By Waithira Kunene
Recently, I had the opportunity to participate in data collection with fishers along Kenya’s Shimoni-Vanga and Msambweni seascapes — two marine-rich zones with communities whose lives are deeply intertwined with the ocean. Our mission was to understand how local fishers perceive their ocean, its resources, and how it’s managed through Beach Management Units (BMUs) — localized governance structures responsible for ensuring sustainable fisheries.
Across 8 selected BMUs, we interviewed 207 members. Of these, 159 (77%) were men and 48 (23%) women, reflecting the actual BMU membership composition where men still dominate active involvement. While these numbers paint part of the picture, the stories behind them tell us even more.
The best time to connect with fishers is in the early morning, just after the boats come in. There’s an energy — of trade, tired laughter, and reflection — that makes the landing site feel like a living storybook. A time when the ocean has just revealed what it holds, and the people respond.
From our conversations, one thing stood out: over 80% of fishers could name marine resources and the threats they face — from destructive gear and pollution to climate shifts. These aren’t academic theories; they’re daily realities. However, tradition still runs deep. Some fishers confessed they continue to use outdated, sometimes harmful methods passed through generations — not out of ignorance, but due to lack of alternatives or reluctance to break from cultural norms.
In Shimoni, a semi-urban area with more access to fisheries officers, fishers were notably more confident about sustainable practices. And in nearby Kibuyuni and Mkwiro Islands, the conversation turned to seaweed farming — an emerging income source, especially for women.
Still, not every story had a bright side.
In Kibuyuni, many fishers were hesitant to talk about illegal gears, fearing legal measures. In many villages, low literacy levels affected the depth of responses. The less literate the member, the harder it was to communicate technical issues like fisheries regulations.
Some BMU members lacked clarity on their own roles, revealing a gap in internal awareness. Others struggled with the way questions were framed — requiring rephrasing, probing, and even translation. There were also very few women in the sessions, perhaps because they hadn’t renewed their membership or were unintentionally underrepresented during sampling.
On the upside, our awareness sessions reached people who are rarely heard — bridging that gap between formal governance and everyday voices. Their insights were invaluable and offer a blueprint for shaping future awareness programs.
Still, disparities were evident. In some areas, BMUs are recognized and respected; in others, they are underutilized or misunderstood. For BMUs to be effective, communities need to see them not just as enforcers, but as partners in decision-making, guardians of the sea, and enablers of alternative livelihoods.
One inspiring trend emerged: in the recent BMU elections, many young leaders were elected. With their digital skills and fresh perspectives, they represent a new era of ocean stewardship. But they need mentorship, resources, and platforms like the WIOMSA Symposium to connect with policy, science, and community voices.
My takeaway? The knowledge is there. The willingness is growing. But we must act faster and smarter. We need stronger awareness campaigns through BMUs, deeper collaboration across sectors, and innovative income-generating models that reduce pressure on marine ecosystems.
The ocean speaks — sometimes in tides, sometimes through fishers at dawn.
As we prepare for the WIOMSA Symposium 2025, I invite fellow scientists, policymakers, and coastal champions to amplify stories like these. Join the “One Ocean, One Future” campaign — because when we connect people, policy, and science, we secure a future where the ocean thrives, and so do we.
