Editor’s Note: Why We Are Featuring Iran Now

Iran is once again dominating headlines.

From widespread public demonstrations that surged across Iran in late 2025 into early this year, to the current escalation and the breaking of war, the country is being discussed globally in the context of politics, conflict, and human suffering. The loss of life and instability unfolding are real and devastating. Nothing in this feature is intended to diminish that reality.

But there is something else that often goes unspoken.

For years, inside and outside of environmental circles, people have quietly asked me a question. Sometimes with curiosity. Sometimes with hesitation. Sometimes almost with guilt.

“What is actually there?”

They were referring to biodiversity.

In today’s world, there is pressure to already know. When the breadth of human knowledge appears to sit at our fingertips, asking basic questions can feel uncomfortable. If a place overlaps with your professional field or your moral concern, you are expected to understand it fully.

Curiosity, however, should never carry shame.

At SEVENSEAS Media, we see questions as bridges. When a region becomes defined only by conflict, it becomes even more important to remember that it is also defined by landscapes, species, ecosystems, culture, and people who have lived in relationship with nature for millennia.

Iran is not only a geopolitical flashpoint. It is a country of vast mountain ranges, ancient forests, wetlands, deserts, coral communities, migratory flyways, and one of the most strategically significant marine corridors in the world. It sits at the intersection of terrestrial and marine biodiversity, connecting ecosystems across Central Asia, the Caucasus, the Arabian Peninsula, and the Indian Ocean.

It is home to coastal communities whose fishing traditions stretch back centuries, to wetlands that host migratory birds crossing continents, and to marine systems that sustain life far beyond their shorelines.

This feature has been in development for some time. In light of current events, we believe it is important to move forward thoughtfully and with care.

Education is not a distraction from suffering. It is part of long term resilience.

At SEVENSEAS Media, we promote education and peace across cultures and living in harmony with nature. We believe that understanding biodiversity can humanize places that are otherwise reduced to headlines. Conservation, at its best, transcends politics and builds shared responsibility for the natural world.

In the articles that follow, we explore the geography of Iran, its terrestrial biodiversity, its migratory importance, and its ocean and coastal ecosystems. We touch on traditional fishing cultures, current pressures, conservation challenges, and the organizations working to protect what remains.

As always, we are not here to simplify complexity. We are here to make space for informed curiosity and careful understanding.

In moments of conflict, it can feel easier to look away. We choose instead to look closer, and to recognize that ecological systems persist regardless of political borders.

This story is developing rapidly. Details may shift as the situation evolves. Last verified: March 3, 2026.

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The images of burning tankers and military strikes feel distant when you are reading them on your phone over morning coffee. But the Strait of Hormuz crisis is not a story that will stay overseas. It is already in motion toward your fuel pump, your grocery store, and your electricity bill. The question is not whether you will feel its effects, but when, and how significantly.

This is not a call to panic. It is a call to understand. Here is what is happening, what it means for daily life, and what you can do about it.

Understanding the Ripple

The Strait of Hormuz handles approximately 20 million barrels of oil per day, representing roughly one-fifth of global supply. It also carries nearly 20% of the world’s liquefied natural gas trade, with the vast majority originating from Qatar. When this corridor shuts down, even partially, the consequences cascade through interconnected systems in ways that are not always immediately obvious.

Fuel prices are the most visible and fastest-moving consequence. Brent crude has already jumped approximately 10%, and analysts warn that sustained disruption could push prices above $100 per barrel, levels not seen since the aftermath of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022. For consumers, this translates to higher prices at the pump, typically with a short delay as wholesale costs filter through to retail. Countries that adjust fuel prices monthly may see a lag of weeks; those with market-based pricing will feel it sooner.

Shipping costs follow closely behind. CMA CGM has already imposed an Emergency Conflict Surcharge ranging from $2,000 to $4,000 per container, effective March 2. Rerouting vessels around the Cape of Good Hope adds 15 to 20 days to transit times between Asia and Europe, driving up fuel consumption, insurance premiums, and operational costs for every carrier on those routes. Freight rate increases of 25% to 30% are being projected for companies dealing in international trade. With both the Strait of Hormuz and the Red Sea now under simultaneous pressure, there is no quick alternative.

