‘Disaster is about caring. I’m not selfish any more’ – This is climate breakdown

• Location Sutherland, South Africa

• Disaster Southern Africa drought, 2015-2023

Isabella Visagie, known to everyone in her life as Sybil, is a 57-year-old sheep farmer, wife and mother from the Karoo, in the Northern Cape province of South Africa. In 2015 a drought began that would bring the community in which she lived to its knees. The province has been locked in a drought since then. The climate crisis intensified flash droughts across southern Africa in 2015-16, increased the probability of the 2015-17 drought in the south-west of neighbouring Western Cape, and is increasing temperatures in the Northern Cape, as well as decreasing rainfall in parts of that province.

I grew up on Rooipoort farm in the Karoo. This is where I am. It is where I was born, and where my character was formed. Let me start there. We grew up as four girls and one boy in the house. We had a lot of freedom. We roamed around the farm. We could walk as far and as wide as we wanted to.

Sybil Visagie: ‘The bees came to our house looking for food.’ Photograph: Chris de Beer/The Guardian

I always knew I would never be anything else than a farmer. If it’s in your blood, it’s there. My father was a potato seed farmer. When I was about 16 years old, the laboratories certified his seedlings wrong. The whole crop was buried. There was no single bag of potato sold. After months, we got this letter that they messed up the samples. There was no virus in this potato seed.

We tried to recover, but debt swallowed us in. We lost the farm. People ask me how it felt and I said: “Listen, this is worse than death.” If somebody dies, you mourn and you bury them. To lose a farm, it’s still there. It’s just not yours. No one should ever go through this.

Sheep grazing in a parched field near Swellendam in Western Cape in 2019. Photograph: Rodger Bosch/AFP/Getty Images

I married a farmer, Jan, and we did irrigation farming for 21 years in another area. But in 2004 we bought back this family farm. The guy that owned this farm didn’t want this any more. My husband always told me that he wanted to give my history back to me.

A few years before this drought started, we realised something was going on. In 2012, we had a severe flood on the farm, and then no rain for the next five years. It got so dry that you can feel in the air that this is going to be devastating. We are used to seasonal droughts in the Karoo. We plan our whole farming business around this to make sure we can go through this. This one was terrible. This one did not stop.

In 2017, the bees came to our house looking for food. Bees always find food in the fields. I never had the situation where bees come for help. They came in swarms to have something to eat. We made syrup for them. They are unbelievably happy the moment you put down this trace of sugar. They call more bees. For me, this was a clear sign that there is nothing left in the field, not even a little something left.

This little river on the farm, which never dries up totally, went totally dry. The fish died. The fish eagles left. Tortoises died. It was stinking of death. We had to feed the tortoises as well. They are shy animals. They’re very on their own. They fed on the little bit of grass left in the gardens. Then it became quiet. It was like the birds stopped singing. The sky was brighter than ever. It was white. Everything was very dry.

‘Everything you can sell goes into animal feed. Most of the time it’s not enough to fill a sheep or a goat’s tummy.’ Photograph: Chris de Beer/The Guardian

A hydrogeologist told me: “Listen, you are in the first phases of a very, very, very severe drought. This is going to be a long one and it’s going to be a hard one. You are going to have water difficulties on the farm,” which we did. “You are going to have extreme temperatures,” which we did. “You are going to lose more or less 40% of your grazing on the farm,” which we did due to this drought.

There are no finances left, so you have to take an extra loan on your farm. All savings go to the animal feed. Everything you can sell goes into animal feed. Most of the time it’s not enough to fill a sheep or a goat’s tummy. You are confronted with hungry and dependent animals. You are worried constantly.

A lot of animals just give up. Sometimes they are not even thin, they just don’t want to live any more. They stop eating and they die. As a farmer, you have to throw them away, bury them, burn them. Then another thing is ewes that do not want to raise a lamb. They just decide it’s not worth it to raise this baby.

The most difficult thing for me as a woman was to stop to try to save my dearest lamb. Previous to this drought, you handfeed them. You’ve got this mother instinct. When you see a baby, it doesn’t matter what baby, you pick it up to try to help it. There’s no money to do this any more.

After that, we had to throw away a lot of dead sheep every single day. It’s like a war. You see your mind switch off. It’s now part of your life, you have to do this. Drought has got a very, very slow way to kill everything. Your hopes, your dreams, your self-esteem, your financial independence. A body can take only so much, a mind can only take so much. Emotionally, I think most of our farmers did have a form of depression. I always say when a farmer goes quiet, then you need to worry.

