, I shoulder my finds — Rafael’s record, Sofía’s bracelet — and step back into the city. My feet ache, my senses hum, but I’m not ready to leave this world behind. San Alejo isn’t just a market; it’s Medellín distilled into a single, chaotic morning. It’s Don Rafael guarding the echoes of tango bars, Sofía threading heritage into copper, and a thousand paisas refusing to let their stories fade.

Here, time doesn’t slip away — it gathers, thick and tangible, in every stall, every voice. I’ll be back next month, chasing that same thread of belonging, knowing that San Alejo Market holds more than I could ever carry home.

Israel Kolawole

Storyteller

Israel Kolawole is a freelance travel and nature writer dedicated to illuminating the world’s lesser-known destinations and the splendour of the natural environment. Blending adventure with environmental insight, Israel creates immersive narratives that inspire readers to seek out authentic experiences while respecting our planet. With a keen eye for detail and a commitment to sustainability, Israel’s work has been featured in various travel and eco-focused publications. For more examples of his work, please visit his portfolio.

    Time to Read:  3 Minutes
    Storyteller: Israel Kolawole
    16 April 2025
    Category:
    Local Stories - Meet the People

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    The Healing Power of Attaya in The Gambia
    More than a drink, attaya is a thread that ties people together. | All photos: Lara Joy Touray

    The Healing Power of Attaya in The Gambia

    The first time I truly paid attention to attaya, I was sitting on a woven mat under the shade of a mango tree at an old friend’s house in Brusubi. The air was thick with the scent of the boiling green tea leaves, their sharp bitterness softened by fresh mint and far too much sugar.

    My friend’s grandma, a smiling woman in a brightly coloured wrapper, poured the steaming liquid from a small metal kettle into a shot glass, lifting it high before letting it fall back into the cup in a perfect golden arc. She repeated the motion several times, a rhythmic dance between kettle and glass. 

    “Attaya is not just tea,” she told me with a knowing smile. “It is time. It is patience.”

    I had grown up in The Gambia, surrounded by the familiar rituals of attaya brewing, but until that moment, I had never truly seen it. Like many things in my homeland, it had blended into the backdrop of everyday life — always there, always present. 

    Attaya, I came to understand, is more than a drink. It is a ceremony of connection, a healing ritual disguised as an afternoon pastime. In a country where life moves at a different pace from the West, where time is measured not in hours but in the slow passing of conversations, attaya is the thread that ties people together.

    Wherever you go in The Gambia, attaya is the great equaliser | Lara Joy Touray

    Travelling through The Gambia, from the bustling streets of Serrekunda to the quiet beachside villages of the south, I have found that attaya is the great equaliser. It is brewed by taxi drivers in the shade of their parked vehicles, by fishermen at the edge of the Atlantic, by elders sitting in dimly lit courtyards discussing the latest politics. It does not discriminate between the young and the old, the rich and the poor. Wherever there is attaya, there is an unspoken invitation to sit, to share, to belong.

    On a recent visit to Banjul, wandering through the bustling alleyways of Albert Market, I found myself drawn to a row of fabric stalls, their colourful textiles billowing in the humid air. The voices of vendors calling out their best prices blended with the rhythmic hum of daily life. As I paused to admire the many different prints, one of the men behind the stall gestured for me to sit.

    “Take a break, sister,” he said warmly, pulling out a low wooden stool. Beside him, over a small charcoal stove balanced on a crate, the attaya pot was bubbling away, releasing its familiar, bittersweet aroma.

    He handed me a tiny glass filled with a dark, frothy liquid. “The first round is strong, like life,” he explained as I took my first cautious sip. The tea was sharp on my tongue. “The second is smoother, more familiar. And the third — ” he smiled, thinking of the last round of tea — “is sweet, because that is how life should be.”

    As I sat among the swathes of fabric, watching the city move around me, I realised that attaya was not just a drink — it was an invitation, a moment of pause in the middle of the market’s chaos, a quiet reminder to slow down and savour life.

    I listened as the neighboring vendors spoke of their lives — of their children, their work, their hopes. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as the tea, unhurried, full of warmth. I realised then that attaya is not only about taste. It is about the space it creates, the moments of quiet companionship it fosters.

    The process is a lesson in patience — each round must be brewed properly, poured and re-poured | Lara Joy Touray

    In a world that often demands urgency, attaya forces you to slow down. The process itself is a lesson in patience — each round must be brewed properly, poured and re-poured, savoured rather than rushed. There are no shortcuts.

    I have found that this ritual of slowness is something many visitors to The Gambia struggle with at first. Western travelers, accustomed to efficiency and instant gratification, find themselves tapping their feet, glancing at their watches, wondering why a simple cup of tea takes so long. But those who surrender to the rhythm of attaya soon discover its magic.

    Attaya teaches you to listen — to the bubbling of the tea, to the stories of those around you, to the quiet wisdom hidden in everyday moments. It reminds you that not everything in life needs to be hurried. Some things, like good conversations and strong tea, are meant to be savoured.

    But perhaps the most powerful lesson I have learned from attaya is its ability to heal.

    On a personal level, it has been a source of comfort during difficult times. When I returned to The Gambia after my summer travels to Europe, feeling lost between two worlds, it was over attaya that I found my grounding again. Sitting in my friend’s courtyard, watching her brother expertly pour the tea, I was reminded of the simplicity of home, the power of shared moments.

    I have seen attaya bring people together in times of grief, offering solace without the need for words. It can create a sense of togetherness and belonging in the most unexpected places.

    Attaya is not just a drink — it is a bridge between languages, cultures and homes | Lara Joy Touray

    There is a reason why, even in the most remote parts of The Gambia, you will always find a small kettle, a small packet of green tea leaves, and a charcoal stove ready to be lit. Attaya is not just a drink — it is a bridge between languages, cultures and homes.

    I think back to that afternoon in Brusubi, to the woman who first told me that attaya is time, patience, life. I understand now what she meant.

    In the first bitter sip, there is struggle.

    In the second, understanding.

    And in the last, a quiet sweetness — the promise that, no matter where life takes you, there will always be a place to return to, a cup waiting to be filled.

    Lara Joy

    Storyteller

    Lara Joy is a creative and an entrepreneur based in The Gambia, blending art, culture, and sustainability through her work as the co-founder of Sulano Earth. She is deeply inspired by nature, heritage, and mindful living, as reflected in her visual storytelling and product curation. With a passion for community and craftsmanship, she creates spaces — both digital and physical — that celebrate authenticity and connection. Follow the journey at @lajoyra and @sulano.earth.

    Time to Read:  5 Minutes
    Storyteller: Lara Joy
    3 April 2025
    Category:
    Local Stories - Customs and Traditions

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