Our millet fields need it
For 723 years, the Serer people of Senegal have gathered each summer in Fatick to perform the Miss de Diobaye — a sacred hunt believed to call forth the rains and consecrate the farming season. Born from a 14th-century drought and the prophecy of a seer, the ritual carries within it a philosophy older than the nation itself: that human communities are not separate from the land but bound to it through ceremony, memory, and collective action. As climate change reshapes the seasons and deforestation empties the forests, this ancient practice is not dissolving but adapting — a reminder that resilience, too, can be inherited.
- The rains that once arrived in May now come later and shorter, forcing the hunt's organizers to move its date forward in a race against an increasingly unpredictable sky.
- The forests that once sheltered the ritual's prey have been stripped by deforestation and soil salinisation, and the antelopes and rhinos of ancestral hunts are long gone.
- Hunters who once walked barefoot through dense bush now pursue animals on motorbikes, closing in at speed before firing — the ceremony's spirit preserved even as its methods are overhauled.
- Anthropologists warn that losing such traditions would mean losing centuries of accumulated ecological knowledge and the communal bonds that make climate adaptation truly resilient.
- The day after the 2026 hunt, the season's first major rains fell over western Senegal — leaving the question of cause and faith, as ever, beautifully unresolved.
In the July heat of Fatick, western Senegal, hundreds of initiated Serer men moved through the streets in a state between ritual and frenzy — drums pounding, rifles cracking, the day's kill held aloft like offerings. This was the 723rd Miss de Diobaye, a hunt the Serer people have performed for seven centuries in the belief that the right animal, taken at the right moment, can summon rain.
The tradition is guarded closely. The night before, a traditional seer called a saltigue divines which creature must be taken, and the knowledge is shared only among the initiated. Legend traces the practice to a catastrophic drought in the 1300s, when a seer's prophecy proved true: a specific animal was hunted, rain fell that very night, and the harvest was abundant. The ritual has endured ever since.
The methods, however, have changed. Where ancestors walked barefoot through dense bush, hunters like 26-year-old firefighter Ousseynou Laye Dione now ride motorbikes, chasing prey across open terrain before firing. The return to the district remains a martial procession — men adorned with protective vines, eyes rolled back in trance, firing into the air to ward off evil spirits. Nineteen-year-old Mamour Diaw, face painted white, spoke simply of why it mattered: "Our millet fields need it."
But the landscape has been transformed. The forest of Diobaye, once vast, is now a sparse plain. Deforestation and soil salinisation have erased the habitat that once sustained the hunt's traditional prey. And climate change has rewritten the seasonal rhythm entirely — rains that once arrived reliably in May now come later and in shorter bursts. The hunt, once held in May to coincide with the opening of the rainy season, is now scheduled earlier, a collective attempt to coax the season forward. Farmers have adapted too, planting faster-maturing seed varieties to outpace an unpredictable climate.
Anthropologist Sobel Dione sees something irreplaceable in the ritual's persistence. The Miss de Diobaye, he argues, is more than spectacle — it is a vessel for centuries of practical ecological knowledge and a living bond between community and land that purely technical solutions cannot replicate. "These traditions have the capacity to evolve," he observed. "They make climate adaptation more robust and more human."
The day after the 2026 hunt, western Senegal received its first major rainfall of the season. Whether ceremony or climate delivered it remains, as always, a matter of faith. What is certain is that the ritual endures — transformed, but still rooted in the conviction that community, ceremony, and the land cannot be separated.
In the heat of a July afternoon in Fatick, western Senegal, hundreds of men moved through the streets in a state that seemed to exist between ritual and frenzy. Drums pounded. Voices rose in unison. Rifles cracked. They carried the day's kill—jackals, monitor lizards, monkeys, birds—held aloft like offerings. This was the Miss de Diobaye, the 723rd iteration of a hunt that the Serer people have performed for seven centuries, rooted in a belief that the right animal killed at the right moment can summon rain.
