Lost in Translation? Climate Experts Aim to Break Language Barrier

Representation photo: A general view shows almost dried up Lake Zicksee near Sankt Andrae, as another heatwave is predicted for parts of the country, in Austria, August 12, 2022. REUTERS/Leonhard Foeger/
Representation photo: A general view shows almost dried up Lake Zicksee near Sankt Andrae, as another heatwave is predicted for parts of the country, in Austria, August 12, 2022. REUTERS/Leonhard Foeger/
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Lost in Translation? Climate Experts Aim to Break Language Barrier

Representation photo: A general view shows almost dried up Lake Zicksee near Sankt Andrae, as another heatwave is predicted for parts of the country, in Austria, August 12, 2022. REUTERS/Leonhard Foeger/
Representation photo: A general view shows almost dried up Lake Zicksee near Sankt Andrae, as another heatwave is predicted for parts of the country, in Austria, August 12, 2022. REUTERS/Leonhard Foeger/

Indian researcher Sabir Ahamed took a linguist's help to translate the term "just transition" into Bengali for his new study on the impact of coal mine closures on local people, as countries start to shift from fossil fuels to clean energy.
Ahamed settled on the somewhat poetic "kalo theke aalo", which literally means "from darkness to hope", after consulting the language expert for a phrase his target audience of coal communities in India's state of West Bengal would understand.
"It's catchy. It is not a direct translation but people do associate 'kalo' with coal so it gives an immediate context," said Ahamed, 45, who explained that there is no equivalent of just transition or even climate change in the Bengali language.
"Besides, I wanted to show there is hope, that there is a way out (of coal)," added Ahamed, who is based in Kolkata in eastern India and works with Pratichi India Trust, a research and advocacy group.
The concept of just transition is complex, even in English, Thomson Reuters Foundation said.