Food prices will be the slowest to move but potentially the most deeply felt. Higher energy costs raise the price of fertilizer production, which relies on natural gas as both an energy source and a chemical feedstock. That cost increase works its way into agricultural inputs, then into food processing, packaging (which depends on petroleum-based plastics), refrigerated transport, and finally retail pricing. Import-dependent economies will feel this most acutely. For nations in the Gulf region that rely heavily on imported food, the disruption is doubly compounded: both the energy to produce food and the shipping routes to deliver it are under pressure simultaneously.

What This Actually Means for You

We could list the usual advice here: drive less, buy local, keep some extra staples on hand. Some of that is reasonable enough if you are already headed to the shops. But we think it is more useful to be direct about what this kind of crisis actually looks like from a household perspective, because the biggest risk is not running out of anything. It is making bad decisions based on bad information.

Most of the cost increases heading your way are not something you can opt out of. When Brent crude moves, fuel prices follow. When container surcharges jump $2,000 to $4,000 per unit, those costs get passed along through supply chains that touch everything from packaging plastics to refrigerated transport. The question is not whether prices will rise but how quickly, how steeply, and for how long, and those answers depend on how the military and diplomatic situation evolves in the coming weeks, not on anything happening in your kitchen.

What you can do is calibrate your expectations. Fuel costs will move first, likely within days. Food prices will lag by weeks or months, and any dramatic grocery increases in the first week of this crisis almost certainly reflect opportunistic repricing rather than genuine cost transmission. Knowing that difference protects you from panic and from accepting inflated prices as inevitable when they may not be.

You can also be disciplined about your information sources. The Joint Maritime Information Center, Lloyd’s List, and established international wire services are reporting verified data. Social media is generating speculation at industrial scale. The gap between the two will widen as this crisis continues, and the most regrettable financial decisions, whether personal or political, tend to get made in the fog of the first 72 hours.

Finally, and this matters to us as an ocean publication, pay attention to who is most exposed. It is not the consumer adjusting a commute. It is the fishing communities along the Persian Gulf whose fuel, bait, and export markets are all disrupted at once. It is the populations in Gulf states that import the vast majority of their food through the very shipping lanes now under threat. It is the seafarers on 150-plus tankers anchored in a conflict zone with no departure date. Their story is the full story of what a maritime crisis costs, and it is the story we will keep covering.

The Ocean Connection

At SEVENSEAS, we believe that every geopolitical crisis carries an environmental dimension that too often gets buried beneath the economic and security headlines. The Persian Gulf is not just an energy corridor. It is a living marine ecosystem that supports endangered species, sustains fishing communities, and holds scientific secrets about how coral reefs might survive a warming planet. The decisions being made in the Strait of Hormuz this week will shape the health of that ecosystem for decades to come.

We will continue following this story not only because of its implications for oil markets and global shipping, but because the ocean always pays a price in wartime, and someone needs to be watching.

Written by: Junior Thanong Aiamkhophueng

Attribution: This article draws on economic analysis from Kpler’s market intelligence report on Strait of Hormuz supply disruption and commodity pricing; Gulf News reporting on projected impacts to UAE fuel, grocery, and consumer prices, including commentary from economists on inflationary transmission; Al Jazeera’s analysis of EIA data on daily oil transit volumes and Asian market dependency; SpecialEurasia’s assessment of maritime blockade economics and LNG supply disruption; ESM Magazine’s analysis of European grocery retail and FMCG supply chain vulnerability; The Conversation’s academic perspective on chokepoint economics; Automotive Manufacturing Solutions’ reporting on global logistics rerouting and container surcharge impacts; the Cyprus Mail’s coverage of consumer preparedness and profiteering warnings; gCaptain’s operational data on CMA CGM Emergency Conflict Surcharges and shipping line suspensions; and the Middle East Briefing’s historical comparison of energy crisis pricing patterns. Container ship photo via Wikimedia Commons. For further reading, visit Kpler, the U.S. Energy Information Administration (EIA), and the International Energy Agency (IEA).

