GBW Stories
In Itsamia, on the island of Moheli, mornings begin before most people are awake. Long before the heat of the day reaches the shoreline, Musa Madi is already walking the coast.
Born and raised in Itsamia in 1988, Musa has spent much of his life close to the sea. But since 2017, his relationship with the coastline has taken on a different responsibility. Every morning at six o’clock, he begins the same routine: visiting turtle nesting and hatchery sites to count, monitor, and protect hatchlings before they reach the ocean.
His work is quiet, repetitive, and deeply disciplined.
Across seven accessible nesting areas, Musa moves from site to site, checking nests, observing hatchlings, and recording what he sees. The work usually continues until around eight in the morning, though the timing depends on the season. During high nesting months, particularly in April, May, and July, his monitoring can extend to four hours a day.
He does this every day.
There is also an eighth site, one that is harder to reach because of steep rocky terrain. Access is difficult, but nesting still happens there. A small nearby village helps keep watch over the area, ensuring that hatchlings continue their journey toward the ocean despite the challenging landscape.
For Musa, counting turtles is not only about numbers. It is about continuity.
Sea turtles have long been part of Moheli’s coastal identity, but they remain vulnerable. Nesting sites face natural threats, environmental pressures, and human disturbance. Protection requires constant presence.
“When you come every day, you begin to understand the rhythm of the turtles,” Musa explains. “You learn where they return, when they hatch, and how fragile that journey can be.”
His role is supported through ADSEI, a local organization based in Itsamia, in partnership with Kelonia, which provides a modest contribution of approximately 50 USD per month. The amount is small compared to the time and consistency required, but Musa continues because the work matters to him.
Monitoring turtles is not limited to mornings.
Nighttime is often when the greatest risk emerges. Poaching remains a threat, particularly during nesting periods. While Musa works the early morning shift, colleagues take over from 6 PM until dawn, protecting beaches during the hours when turtles are most vulnerable.
Together, this system creates a continuous presence across the coastline.
For Musa, conservation is not an event or occasional activity. It is routine. It is built around showing up every day, regardless of weather, season, or recognition.
His work also raises larger questions about long-term support for local conservation guardians. Organizations such as the International Union for Conservation of Nature have contributed to marine conservation awareness and sea turtle visibility in the region, particularly through initiatives linked to coastal protection and awareness days. Yet much of the day-to-day responsibility still rests on local people like Musa, whose commitment sustains protection long after campaigns end.
What makes Musa’s story powerful is its simplicity.
He is not a scientist or a public figure. He is a local guardian whose work depends on patience and consistency rather than visibility. Each morning he counts hatchlings, checks nesting sites, and helps ensure that turtles make it safely to the ocean.
Outside of his conservation work, Musa is also a father to two daughters. His daily routine is shaped not only by responsibility to wildlife, but by a future he hopes to protect for the next generation.
In Itsamia, conservation happens quietly. It happens through people who return to the same place every day, often without recognition, because they understand what could be lost.
For Musa Madi, protecting sea turtles is not a project.
It is part of life.