This happens in the towns as well. Shops close down because there’s not enough money. The numbers of children going to school dropped because people could not afford to take their children to towns any more. They had no choice but to homeschool their children.

Farmers could not afford their workers any more. I tried to prevent this with everything I’ve got. A farm is a community. Some of the workers are working with us for 40 years. I’m fortunate we were able to keep all our people. But around me, most of the farms had let go of the labourers.

I started Save the Sheep, a platform for people to get an alternative income. We baked 30,000 buckets of cookies and sold them for the farm workers, farmers and wives because you actually made more money with a bucket of cookies than from a sheep. There were farmers and farm workers that did not have enough food on the tables every day, so we supplied them with humanitarian aid, assisted by Gift of the Givers. They also assisted with a project for drilling water on farms, to keep them just afloat. Some didn’t even have drinking water left in the height of this drought.

I was involved in most of the communities affected by the drought for the best part of three, four years. You become involved in each and every person’s life you’re trying to help. A lot of farmers told me there’s no sense in living any more because they can’t look after their families, their workers, their farms and their animals. We had suicides in some of our areas. It’s not the weak people that do this. Sometimes people think: “Listen, if I do it now then my insurance will look after my family. It’s better for me to go and make sure that they are alright.”

A cow stands near a dry riverbed outside Utrecht, in the north-west of KwaZulu-Natal, in 2015. Photograph: Siphiwe Sibeko/Reuters

Immediately you feel responsible. I also felt bad for myself because we are in the same boat: our farm, our animals and everything. It was the same. It was not a choice. It was a disaster. It is still very, very real in some areas. I see a lot of farmers getting heart attacks. I think the amount of stress we were put under the last five, six years contributed to the fact my husband had a stroke. It is too much, being responsible for everybody and everything. This has to have a breaking point and it did.

If a crisis like this one strikes, it is difficult to endure without a strong belief, not only in your own capabilities but also in God. Otherwise, you will not be able to keep going. It’s too much for one person to endure. I think the fact I was involved in all these projects was part of my survival in staying stable as I am. Helping others a lot, making sure that people get necessary extra income possibilities, creating skills. You should never wait for the nation.

The assistance we received from our government was not enough. I can just say it like it is. We were neglected. There’s a shame that charities like Gift of the Givers had to step in and do something in order to prevent further job losses and damage to the flocks. We are still creating extra income possibilities. There should be more discussions and plans on how to manage a drought. It’s not an immediate disaster. It stays and it stays and it stays.

Climate change is now something that we all discuss in fear. If you look back into history, every time that climate changed it had a devastating effect. I don’t know if this is a cycle. Maybe this is an act of God. But the normal years are getting less and the drier years are getting more. I feel that if I knew what was coming, I would probably sell the farm 12 years ago. I don’t know.

What brings me hope is the kindness of people still out there. You can’t imagine how kind people can be. Disaster is about caring. There’s still people caring about me. It made me aware of the hardship of other people. I’m not selfish any more, not looking at myself any more. It’s time we realise we do not only walk on this Earth to make a living, but to make a contribution towards the future of our children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.

‘It’s not only dry and miserable, there’s beauty here as well.’ Photograph: Chris de Beer/The Guardian

My joy for the future will be that we get to a point that we can teach these lessons to the generations to come. To do better than we did with disasters like this.

You must know that the drought, especially in the Karoo, is the most severe in the world. It changed us. It changed me totally. But it’s not only dry and miserable. It is a very thankful area and this is one of the qualities that people who grew up here take to themselves.

I live in an old stone house with metre-thick walls built in the 1800s. It’s not a beautiful house. But it’s extremely valuable for me. My doors are open the whole day so my dogs and cats can walk and come and go. I don’t even have border fences in front of my doors. It’s not only dry and miserable, there’s beauty here as well. We’ve got stars. Every single night, the most beautiful stars in the world.

This testimonial was produced with the help of the Climate Disaster Project; thanks to Sean Holman, Aldyn Chwelos, Darren Schuettler, Ricardo Garcia, Cristine Gerk, Tracy Sherlock and Lisa Taylor.

• Design and development by Harry Fischer and Pip Lev