Meet The Cover Conservationist is a recurring SEVENSEAS feature that spotlights inspiring and influential people working at the forefront of ocean conservation.

Beyond the research papers, campaigns, and headlines, this series offers a more personal look at the people behind the work, exploring what drives them, challenges them, and keeps them hopeful for the future of our ocean. If there’s a conservationist you’d love to see featured on a future cover, we invite you to submit a short nomination (around 250 words) to info@sevenseasmedia.org. We receive many outstanding submissions, and while not all can be selected for publication, each is carefully considered.

Below you’ll find the merciless interrogation designed to give readers insight into our conservationist’s professional journey and the human side of life in ocean conservation. We only ask fearlessly candid, no-holds-barred questions, so get ready for a brutally honest, nail-biting interview.

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1. To get our readers acquainted, why don’t you tell us just a little about yourself, what motivates you and what you are working on.

Jacqueline: I’m a second-year master’s degree student in the University of Rhode Island’s Graduate School of Oceanography. My research focuses on water quality and aquaculture, specifically investigating how water quality and gear type affect oyster growth in Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island. This work is driven by my interest to collaborate with oyster farmers and conduct research that benefits the aquaculture industry.

2. What was the moment or influence that first pulled you toward ocean conservation? Tell us about that.

Jacqueline: During college, I spent a summer along the coast of Maine assisting with lobster and scallop research projects. That experience showed me how closely science, industry, and coastal communities are connected. Working on the waterfront and interacting directly with fishermen helped me see that ocean conservation isn’t just about ecosystems; it’s also about supporting the people and livelihoods that depend on them.

3. Was there a specific place, species, experience, mentor, job, or challenge that shaped your career path?

Jacqueline: My first job after earning my bachelor’s degree was on Catalina Island, California, where I worked as a marine science instructor. It was a dynamic, adventurous, and rewarding job, one that continues to impact me today. I learned how to be an educator, communicate science, adapt quickly, and find the fun in challenging moments.

4. How do science and storytelling intersect in your work?

Jacqueline: The water quality dataset from my project helps oyster farmers understand seasonal trends in Narragansett Bay. By pairing quantitative data with observations from oyster farmers, we can tell a more complete story about what works, guide future research, and strengthen Rhode Island’s aquaculture industry through collaboration.

5. What’s one misconception people often have about your field?

Jacqueline: One common misconception people have about oceanography is that it entails just being out on a boat conducting field work. A lot of the work happens behind a computer, analyzing data, writing, securing funding, and collaborating across disciplines. It’s an ever-changing balance of field, lab, and desk work.

6. What part of your work feels most urgent today?

Jacqueline: Continued collaboration feels especially urgent, specifically uplifting the voices of industry members, such as oyster farmers, to identify research questions that are most relevant and impactful.

7. What achievement are you most proud of, even if few people know about it?

Jacqueline: I decided to apply to graduate school nine years after earning my undergraduate degree. Leaving the workforce and returning to student life was a big shift, and I’m proud to have taken that step. While I’m older than many of my peers, I wouldn’t change my timeline. Professional (and personal) growth isn’t linear, and there are infinite ways to get to where you want to go.

8. What keeps you going when conservation feels overwhelming?

Jacqueline: Being in graduate school, I’m surrounded by a large community of people who are deeply motivated. Being surrounded by that energy and commitment helps me stay focused, and reminds me that change is possible, even when progress feels slow.

9. What’s something the public rarely sees about how conservation really works?

Jacqueline: One thing the public rarely sees is just how complex and unpredictable conservation science can be. There are countless variables, including weather, mechanical issues, staffing, and funding, that we navigate every day. Carrying out research often means constantly adjusting and getting creative.

