A day in the life of Seidou Soumay Abdoul Rahamani
Based in Niger, he is one of 29 young pastoralists taking part in the Inter-regional School for Young Pastoralists 2026, which will gather in person in Kyrgyzstan from 12 to 18 July.
My name is SEIDOU SOUMAY Abdoul Rahamani. I was born on 1 January 1997 in the fossil valley of Dallol Bosso, near the village of Winde Bago in south-western Niger. I am currently a PhD candidate at Abdou Moumouni University in Niamey, a researcher at the Laboratory for Studies and Research on Sahelian-Saharan Territories (LERTSS), a member of the Pastoralism Research Team (ERPAS), and an assistant at the Billital Maroobé Network (RBM).
But before all of that, I was simply a child born into a pastoralist community that became agro-pastoral —combining livestock herding with farming—after the devastating drought of 2010, which profoundly changed our lives and the livelihood we had inherited.
When I wake up each morning in Niamey, the capital of Niger, my thoughts often return to the Boboye Valley, where I grew up. At this time of year, the first clouds begin to gather.
At this time of year, the first clouds begin to gather. Families prepare their fields, while herders watch the sky with hope, waiting for the rains that will bring the rangelands back to life.
I grew up between two worlds: modern schooling and long days following the herds.
During school holidays, my father would gather my older brother and me and ask which of us would go to the fields and which would accompany the animals. I always chose the herds. The fields could wait, and all I wanted was to follow the herders.
I was the youngest. The men around me were much older, and I feel it is important to honour some of them by name: Hassane AYYA, Abdou Ouga, Hamadou Tanda, and Boukari Inna Boukari—may he rest in peace, for he is no longer with us. They taught me far more than how to care for livestock.
The herders showed me how to read the clouds, recognise nourishing grasses, find forgotten watering points, keep my word, and understand the moral code that has bound pastoralists together for generations. Without realising it, I received an open-air university education.
Back then, pastoral lands were still intact. Livestock corridors remained open. Farmland had not yet spread across the grazing routes. Animals moved freely, just as our ancestors’ herds had done.
Today, when I return to those same places, I sometimes struggle to recognise them.
The grazing lands are shrinking. Cultivated fields continue to expand. Droughts are becoming more frequent. Conflicts over natural resources are increasing. Many young people are gradually giving up transhumance. And with them disappear a language, a body of knowledge, and a way of living in harmony with nature.
I will never forget the drought of 2010. My family lost a significant part of our herd. That was the day I realised that pastoralism was not simply an occupation. It was a fragile identity that could disappear. I believe that was the moment my vocation was born.
The drought of 2010
Today, my days look very different. They are divided between field research, discussions with pastoralist communities, data collection, writing my PhD thesis, and my work with the Billital Maroobé Network. Yet, at heart, I am still doing what I did as a child: trying to understand the needs of herders and find the best path forward for their future.
I do not research pastoralism because it is an academic subject, but because it is my story.
In a few days, I will travel to Kyrgyzstan to join other young pastoralists from around the world at the ILC Interregional School for Young Pastoralists 202. I hope to learn new approaches, discover other pastoral cultures, and build lasting connections between our communities.
Above all, I hope to return with an even stronger conviction: pastoralism does not belong to the past. It deserves a future—one shaped by the voices of those who live it.
I will travel with the knowledge I have gained at university, but also with the lessons I learned long ago on the rangelands throughout my childhood. Because, for me, the best research is always born from the meeting of science and the knowledge of communities.
If one day my children ask me why I dedicated my life to pastoralism, I will simply answer because I refuse to stand by as a silent witness to the disappearance of the world that gave me life.
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