The Emotional Wisdom of Pastoralism: Lessons from Those Who Walk with the Earth

Imagine a vast expanse, where the earth stretches out to the horizon, cracked and sun-baked, under an endless sky. This is the drylands of Northern Kenya, and this is where I call home. Now, again, if you can, with me, imagine a life where the ticking of a clock didn’t mark time, but the turning of seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon, and the gestation of our camels.

My name is Galgesa Basele.

Galgesa is Rendille for “he who brings camels home.” And it is from that home, the drylands of Northern Kenya, that I’ve learned the indigenous wisdom I’m here to share.

I was probably 8, maybe 9, not sure, for we counted our ages then relative to the seasons, moon phases, and the gestation periods of our camels. It was very common growing up for a camel to be pointed at, and you are told that you and furrakhach are agemates, creating a bond, a shared moment in time, woven into the fabric of our existence –

and it was then that my dad acquired a radio. A small box that brought voices from a world I barely knew existed. And from it, the news from afar were sent to us. A message that crackled through the static, a warning that echoed across the vast expanse of our world - that El Niño was fast approaching.

Think about that - perhaps the first signs of the serious consequences of human self-destruction. A realization, even then, that the world was changing and that we, in our remote corner of it, were not immune.

That moment, the moment that the radio brought those words, is a moment that is burned into my memory. It was the moment that I began to understand that the world was far larger and more fragile than I had ever imagined. And it is that moment that I would like to explore further with you today.

Even with the sad news from afar, my father – he of the wisdom of defguu’do or lkishili if you may, taught me the wisdom of my ancestors – that even if the land was parched, I shouldn’t curse the sky. Instead, I should whisper to the soil—Ashe, kalaad’. Thanks for holding on. Thanks for waiting. For pastoralists like us, nature isn’t a resource to conquer. It’s family. And that bond? It’s saved us for millennia.

Today, climate change isn’t just melting glaciers. It is not just causing droughts, floods, and all erratic conditions devastating our livelihoods.

No!

It is erasing cultures. Pastoralists worldwide—the Rendille, the Maasai, Fulani, the Mongolian herders—are all labelled ‘backward’ for refusing to ‘settle down.’ But what if their mobility isn’t just strategy? What if it’s a language of love? A dialogue with the land?

My people don’t say, ‘We own camels.’ Our camels carry our soul.’ They are Kharadi Waakh, a piece of God. When drought starves the land, we don’t curse—we don’t flee. We just move, guided by ancestral memories, wisdom, and the quiet grief of watching a beloved landscape wither. In Samburu, herders sing to their land. ‘Lari le nkaiai tinisha, thee rains of our enkai, when you come! .’ Our migrations are prayers: Let this ground heal. We’ll return. It is never a goodbye. Hidaad ti at nah ifarte, nah kabariiso

Yet the world preaches: ‘Control nature! Fence it, mine it, force it to feed you, drill, baby drill!’ And where has that left us? Cities choking on concrete. Rivers dying of thirst. Sacred sites, the acupuncture, the ears of mother earth sealed by structures. Then we cry that nature no longer hears us!

Meanwhile, pastoralists listen. When the waters of Chalbi vanished, we didn’t just relocate, or perish, No! —we mourned, then dug wells. Then, seasonally moved. Our Waakh blessed us in the desert. Our journeys across the land aren’t just for survival. They’re a pact: We will adapt, but we will not abandon you.

Here’s the radical truth - Pastoralism is emotional intelligence in action. Borana elders revive sacred wells. In Northern Kenya, Samburu women save grasslands not as ‘carbon sinks’—but as kin. When your survival is tied to the land’s survival, you don’t ‘save the planet.’ You protect your soul, which is one with nature.

One will say, I remember all these with nostalgia, but for me it isn’t nostalgic. It’s neuroscience. Studies show what herders know: connection to nature heals. When you grieve a dying river or sing to the soil, you’re not ‘primitive.’ You’re practicing the most advanced sustainability there is—empathy.

So to those who say, ‘Modernize or disappear,’ I say: Look deeper. Pastoralists aren’t relics. They’re revolutionaries. Their mobility is innovation. Their ‘traditional’ knowledge? A climate manifesto written in hoofprints and heartbeats of people and nature.

I was taught that the Anthropocene is humanity’s triumph over nature. But pastoralists whisper a better story: The Symbiocene. An era where we walk with the Earth, not on it. Where technology serves wisdom, not the other way around.

So, let’s learn from those who’ve loved the land longest. Not just their practices—their poetry, songs, and spirituality but their gratitude. Because in the end, climate change isn’t a technical problem. It’s a crisis of spirit. And pastoralists? They’ve kept the fire alive.

Thank you.