10. What’s one hard truth about ocean conservation we need to face?

Jacqueline: Climate change and environmental stressors disproportionately impact marginalized and coastal communities. Their voices and needs are often overlooked, yet they are on the frontlines of these challenges. Effective conservation requires listening to these communities, gathering their perspectives, and developing real solutions that will protect future generations.

11. What advice would you give your younger self entering this field?

Jacqueline: Everyone around you has something to teach you. Take the time to listen, ask questions, and build genuine connections.

12. Where do you realistically hope your work will be in 5 to 10 years?

Jacqueline: While my master’s research is ending, I hope that future research in Rhode Island continues to expand and support sustainable aquaculture. I’d love to see more state funding for projects that benefit both oysters and kelp, stronger partnerships between researchers and industry, and initiatives such as an experimental aquaculture farm.

13. What innovation excites you most in ocean conservation?

Jacqueline: I’m excited to see how aquaculture can become more “climate-ready.” For example, breeding or selecting oyster strains that are resilient to warming waters and ocean acidification could help farmers adapt to changing conditions.

14. Ocean sunrise or sunset? Any reason why?

Jacqueline: Sunrise, preferably viewed from a surfboard.

15. If you could be any marine animal, what would you be?

Jacqueline: Humpback whale. You can’t beat the ability to echolocate.

16. Coffee or tea (or what else?) in the field?

Jacqueline: Matcha latte.

17. Most unexpected or interesting place your work has taken you?

Jacqueline: I led marine conservation programs in the Dominican Republic for a summer. We partnered with local nonprofits on coral and mangrove restoration. It was interesting to see conservation happening in a different context. I loved learning about different approaches and realizing how much we can share and learn from one another across communities and countries.

18. One book, film, or documentary everyone should experience?

Jacqueline: Blue Planet 1 and 2.

19. What does a perfect day off look like?

Jacqueline: A bike ride to the beach, body surfing in warm summer waves, and low tide sea glass hunting.

20. One word you associate with the future of the ocean?

Jacqueline: Collaboration.

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• – Meet Dr Enrico Gennari, the January Cover Conservationist

Queer on a Quest: On visibility, travel, and human compassion

I didn’t go looking for danger; I went looking for people. I went knowing the warnings, carrying them lightly, aware of the risks without letting them write the entire story for me. What I found wasn’t recklessness on my part or a denial of reality, but something far more common: people who were willing to meet me where I stood, openly and with respect.

In the markets and mosques, on ferries, and in winding back streets, I met people whose lives had nothing to do with my fears. And in those ordinary crossings, I learned how rarely decency announces itself loudly, and how it often simply shows up unexpectedly.

North Korea

In the DPRK, the structure of life is what one would notice first. Everything feels arranged, and held in place with rules and culture. These rules are rarely talked about but very much understood by the North Korean people. The land, however, refuses to cooperate. Mountains rise as they will, and beautiful rivers (much like the Daedong River I was to be running alongside in the upcoming days) bend and move as they please. Structure bows to the will of nature.

I’ve been twice to the beautiful Hermit Kingdom, and the first time was for the Pyongyang Half Marathon. I ran the second year the marathon was offered to foreigners and probably the first time in its history that North Korea allowed access to as many tourists as were running in this event. I was very happy to count myself as one of them. It was here that I met Mr. Park. I’ve written about Mr. Park before as this was one of those stories that truly changed who I was and how I see the world.