The UN's International Labor Organization (ILO) defines it as "greening the economy in a way that is as fair and inclusive as possible to everyone concerned, creating decent work opportunities and leaving no one behind".
Ahamed's research is among just a handful of efforts to make jargon-heavy climate change and energy transition dialogue - so far restricted to English-speaking think tanks and experts in India - accessible to people who will be impacted the most.
"What is the purpose of doing research if we cannot communicate the findings or the analysis to the communities or stakeholders?" Ahamed added. "I research for action."
India is the world's second-largest coal producer and at least 13 million people in the nation depend on the industry for a living, said a 2021 report by the National Foundation for India, a philanthropic organization focused on social justice.
Many are at risk of losing jobs and incomes as India builds its renewable energy capacity, just transition experts warn.
However, communication about the country's future move away from fossil fuels - and what this might entail - has yet to reach the people whose lives will be most affected, analysts and activists warned.
"The dialogue around just transition is limited to echo chambers," said Mayank Aggarwal, who heads the just transition vertical for Indian consulting firm Climate Trends.
Aggarwal has this year launched a podcast on just transition in Hindi and used social media platform X - formerly known as Twitter - to host debates about it in the language, which is widely spoken and understood in India's mining areas, he said.
"We want to reach out to people who actually matter, who don't know what just transition is. We want them to understand the issue and be an important stakeholder in the discussion."
The problem is far from unique to South Asia - even the UN Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has tried to make its global findings easier to understand in recent years after criticism from scientists about jargon being a barrier.
MIND THE GAP
In recent months, think tanks have enlisted comics, poets and musicians to better communicate climate change threats to the public, with a broader aim of making the issue more accessible and widely understood as many people remain unaware.
Apart from spreading the knowledge more widely that extreme weather events such as heatwaves, droughts and cyclones are fueled by climate change, using local languages will also encourage people to demand political action, campaigners said.
While general community outreach by climate and energy NGOs and researchers in India and neighboring Bangladesh - where most people speak Bengali - is done in local languages, efforts are now being made to break down and translate technical terms.
In Bangladesh - which is considered one of the world's most climate-vulnerable nations - activist group YouthNet for Climate Justice has started posting Bengali commentary on social media about the reports of the IPCC, for example.
The activists, who have in the past campaigned for the cancellation of upcoming coal-based power plants in coastal areas, now want community radio stations to discuss climate and energy issues in local dialects of Bengali.
"Climate-related information hardly ever seeps into the community and we are working to bring it close to the people," said Sohanur Rahman, executive coordinator of YouthNet.
In a bid to reach more people in India's coal regions, the Just Transition Research Centre (JTRC) at the Indian Institute of Technology, Kanpur, rolled out four fellowships last year - with one in Hindi, one in Bengali and two in English.
Researcher Ahamed was awarded one of the fellowships - which aimed to assess the impact of mine closures on coal communities.
The next leg of the program will focus on renewable energy - and with new projects coming up in India's western and southern states, fellowships will be offered in languages spoken in those regions - Gujarati and Tamil - "to strengthen impact and reach" of research studies, the organizers said.
"Just transition is a complicated process, and it is important that coal communities understand its dynamics," said Pradip Swarnakar, an academic who heads the JTRC.
During recent visits to coal hubs in India, Context found jobs for local communities are shrinking as mines use outsourced workers - and that with no other skills, many people are resorting to illegally scavenging coal to eke out a living.
"Officials are discussing India's net-zero targets but there is no awareness about this among people, so they don't even demand skills for a future beyond coal," said Pinaki Roy, who teaches children in the coal hub of Jharia in eastern India.
LITERALLY SPEAKING
Climate change and just transition can often feel like distant and irrelevant problems to communities in India and Bangladesh because they are mainly presented and discussed in English, said activists who work with such people on the ground.
And literal translations of terms from English to local languages fail to convey the threat or persuade people to care and engage, according to climate experts and researchers.
Ismet Jarin of the Bangladesh-based NGO Awaj Foundation, which supports garment workers, said the country's fashion industry was becoming greener and more sustainable, but stressed that workers who have long been calling for better wages and conditions are unaware of how this shift would impact them.
"It is important that they can see the connection between climate and their rights, and we are working to convey the message to them in a language they understand," she said.
"We try to use examples that workers can relate to - of seasons changing, disasters and climate hazards becoming more frequent, how the fashion industry is adapting and how workers will cope as the world adjusts to these changes," Jarin added.
It's an aim shared by the Indian researcher Ahamed.
"The world is moving away from coal but there is no information about it at the ground level," he said.
"I want to reach out to (local communities) by writing in Bengali, and motivate others to do the same."



Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
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Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)

Carol Zeghayer gripped her IV as she hurried down the brightly lit hallway of Beirut’s children’s cancer center. The 9-year-old's face brightened when she spotted her playmates from the oncology ward.

Diagnosed with cancer just months before the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel erupted in October 2023, Carol relies on weekly trips to the center in the Lebanese capital for treatment.

But what used to be a 90-minute drive, now takes up to three hours on a mountainous road to skirt the heavy bombardment in south Lebanon, but still not without danger from Israeli airstrikes. The family is just one among many across Lebanon now grappling with the hardships of both illness and war.

“She’s just a child. When they strike, she asks me, ‘Mama, was that far?’” said her mother, Sindus Hamra, The AP reported.

The family lives in Hasbaya, a province in southeastern Lebanon where the rumble of Israeli airstrikes has become part of daily life. Just 15 minutes away from their home, in the front-line town of Khiam, Israeli troops and Hezbollah fighters clash amidst relentless bombardments.

On the morning of a recent trip to Beirut for her treatment, the family heard a rocket roar and its deafening impact as they left their home. Israeli airstrikes have also hit vehicles along the Damascus-Beirut highway, which Carol and her mother have to cross.

The bombardment hasn’t let up even as hopes grew in recent days that a ceasefire might soon be agreed.

More than war, Hamra fears that Carol will miss chemotherapy.

“Her situation is very tricky — her cancer can spread to her head,” Hamra said, her eyes filling with tears. Her daughter, diagnosed first with cancer of the lymph nodes and later leukemia, has completed a third of her treatment, with many months still ahead.

While Carol's family remains in their home, many in Lebanon have been displaced by an intensified Israeli bombardment that began in late September. Tens of thousands fled their homes in southern and eastern Lebanon, as well as Beirut’s southern suburbs — among them were families with children battling cancer.

