From the Rolling Hills to the Flatlands
June 21, 2025 By: Sunia Khan
When I think about my relationship with the environment, it’s hard not to see it as a story of contrasts. My mother grew up in Huye, Rwanda, in the green hills of East Africa, where the land shaped people’s daily routines, their food, and their way of life. Now, I live in The Hague, in a flat, planned Dutch suburb, surrounded by canals, storm drains, and smooth bike paths. The differences between these environments are huge, but I’ve come to see connections between them, too.
My maternal grandparents lived just outside Huye, in the Southern Province of Rwanda. They were smallholder farmers like most Rwandans in the mid-20th century. Their lives revolved around cultivating the land. My grandmother grew beans, sorghum, cassava, sweet potatoes, and bananas, using traditional methods passed down over generations. Because the region is part of Rwanda’s fertile highlands, they relied on rainfall and used terracing to prevent erosion. Water came from nearby springs or rain catchment, and cooking was done over open fires using wood collected from local forests. It was a lifestyle that demanded hard physical work, but it was closely connected to the rhythms of nature. My grandfather participated in umuganda– a communal work practice where people gathered to clean, plant trees, and build local infrastructure. It was a form of environmental stewardship long before anyone called it that.
Though lush and “natural”-looking, the Rwandan environment my grandparents lived in was far from untouched. Colonial rule had changed agricultural practices, often encouraging monoculture cash crops over diverse subsistence farming. Over the decades, population growth led to land pressure, deforestation, and soil degradation. As families grew, land was divided into smaller plots, which led to over-farming. My mother remembers hearing adults talk about the soil losing strength and the rains becoming more unpredictable. Despite these challenges, people still had deep respect for the land. It was sacred, nourishing, and social. Celebrations, rituals, and daily routines were all shaped by the natural world.
My mother grew up in the 1980s and early 90s, a period marked by both environmental and political stress. Land scarcity was becoming a crisis. Families were farming steeper slopes and smaller plots, leading to serious erosion and a decline in crop yields. The forests were shrinking as more land was cleared for survival farming and fuel. Then came the 1994 genocide- a tragedy that devastated communities and also deeply affected the land. My mother, a teenager at the time, remembers the chaos. Forests were cleared for refugee camps and survival needs. Wildlife reserves were damaged, and thousands of people were displaced into fragile landscapes. The social trauma was accompanied by ecological destruction.
After the genocide, Rwanda began a long recovery- economically, socially, and environmentally. My mother saw new efforts: reforestation, soil conservation, and alternative energy programs like biogas and improved cookstoves. Over time, these efforts became part of a national policy shift toward sustainability.
When we moved to The Hague in 2015, I entered an entirely different kind of environment. Here, nature feels more controlled and engineered. There are parks, trees, and green spaces, but they are all carefully maintained. The land is flat, and water is managed through an elaborate system of canals, dikes, and pumps. There are no steep hills, no rainy seasons that determine planting and harvesting—just a steady rhythm of drizzle and grey skies. Still, I’ve come to appreciate the thought that goes into environmental planning here. The neighbourhood I live in has stormwater retention systems, separate waste streams for compost and recycling, and community gardens where people grow herbs and vegetables. Sustainability is part of the city’s identity, with electric trams, widespread cycling, and energy-efficient housing.
What’s most striking to me is how my connection to the environment has changed. In Rwanda, the environment was survival—it was your food, water, and firewood. Here, the environment feels more abstract. It’s something to be preserved and managed, not lived off directly. I bike instead of drive to reduce carbon emissions, not because fuel is too expensive or unavailable. I sometimes wonder how my identity- growing up between two worlds- shapes how I relate to nature. As a young person of Rwandan descent living in Europe, I carry both the practical knowledge of land-based living and the modern ideals of sustainability. My family taught me that land deserves respect, that waste is dangerous, and that water is precious. These values, learned in Huye, still guide me, even when I’m sorting my recycling in The Hague.
Ethnicity and class have shaped these experiences. In Rwanda, my family didn’t have a choice but to be sustainable. In The Netherlands, I have the privilege of choice- what to eat, how to travel, which products to use. This privilege means I also have more responsibility. I believe that those of us who straddle different cultural and economic worlds can play an important role in bridging perspectives and advocating for a more just relationship with the environment.
I hope one day to return to Rwanda- not just for a visit, but to contribute something. Maybe it will be through education, conservation work, or climate adaptation projects. I want future generations- my nieces, nephews, maybe my own kids- to know where they come from and to value both the natural world and the traditions tied to it. In the meantime, I try to honor my family’s legacy by staying engaged. I care about climate justice, about food security, about water access- issues that matter both in Huye and The Hague. The environments we live in may be different, but the challenges we face are often shared. I hope to carry forward the wisdom of my grandparents and parents, blending it with the tools and opportunities of today.