Waterkeepers would not be Waterkeepers without one another.

Written by Mark Mattson

Yesterday, I received a message from a fellow Waterkeeper. She had just heard from Nabil Musa, the Waterkeeper for Iraq–Kurdistan. He was writing to thank her for remembering him—and his dogs—and to let her know they were safe, though shaken, as war once again pressed in on daily life.

It was a stark and necessary reminder of the invisible threads that bind Waterkeepers together.

Our work for water brought us together—across languages, borders, politics, and even war—and it holds us together still.

There are moments like this when we all feel powerless. When the scale of violence, loss, and uncertainty overwhelms even the most committed among us. But quitting was never an option.

It never was.

Every Waterkeeper, and every Waterkeeper team, knows that this work can be profoundly lonely. To the outside world, we are labelled many things: fanatics, do‑gooders, heroes, troublemakers, muckrakers. Sometimes all at once. But after nearly twenty‑five years in this movement, I know the quieter truth.

This is gruelling, often invisible work—lived in the crosshairs of powerful interests, industrial giants, and the long shadow cast by pollution. Waterkeepers are expected to be in the office by day, at public meetings in the evening, and at community events on weekends. All while carrying the relentless burden of fundraising simply to keep our organizations alive.

Perhaps most difficult of all are the moments when our own causes are eclipsed by the staggering weight borne by our colleagues. Many of us are fortunate to avoid destruction—natural or human‑made. But for some Waterkeepers, it is unavoidable.

Over the years, I have watched colleagues endure hurricanes and floods, oil spills and toxic exposure, drought and displacement, and war. For the Jordan Riverkeeper, for the Iraq–Kurdistan Waterkeeper, this is a perilous time.

We often say we became Waterkeepers because of the magnetic pull of water—the way light catches a Great Lake at sunset, or the steady pulse of a mountain stream. Because of the sudden flash of a fish, the call of a bird, or the raw honesty of wind, waves, and weather. At its core, this work is a spiritual connection to place, to people, and to life itself.

But there is another truth we do not say often enough: Waterkeepers would not be Waterkeepers without one another.

In times of crisis, the shortcuts are always predictable. Water is sacrificed to more “pressing” concerns. Clean water is reframed as a luxury—something optional, deferred, or reserved for the few. And it is precisely at these moments that we need each other most.

As I said, without Waterkeepers, there would be no Waterkeepers at all. The work is simply too heavy to carry alone.

So from a frozen driveway in Scarborough, I am sending solidarity to Waterkeepers across the world. I am holding onto hope, and to the knowledge that our journey continues—together. Despite turmoil and danger, this movement was built to be collaborative, modeled on the very waters that sustain us: shared, connected, and always flowing.

We are thinking of you, Nabil, and of all those protecting communities when it feels harder and harder to keep going. We see you. We are reaching out from another shore.

We are standing up, dusting ourselves off, and working harder—not just for the water, but for one another.

That was the choice we made when we became Waterkeepers.

First Person: Nabil Musa, Iraq Upper Tigris Waterkeeper – Waterkeeper