The Children’s Cancer Center of Lebanon quickly identified each patient’s location to ensure treatments remained uninterrupted, sometimes facilitating them at hospitals closer to the families' new locations, said Zeina El Chami, the center’s fundraising and events executive.

During the first days of the escalation, the center admitted some patients for emergency care and kept them there as it was unsafe to send them home, said Dolly Noun, a pediatric hematologist and oncologist.

“They had no place to go,” she added. "We’ve had patients getting admitted for panic attacks. It has not been easy.”

The war has not only deepened the struggles of young patients.

“Many physicians have had to relocate,” Noun said. “I know physicians, who work here, who haven’t seen their parents in like six weeks because the roads are very dangerous.”

Since 2019, Lebanon has been battered by cascading crises — economic collapse, the devastating Beirut port explosion in 2020, and now a relentless war — leaving institutions like the cancer center struggling to secure the funds needed to save lives.

“Cancer waits for no one,” Chami said. The crises have affected the center’s ability to hold fundraising events in recent years, leaving it in urgent need of donations, she added.

The facility is currently treating more than 400 patients aged from few days to 18 years old, Chami said. It treats around 60% of children with cancer in Lebanon.

For Carol, the war is sometimes a topic of conversation with her friends at the cancer center. Her mother hears her recount hearing the booms and how the house shook.

For others, the moments with their friends in the center's playroom provide a brief escape from the grim reality outside.

Eight-year-old Mohammad Mousawi darts around the playroom, giggling as he hides objects and books for his playmate to find. Too absorbed by the game, he barely answers questions, before the nurse calls him for his weekly chemotherapy treatment.

His family lived in Ghobeiry, a neighborhood in Beirut’s southern suburbs. Their house was marked for destruction in an Israeli evacuation warning weeks ago, his mother said.

“But till now, they haven’t struck it,” said his mother, Suzan Mousawi. “They have hit (buildings) around it — two behind it and two in front of it.”

The family has relocated three times. They first moved to the mountains, but the bitter cold weakened Mohammad’s already fragile immune system.

Now they’ve settled in Ain el-Rummaneh, not far from their home in the southern Beirut suburbs known as Dahiyeh, which has come under significant bombardment. As the Israeli military widened the radius of its bombardment, some buildings hit were less than 500 meters (yards) from their current home.

The Mousawis have lived their entire lives in Dahiyeh, Suzan Mousawi said, until the war uprooted them. Her parents’ home was bombed. “All our memories are gone,” she said.

Mohammad has 15 weeks of treatment left, and his family is praying it will be successful. But the war has stolen some of their dreams.

“When Mohammad fell ill, we bought a house,” she said. “It wasn’t big, but it was something. I bought him an electric scooter and set up a pool, telling myself we’d take him there once he finishes treatment.”

She fears the house, bought with every penny she had saved, could be lost at any moment.

For some families, this kind of conflict is not new. Asinat Al Lahham, a 9-year-old patient of the cancer center, is a refugee whose family fled Syria.

“We escaped one war to another,” Asinat’s mother, Fatima, added.

As her father, Aouni, drove home from her chemotherapy treatment weeks ago, an airstrike happened. He cranked up the music in the car, trying to drown out the deafening sound of the attack.

Asinat sat in the back seat, clutching her favorite toy. “I wanted to distract her, to make her hear less of it,” he said.

In the medical ward on a recent day, Asinat sat in a chair hooked to an IV drip, negotiating with her doctor. “Just two or three small pinches,” she pleaded, asking for flavoring for her instant noodles that she is not supposed to have.

“I don’t feel safe ... nowhere is safe ... not Lebanon, not Syria, not Palestine,” Asinat said. “The sonic booms are scary, but the noodles make it better,” she added with a mischievous grin.

The family has no choice but to stay in Lebanon. Returning to Syria, where their home is gone, would mean giving up Asinat’s treatment.

“We can’t leave here,” her mother said. “This war, her illness ... it’s like there’s no escape.”