The conversation with Mr. Park started after I finished my first half marathon ever, so needless to say I had very little energy to entertain small talk. However, when Mr. Park started to engage me with questions about my life, I couldn’t resist talking about myself. I mean, it’s my favorite topic. It was there when he asked if I had a wife or a girlfriend. I did do a little research before coming to this country, as most queer travellers are used to doing when going to a country where our sexuality could be, shall we say, a hindrance. I was told by the tour company I chose to go with, Koryo Tours (look them up, by the way), and their response shocked me. They said it was perfectly fine to be openly gay in North Korea, but all North Koreans believed that that was a Western ideal and did not exist within the country. Okay, so I wasn’t in any danger for outing myself. To my dismay, however, when I showed Mr. Park a photo of my then-boyfriend, his response was less than friendly. ‘I don’t like that,’ he said and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day. Rude, but not the first time. It wasn’t until the next morning at breakfast that Mr. Park pulled me aside, like aside aside though, he fully pulled me out of the breakfast room and down the hall to a very private part of the hotel. Confused and very concerned, I went with him, not at all sure what was happening. Mr. Park then turned to me and asked, ‘Do you love your boyfriend, Mark?’ to which I could only squeak a nervous response of ‘Yes.’ Assuming I was about to be deported or something, his face melted to a smile and he clapped my shoulder and said, ‘Then that’s okay, that’s okay then.’ After I finally exhaled from what seemed like forever, my heart melted. I can only assume he went home and had a think about it. Instead of continuing to judge or believing what he was told, he really thought about it and decided that as long as it was a loving relationship, he could totally be on board. For the entire rest of the trip, we were buddies. I think about the experience so often, as that was the first time I learned that government, politics, and travel warnings are not always a reflection of what you will find in the streets. Much like Mount Ryongak and all the peaks that choose to defiantly stand up around the city center of Pyongyang, Mr. Park chose to use his own self-determination and decide that he and I could be friends. Obviously, I haven’t heard from him again, although I did make inquiries the second time I was there. He’s doing well and back at his desk job. It still does my heart good to know I had a friend who chose love over rules and kindness over program.

Afghanistan

After North Korea, I assumed these same rules would apply to Afghanistan: the same reserve, the same careful distance. Instead, I found myself standing in Kabul, dressed in my club naughties, a glass of vodka sweating in my hand, quietly asking myself how another trip built around warnings had led me here. North Korea offered acceptance via a contained, singular experience given out by one Mr. Park. In Kabul, it was everywhere, layered, overlapping, impossible to trace to one person but definitely one moment.

The DJ was killing it. All of the haphazardly put-up twinkle lights gave the room a cool retro seventies vibe, while the party patrons buzzed around, dancing and socializing as a group of people do who have found themselves in a very tight-knit community. This birthday party was raging. I found myself, mildly under the influence, in the center of the dance floor, in a deep grind with my bestie. In true Vegas hens party fashion, we dirty-danced with each other while being cheered on by the Afghan party-goers. Now this would have been a typical night out any day of the week normally had we not been standing, or umm grinding, downtown Kabul. What was happening?

I remember mostly the streets of Kabul as being beige and nondescript. They were full of life and character but generally just walled compounds, one after the other, and streets lined with cedar trees. Beautiful in their own right, however, each street had a way of blending into one another. I met my friend/dance partner on one of those said streets after driving in from the airport. He had been working in Kabul for a while and offered to bring me along for a road trip through central Afghanistan. I immediately accepted this offer and flew to meet him. We hugged on the street and he took me into the house where I was to be staying whilst in Kabul. Here is where it hit me. We passed through the compound wall, through a sturdy gate, into an inner garden, or paradise, would have been more appropriate. It was a literal oasis of grapevines clinging to rock walls, of pomegranate trees growing strong in impossibly fertile soil. There were bushes and trees in every corner and the smell of pine with touches of kebab only heightened the sense. It was beautiful, and it was a reminder of Kabul from long ago: rich in heritage and refined in opulence. It wasn’t until a while after that the metaphor hit me.

Kabul unveiled a truth: beauty and acceptance often dwell in shared, hidden sanctuaries. Beyond the watchful, busy streets and behind high, rigid compound walls, there was a defiant life of music blaring, vodka flowing, and Afghans, contrary to every modern media narrative I’d heard, laughing, dancing, and drawing this gay man into a night of rebellious vibrancy. Seemingly reserved on the outside yet fiercely welcoming within. That evening transformed me, proving that the need for human connection is a force more powerful than any imposed ideology.

