My Family’s Multi-Generational Environmental History
June 1, 2025 By: Rashad
My family’s relationship with the environment has changed dramatically over just two generations. My grandparents were born in a rural village in northern Yemen, where the mountains shaped everything from how people built their homes, what they ate, how they moved through the world. They lived close to the land, not out of choice but necessity. My grandfather farmed terraced fields carved into steep hillsides, growing wheat, barley, and qat, while my grandmother kept goats and chickens. Water was scarce, so they built stone catchments to store rain and dug deep into the mountains for wells. Their lifestyle was minimalist and adaptive. Nothing was wasted. Their food scraps became animal feed, their old clothes were repurposed, and whatever tools were repaired again and again. Even though they wouldn’t have used words like “sustainability” or “climate,” they understood environmental limits deeply. The biggest threat wasn’t climate change back then, it was drought, and the slow creep of desertification that was already affecting the southern parts of the country.
My parents immigrated to Canada in the late 1990s. Their first years here were all about survival: language, jobs, housing. The environment wasn’t top of mind, but it was always in the background. My mom, who grew up in a hot, dry climate, was shocked by the constant rain in the Lower Mainland. My dad loved how green everything was, but he didn’t understand why people would plant lawns they didn’t even use. Eventually, they settled in Burnaby, close to Burnaby Lake, where I’ve now lived for the last 20 years. At first, the lake was just something we passed by on the way to school or the SkyTrain. But over time, it became our space. We’d go walking at Piper Spit, watch the ducks, and take visiting relatives for picnics under the cottonwoods. It felt like the opposite of the world my grandparents came from as they had abundant water just from turning on the tap, towering trees, and signs warning you not to feed the wildlife. For my parents, the lake was peaceful, but they didn’t connect to it emotionally in the way they did with land back home. They still talk about how fruit in Yemen “tastes better” or how nothing in Canada smells like warm earth after rain.
As for me, growing up in Burnaby has shaped my relationship with the environment in ways that are both different from and deeply connected to my family’s past. Burnaby Lake has been part of my life since I was a kid with school field trips, weekend walks, and later solo bike rides as I grew up. I didn’t know it at the time, but just being near that kind of green space helped shape how I see nature. I started to notice the seasons changing in the trees, the return of the salmon in Still Creek, the way the wetlands smelled after rain. In school, we learned about invasive species, climate change, and habitat restoration, and suddenly this lake I took for granted became a living classroom. That’s when I started to understand that “the environment” wasn’t just something out in the wilderness it was part of our identity in a way.
Unlike my grandparents, I’ve never had to think about where my next source of water would come from and unlike my parents, I didn’t move across an ocean. But being second-generation means I still carry their memories and their worries. My parents were always thinking about waste, especially food waste. We composted before the city told us to. We reused containers and fixed what we could. At first, I thought they were just being frugal, but now I see it as a kind of environmentalism grounded in experience, not ideology. It’s interesting because a lot of mainstream conversations about climate change now talk about “degrowth” and “anti-consumerism” like it’s a new trend but for immigrant families like mine, those values have always been part of how we lived.
What’s changed for my generation, I think, is the awareness that time is running out. The environmental crises we’re facing such as rising temperatures, species extinction, climate displacement, feel personal. When I hear about water scarcity in Yemen, I think of my grandfather’s stone water tank. When I see drought in BC, I wonder how long Burnaby Lake will hold its shape. Unlike previous generations in my family, I have access to information, education, and the privilege of choice. I don’t have to become an environmentalist out of survival, but I choose to care because I want to protect what still remains. Looking forward, I hope to be part of a generation that reconnects with land not just symbolically, but practically as well. Whether that means joining local restoration projects, learning more about Indigenous stewardship of this land, or simply noticing the birds at the lake a little more carefully, I think the first step is attention. My family’s story is rooted in drought, migration, and resilience and it has taught me that adaptation is possible. Now it’s our job to use that lesson with intention.