On the afternoon of April 10th, 2025, the quiet hills of Domtynrong Village were broken by the roar of flames.

At around 2:30 p.m., a fire broke out at the Domphotsiej Reisohlwai Plantation Plot, a cherished piece of land planted with young saplings just the year before. Smoke curled into the sky, and the crackling of fire spread across the hillside. The hard work—months of effort and dreams—was on the brink of being swallowed by flames.

There were no adults nearby, no fire engines—just smoke, heat, and growing fear.

Umrang Rongkru is a small village in the hills of Ri-Bhoi district, around 74 kilometers from Nongpoh. It is home to the Karbi community. Most residents are engaged in farming, while others rear silk, run small shops, or serve as teachers. In 1972, a small group of households came together to establish the Balang Presbyterian Church. Over the years, as the village grew, so did the hope of building a proper space for the community to gather. In 2012, construction of a church building began with whatever contributions villagers could manage.

You don’t need degrees or machinery to fight climate change — sometimes, all it takes is a determined group of women and a patch of land. In Thaugittim, a remote village in Meghalaya’s East Garo Hills, that’s exactly what happened.

For years, Kong Markynti Mawlong stood in front of a blackboard, calling roll call as children burst into the classroom, laughing and shouting. Then one day, the bell rang but she didn’t have to go. 

Her contract as a teacher at the government lower primary school in Nongrim Umksih had come to an end. Quietly. Without warning. The routine that once gave her identity was suddenly gone.

Fowler Darnei still remembers the forest that once surrounded Saipung. In his childhood, it was wild and alive — filled with birdsong, thick trees, and rivers that ran deep. He remembers walking with a catapult in hand, not thinking twice before aiming at a bird. That was life back then. Simple, instinctive, close to nature.