Ethiopia

In the Omo Valley of Ethiopia, nature and people overlap so completely that neither tries to dominate the other. The land stands as it is, and the people do as well. Water and dust, language and ritual exist side by side, negotiating their space not demanding it. It felt like a place that has always understood what modern borders forget: that coexistence isn’t disorder; it’s balance.

I remember coming to the Omo Valley a little trepidatious, as it was a little infamous and tourists were criticized for traveling to experience a ‘human zoo.’ I would have never wanted to contribute to that, but after many talks with tour companies and personal reflection, I made my way there. The vibrancy of the people was astounding, from the seriousness of the Mursi People, to the beautiful ochre hues of the Hammer Tribe; cultures rich in their own traditions shared so much beautiful space for each other. I marveled again and again at the diversity. And not only in the people; the land was vast and just as diverse, from green lush valleys of the Omo, to the Danakil Depression, all the way up to the deserts of the north. The land left you wanting nothing.

I found myself one night in a very small town somewhere around Jinka. My boyfriend at the time was grumpy from travel and wanted to stay in, but our guide invited us out to a small hole-in-the-wall for some drinks. I never say no. Honestly, never. I was thrilled I chose not to say no to this evening because this bar was way too much fun. The dance floor was going off and everyone was very welcoming and friendly. I found myself drinking at a table with my tour guide and several of his friends, who all were clad from head to toe in the Rastafarian colors. We sat there talking, and please understand I had a few Habeshas (local beers) in me, or I would never have been so bold, but the guys were engaged in explaining to me what the Rastafarian movement meant to Ethiopia. They explained how the Rastafarian movement was less about rebellion than it was about a return: a return to anti-colonial thought and ways of being, and Ethiopia had the distinction of representing pre-colonial African values.

It was then that one of the gentlemen clocked me. He looked up at me, as I was sipping my beer and just quietly enjoying the conversation, and exclaimed far too loudly, ‘I see you!’ ‘I’m sorry?’ I said back.

‘I see you, I know who you are,’ he said, waving a finger at me. Genuinely confused again, I said, ‘Sorry?’ smiling, trying to understand what was going on.

‘You’re a gay!’ he exclaimed as if he had cracked some sort of code. My stomach lurched. I honestly didn’t know how to respond. I was completely unaware of how to get back to my hotel, I was literally the only foreigner in this place, and my tour guide was a little wisp of a thing and very much incapable of helping me out of any situation.

I stammered, and honestly I can’t remember what came out of my mouth, something along the lines of, ‘Oh really? Why do you say that?’ I’m horrible with confrontation and this was not a moment I relished getting into one. Somewhat thankfully, his next line was, ‘It’s okay, I don’t have a problem, but that’s not something we believe in here.’ Now honestly, I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know what emboldened me to continue this conversation, as usually I would simply do my best to exit as quickly as possible. But on this night, I took a long haul on my Habesha and asked, ‘What don’t you believe in?’ He predictably launched into the same old argument of a Christian household, one man and one woman, procreating children, the same argument I’ve had to listen to since Catholic high school. It was then, and I can only tell you this came as a huge surprise to me, I launched into a rather spirited monologue of how Africa always had space for queer people; men living as women and adopting female roles around the village, non-binary people woven into society, of gay and lesbian lovers. I don’t know much about Africa’s history, but I do know a little bit about queer history and seemed maybe too eager to share. To my surprise, he listened intently, and instead of challenging my rather passionate, mildly inebriated, history lesson, he threw his head back and laughed, a gracious, happy sound that somehow ended the debate without invalidating a word I’d said. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘okay, you know some things.’ I smiled, he smiled, and we continued our night of drinking and dancing. We didn’t speak anymore about the subject, and the conversation ended with my guide saying, ‘I like gay guys, they don’t take any of the girls.’ I was more than happy to move on, but it was in that moment, when I braced for persecution, that I instead found myself fully seen and profoundly heard, creating a vital bridge of understanding in a space where I had expected something much different. Here we were, two cultures, distinct in countless ways yet deeply similar in many others, sharing this space and enjoying each other’s company, just as people have done on these very lands for countless centuries.

Written by: Mark Scodellaro