The tradition belongs entirely to initiated Serer men. A day before the hunt, a traditional seer called a saltigue divines which creature must be taken. The knowledge stays secret, shared only among those who have undergone the initiation rites. According to legend, the practice began during a catastrophic drought in the 1300s, when a seer predicted that rain would return only if a specific animal was hunted down. When that animal fell, heavy rain came that night, and the harvest that followed was abundant. The ritual was born from that moment and has persisted ever since.
Ousseynou Laye Dione, a 26-year-old firefighter, returned from his seventh hunt on a motorbike, eight other young men riding alongside him through scorching heat. The methods have changed. Where ancestors once walked barefoot through dense bush, hunters now chase animals on motorcycles, closing to within a hundred meters before firing. The catch is divided on the spot—machetes hack off pieces that hunters hang from their belts. The return to the district becomes a martial procession: men adorned with protective vines, eyes rolled back in trance, firing weapons into the air to ward off evil spirits. Women and children watched from a distance, some delighted, some startled by the gunfire. Nineteen-year-old Mamour Diaw, his face painted white, spoke of pride in representing his community. "Our millet fields need it," he said.
But the landscape that once sustained this ritual has transformed. The forest of Diobaye, once vast, is now a sparse plain. Deforestation and soil salinisation have stripped the region. Antelopes and rhinos that ancestors hunted are gone. Ousseynou Ndour, 56, has witnessed the evolution across decades. "In the past we walked barefoot through the bush, without guns," he told reporters. "Hunting methods have shifted with the introduction of motorbikes."
Climate change has rewritten the rhythm entirely. The rains, which once arrived reliably in May, now come later and in shorter bursts. Sitor Ndour, secretary-general of the Miss organising committee, acknowledged the shift: the hunt used to be held in May because the rainy season was already underway. Now it happens earlier, a desperate attempt to coax the season forward. Farming practices have adapted too—new seed varieties mature faster, a practical response to an unpredictable climate.
Sobel Dione, an anthropologist specialising in Serer culture, sees something vital in the tradition's persistence. The Miss de Diobaye is "a moment of catharsis, a violent purification of space, entrusted to the youngest men," he said. More than spectacle, it carries practical knowledge accumulated over centuries and binds the community to the land in ways that purely technical adaptation cannot. "These traditions have the capacity to evolve," Dione observed. "They safeguard both practical knowledge and a collective bond with the land, making climate adaptation more robust and more human."
The day after the 2026 hunt, western Senegal received the season's first major rainfall. Whether the Miss de Diobaye summoned it or the climate simply delivered remains, as always, a matter of faith. What is certain is that the ritual endures—adapted, transformed, but still rooted in the belief that community, ceremony, and the land are inseparable.
Citações Notáveis
The Miss is a moment of catharsis, a violent purification of space, entrusted to the youngest men— Sobel Dione, anthropologist specialising in Serer culture
These traditions have the capacity to evolve. They safeguard both practical knowledge and a collective bond with the land, making climate adaptation more robust and more human— Sobel Dione
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does this hunt still matter if the climate is changing anyway? Isn't it just tradition for tradition's sake?
It matters precisely because the climate is changing. These men aren't just hunting animals—they're maintaining a collective practice that ties them to the land, to each other, and to knowledge their ancestors built over centuries. When everything else becomes uncertain, that bond becomes more important, not less.
But the animals they hunt have changed. The forests are gone. The timing is all wrong now. How can a ritual survive when its conditions have completely shifted?
That's the point—it's surviving by shifting. They moved from walking to motorbikes. They changed when they hunt. The ritual itself is flexible enough to hold meaning even as the world around it transforms. It's not frozen in the past.
The anthropologist says these traditions make climate adaptation "more human." What does that mean exactly?
It means adaptation doesn't have to be purely technical—new seeds, irrigation systems, whatever. When you adapt through ritual and community, you're not just solving a problem. You're doing it in a way that keeps people connected to each other and to the place they live. That connection is what makes survival feel like living, not just surviving.
So the rain that fell the day after the hunt—was that the ritual working, or coincidence?
That's the beautiful ambiguity at the heart of it. The Serer people believe the ritual works. Whether you believe that or not, the ritual itself works—it brings the community together, it marks time, it says we are still here, still ourselves, still connected to this land. That's not nothing.