As the sun peeked through the French Riviera clouds and a dozen reporters sipped orange juice aboard the WWF Panda Boat docked at Port Lympia, Frankie Orona, a Native American rights advocate from the Society of Native Nations in San Antonio, Texas, stunned the room into a moment of absolute stillness.
Under the surface of Tanzania’s turquoise waters, a miracle unfolds quietly every day.
A groundbreaking initiative to revolutionize global ocean observation is being launched this week at the UN Ocean Conference side event, aiming to enlist 10,000 commercial ships to collect and transmit vital ocean and weather data by 2035.
The late afternoon sun sparkles on the waters of the French Riviera as yachts dock at the Port of Nice with mechanical grace. A tram glides past palm-lined boulevards, where joggers, drenched in sweat, huff past leisurely strollers and sunbathers. Just beside the promenade, a crowd gathers around a young girl. With braided hair bouncing in rhythm, she belts out Beyoncé’s Halo with stunning precision. Her bare feet dance on the cobblestones, her voice echoing against the pastel façades.
As delegates prepare for the third United Nations Ocean Conference (UNOC) in Nice, France, momentum is building around ocean governance, finance for marine conservation, and an urgent shift toward a regenerative blue economy. Ocean advocates say the world is at a critical juncture—and the next few weeks could shape the future of marine protection for decades.
As global demand for carbon credits rises, Tanzania has become a magnet for carbon offset projects. From Loliondo in Arusha to Kiteto in Manyara, foreign firms and conservation groups are looking for land to capture carbon and sell credits to polluting industries in the Global North. The growing interest in carbon trading has sparked hope, confusion, and concern— putting millions of hectares of village land and the livelihoods of people who depend on it at risk.
Under the scorching Tanzanian sun, Neema Mushi wipes sweat from her dust-covered face and swings her pickaxe into the earth. The impact sends dust swirling into the air, coating her tattered clothes. She barely notices. For the past eight years, this has been her life—digging, sifting, sieving, and hoping to strike gold in the male-dominated pits of Geita. It is a grueling task riddled with obstacles.
The night after her husband was laid to rest, 24-year-old Vivian Magesa sat in the dimly lit brick-walled house, surrounded by women from her late husband’s family. She had spent the past few days in mourning, wrapped in a white shroud, her head shaved as custom dictated. But as the hushed voices of her in-laws filled the room, Magesa realized her grief was far from over.
The first time Jumanne Waziri tasted salt in his morning tea, he thought his wife had made a mistake.
“Why did you put salt instead of sugar?” he asked, setting his cup down in their home in Ununio, a quiet suburb north of Dar es Salaam.
In the early morning, as the tide pulls away, Zulfa Abdallah ties her scarf tightly around her head. She adjusts her goggles, places a snorkel across her forehead, and wades into the chest-deep waters off Jambiani village in Zanzibar. The Indian Ocean is her livelihood now, its waves offering a lifeline to women like her who confront challenges of poverty and climate change.
Speaker of the Tanzanian Parliament and President of the Inter-Parliamentary Union (IPU), Tulia Akson, has called for bold and immediate investments in young people to unlock the demographic dividend and accelerate sustainable development across Africa and Asia.
A hush had fallen over Mbarali District, but it was not the quiet of peace—it was the silence of uncertainty.
Just months ago, the rolling plains were gripped by fear as government-backed rangers, dressed in olive green fatigues, roamed through villages, seizing cattle, torching homes, and forcing entire communities to the wobbly edge of survival. The REGROW project, a USD 150 million initiative funded by the World Bank to expand Ruaha National Park (RUNAPA), had promised tourism growth and environmental conservation. What it delivered was a brutal campaign of state-sanctioned land grabbing under the guise of protecting nature.
At 9 a.m. on Monday, Mariam Msemwa clutched her clinic card tightly as she stood in line at Bagamoyo District Hospital’s HIV Clinic in Tanzania’s coastal region. The 19-year-old had been here many times before, picking up monthly doses of antiretroviral (ARV) drugs that kept her alive. But today was different.When she reached the counter, the nurse flatly told her. “There’s no more free medication, ” she said. “You’ll have to buy it yourself.”
As the cool morning breeze sweeps across the Indian Ocean beach in Tanzania’s Pemba archipelago, Salma Mahmoud Ali begins her day. With her brightly coloured Kikoi cinched tightly around her waist and a dark blue scarf framing her face, she walks barefoot toward her salt ponds. The humid air hangs, but Ali wades through ankle-deep water with courage.
As the dust settled over Kariakoo’s bustling streets, Halima Abdallah’s voice trembled through the cracks of a collapsed four-story building. “Help me, please! I don’t get air,” she gasped, trapped under the rubble. For four hours, rescue workers scrambled to locate her. Their efforts, hampered by the lack of proper equipment, relied on tools hastily borrowed from a private company. By the time they reached her, it was too late. Abdallah had died.
In the sun-scorched soils of Moshi, where every drop of rain counts, two female farmers have defied the odds through technology. Mwajuma Rashid Njau and Mumii Rajab, once locked in a daily struggle to survive, have found a mobile phone their best ally.
At Gabimori primary school, located at Nyamagaro ward in Tanzania’s northern Rorya district, a 15-year-old Florence Sadiki kneels among polyethylene bags, carefully examining the seedlings she and her classmates have nurtured from tiny sprouts “We’ve planted many trees to make our school look better and to help fight climate change,” she says.
At a rally to mark International Youth Day on August 12 in Tanzania’s southern Mbeya region, John Mnyika stood with a determined expression, addressing his supporters. The air was charged with anticipation. Mnyika, the Secretary-General of Tanzania’s opposition party, Chadema, was preparing to speak about the upcoming elections when the chaos erupted. Without warning, heavily armed police officers stormed the event, grabbed Mnyika, and dragged him away.
In the scorching sun of Mikese village in Tanzania’s eastern Mvomero district, 31-year-old Maria Naeku tirelessly tends to her small vegetable patch. Each time she pulls a weed, the red soil stains her hands as she guides the trickle of water from a maze of pipes through an elevated bed to nurture her plants. In a drought-stricken area, Naeku's small garden is a lifeline for her family, giving them food and income.
As the sun sets, its golden hues piece through the dusty haze, creating a dazzling display when a herd of livestock lazily roams on the arid landscape as they return home from grazing.
Dressed in shiny red robes, the youthful Maasai pastoralists routinely whistle as they steer cattle, goats and sheep to maintain a unified path.
Nearly every aspect of modern life is a result of the work done by engineers; from running water to the internet, sky-scrapers to smartphone apps that people use for dating. Sadly, in Tanzania this profession attracts only a few women due to prevalent attitudes that it is a man’s job.