"The crime we cheered for": young artists map the true cost of reclamation

"I look at the reclaimed land in Addu, and I just see a graveyard," said Yameen, who titled it "The Crime We Cheered For." It was one of a dozen works of art displayed at the Malé Art Gallery, where young Maldivian artists mapped what gets buried when we dredge the seafloor.

From November 5 to 7, visitors stepped off the capital's busy pavements and into a space transformed by shifting shorelines, dredged lagoons, and crowded housing blocks. The "Reclamation and the Housing Crisis" exhibition organised by Transparency Maldives and brought together 12 Maldivian artists between the ages of 16 to 35.

The show accompanied the launch of the sixth edition of MAAHARA Digest, a bi-annual publication that invites young Maldivians to reflect on governance, social issues, and public policy. This year's topic examines the growing tension between our increasing population density, housing demand, and environmental loss, with the exhibiting artists' work exploring one of the country's most pressing and politically charged issues.

Land reclamation has long been framed by those in power as an economic necessity; an expandable frontier in a country where natural land is scarce, and population growth is rapidly outpacing available housing. Reclamation has become synonymous with progress and success, sought after as a symbol of status with no consideration to the negative impacts and ecological repercussions it brings to the natural landscape and to our society.

The cost is substantial. Assessments of reclaimed areas have routinely documented extensive damage to coral reefs, seagrass meadows, and coastal ecosystems. And despite the grand promises of equitable and affordable housing solutions, many residents have been left navigating high-density "pigeon-coop" apartment blocks while waiting lists for state housing continue to grow, and frustration mounts over the distribution of new homes.

For many young Maldivians, the emotional and physical consequences of these transformations are deeply felt. The exhibition presented these impacts not through policy statements, but through lived experience, and highlighted their use of art as a form of activism, a way to make a statement, and a tool to push for a better future for themselves.

With three sub-themes within the exhibition itself (Land & Sea, Home & Belonging, and Future & Legacy), the exhibitors covered a variety of topics. At one corner of the gallery, a mixed-media art collage by Muawiyath Mohamed Didi drew attention to the lack of inclusion around disability when it comes to housing developments. His central argument was direct: while we have engineered new land from the sea, it has failed to build accessibility into these spaces.

"Every time we reclaim land, we are also making a decision about who gets to exist comfortably in that space," he explained. Despite ample chances for inclusive design for every new development, there is still a lack of consideration for residents with disabilities. Muawiyath's work positioned this as progress that claims to benefit the community, while quietly excluding many.

With a sharp irony, even the gallery hosting his work, meant to spark conversations on equity and community wellbeing, does not have an accessible entrance for people with mobility impairments.

On the next wall along, my documentary piece sought to captures environmental change through the communities who are experiencing it firsthand. The images are a collage of aerial drone views, portraits of my subjects, and landscape imagery. This particular selection of images explored reclamation work in Addu, where more than 184 hectares have now been reclaimed.

The work highlighted a persistent gap in official documentation – while large-scale changes dramatically alter the coastlines and water flows, impact assessments often fail to capture the lived experience of those affected. Without this much-needed research, the burden has fallen to the residents themselves to keep records. My project involved working with Project ThimaaVeshi, a youth-led NGO that ended up holding their own community perception survey of the reclamation to emphasise the negative impact on their own society. I traced their personal toll of reclamation, such as one member, Fathimath Layaan Nazim (also exhibiting in the show), described how her family home in Feydhoo now floods during heavy rain, and the loss of their local picnic island due to it being absorbed into the reclamation work.

Layaan's own work presented a piece that blends her photography with a haunting quote from the Keane song, Somewhere Only We Know: "I walked across an empty land, I knew the pathway like the back of my hand… Is this the place we used to love?"

Her photographs show a stretch of reclaimed land in Feydhoo, which was previously a seagrass meadow that Layaan described as "the beach in my backyard." Now, almost a decade since reclamation, only a few buildings have risen from the barren expanse, with most remaining unfinished, a place she once thought of as home. The selling price for her work of MVR 2,016 references the year the area was reclaimed, questioning what is lost when development transforms not only ecosystems, but the meaning of home itself.

Yameen is also a member of Project ThimaaVeshi. His precise price was calculated from the projected damage to the reef (MVR 13,130,130,000) and the seagrass (MVR 128,016,022) from the Environmental Impact Assessment in 2022, and the actual cost of the reclamation project itself (MVR 1,648,949,141). The price of his artwork might be seen as ridiculously high at first glance, but it is symbolic of the economic value of what was lost when the dredging even started, and the true social cost remains unmeasured by any official governing body.

"Something I always end up thinking about is how can the very same nation, whose income solely depends on the environment, can argue that its destruction will bring about socio-economic benefit?" Yameen reflected. "It only took them one word, 'housing.' to garner public support. Our inheritance, which we failed to make our legacy." His painting reflects this persistent contradiction through bold strokes of jarring tones of black and red against a white backdrop.

Across the various works, the exhibition raises recurring questions: what does development mean if it alienates the people it claims to serve? Who benefits, and who bears the costs? What future are we building, and for whom?

For many young Maldivians, these questions are no longer abstract policy debates. They are daily realities shaped by the issues seen in their work. By giving these experiences a public platform, Transparency Maldives aimed to bring a wider understanding of the housing crisis beyond financial numbers and building proposals. They aimed to provoke reflection and to create space for diverse and vital perspectives that are often missing from policy discussions.

The exhibition displayed works that are both testimony and warning – tracing the emotional, environmental, and social consequences of decisions made without foresight of the impact on the communities that have to live with them. As the Maldives continues to expand its land area, building upward and outward, the exhibition asks whether these transformations are creating a livable, equitable future or simply adding to the long-standing problems that already exist when it comes to housing.

What is clear from the artists' collective message is that the costs are not only environmental, but societal, personal, and generational. And without acknowledgement of this, the housing crisis will remain a crisis - not of land scarcity, but of priorities.

Exhibiting Artists: Ahmed Shauraf, Fathimath Layaan Naazim, Ijunad Junaid, Mishal Mushahid, Mohamed Yameen Maumoon, Muawiyath Mohamed Didi, Nafha Farooq, Nubla Shuaib, Reem Mohamed Waheed, Sophia Nasif, Vaavu-Meemu, and Zayna Asim Mohamed.