LocationsMy Journey as a UNDP Youth Climate Catalyst
August 12, 2025
Pujan engages with students, explaining the impacts of climate change and ways they can take action.
Author: Pujan Pokharel, Youth Climate Catalyst, UNDP
It’s strange how the weight of the world can sneak up on you in the quietest of ways.
Mine came not in a speech, nor in a global summit, but in the moment, I walked through my community—barefoot on a familiar path—watching a child step over a heap of garbage just to get to school. I remember the way the morning sun touched the leaves of trees, trying to peek through a haze of dust and smog. Something in me shifted. That moment, perhaps mundane to most, lit the match of purpose within me.
When I was selected as a Youth Climate Catalyst under UNDP’s Climate Promise project, I didn’t yet understand the scale of responsibility I was stepping into. I only knew I was willing to fight for cleaner air, greener surroundings, and more awakened minds. I believed that real change does not descend from grand gestures but rises—quietly, insistently—from the roots.
So, I returned to those roots—my community, my municipality—and began to listen. Really listen.
I spoke with elders who remembered clearer skies and children who had never seen them. I sat in municipality offices with ward representatives, sometimes for hours, explaining not just policies, but possibilities. I knocked on the doors of school principals and requested time with their students. I met skepticism with clarity. I met indifference with stories. I met resistance with consistency.
In the beginning, I thought I was just coordinating awareness campaigns. But I was building bridges—between local governments and youths, between environmental knowledge and civic action, between hopelessness and hope.
As part of a waste management, 64 dustbins were distributed to community members.
We laid out plans that were anything but simple. Waste management in our area was a chaotic puzzle—plastic mixed with organic waste, trash cans absent, and people long resigned to the stench of decay. So we dared to suggest a shift: structured waste segregation, dustbin installations, weekly cleaning campaigns. We weren’t suggesting change for others—we were offering to lead it.
But plans on paper mean nothing without hands in the soil.
We began by mobilizing schools and local youth groups—young people who, like me, wanted more than temporary solutions. In those early sessions, I watched eyes light up as we explained the 3Rs: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Not just slogans, but a new way of seeing the world.
With every orientation, we ignited new fires of understanding. Some students asked how to make compost. Others offered to speak with their parents about reducing plastic. One boy quietly stayed behind after a session and told me he’d been throwing trash in the river for years, but he wanted to stop. That confession—vulnerable, brave—meant everything. It meant our message was sinking in.
We didn’t just talk. We acted.
Dustbins, 64 of them, made their way into the community—placed with purpose, not decoration. And every time we installed one, we stayed back, watching how people reacted. Some threw wrappers in the bin. Others watched and followed. The bins became symbols—of dignity, of choice, of a cleaner future.
But the soil was still thirsty.
Mayor of Lumbini Province planting a tree as part of Pujan's campaign.
That’s when we began our tree plantation initiative. It started modestly—a plan to plant 111 trees along a dusty road. We knew greenery could breathe life back into the lungs of our city. What we didn’t expect was the wave of support that followed.
Ward members called in their friends. Schools brought students in uniforms with tiny shovels. Community leaders who once questioned us stood shoulder to shoulder in the soil. The number grew from 111 to over 2,000. We didn’t count them like achievements; we watched them grow like promises. The highway once lined with dust was now framed with saplings—each one a breath for the future.
One evening, I stood alone among the newly planted trees as the wind tugged at their young leaves. I thought of the generations to come who might walk under their shade. We weren’t just planting trees. We were restoring balance.
As the movement deepened, we organized a massive cleaning campaign—not for publicity, but to remind people that their hands could heal what had been broken. Together, with the Tol Samiti and dozens of volunteers, we scrubbed roadsides, cleaned gutters, and gathered waste in sacks heavier than anyone had expected. What once seemed like a thankless job became a source of pride.
Even after our campaign days were officially over, the locals continued. Cleaning became a habit, a tradition in the making. I saw old women clearing litter near temples and school children reminding each other to use bins. And I realized: transformation doesn’t scream—it whispers and waits.
Pujan presenting about how youth can contribute towards climate action and bring effective change.
To ensure our work wasn't fleeting, we hosted panel discussions and skill-based trainings—spaces for dialogue, for questioning the old ways, and for introducing composting techniques that could turn trash into nourishment. The compost kits, which we advocated for tirelessly, became tools for change. Each one distributed meant a household now knew how to give back to the earth.
And through it all, perhaps the most powerful experience was watching the youth evolve. Students who once sat quietly at the back were now leading community events. Teenagers who once laughed off “climate talk” were gathering data, coordinating cleanups, designing posters.
They had found their cause. And I had found my community.
This journey changed me. It taught me patience, because institutions don’t always move quickly. It taught me diplomacy, because leadership is about more than ideas—it’s about timing, listening, adapting. It taught me that even the smallest win, when rooted in purpose, can ripple outward into something permanent.
But above all, it reminded me that nature is not waiting for us to save it. It is waiting for us to remember that we are part of it.
When I first stepped into this role, I felt like a lone voice echoing in a crowded world. But now, I am one of many. A chorus of young people rising—not just in protest, but in action, with dirt under our nails and hope in our hearts.
This isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.
Because the roots have taken hold.
And from them, a forest will rise.
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