I still feel the sand shifting beneath my feet from last week’s visit to the tiny village of Poutasi in Samoa, where Leilani Tiatia-Farani showed me what’s left of her childhood home. The single remaining concrete step leads to nothing but open air, the rest washed away in a cyclone that struck in 2012.
“The sea is coming closer every year,” Leilani told me, gesturing toward the shore where waves crashed just 20 meters from where we stood. “My father rebuilt our home three times in his lifetime. We can’t keep doing that.“
Her story echoes across the 58 small island developing states (SIDS) worldwide, home to approximately 65 million people who find themselves on the frontlines of a climate crisis they did little to create. A new report from the United Nations Development Programme reveals these nations require at least $12 billion annually in climate adaptation funding simply to survive—a figure that dramatically exceeds current international support.
The math is brutally simple. Small island nations contribute less than 1% of global greenhouse gas emissions, yet face some of the most severe climate impacts: rising seas, intensifying cyclones, coral bleaching, and increasingly unpredictable weather patterns that threaten food security. The World Bank estimates that climate change could force internal displacement of 216 million people by 2050, with island nations among the most vulnerable.
For perspective, consider that the Maldives, with 1,190 islands and a population of roughly 540,000, has an average ground elevation of just 1.5 meters above sea level. Current projections suggest the nation could become largely uninhabitable by 2100 without massive adaptation investments.
“We’re not just talking about property damage,” explains Dr. Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner, climate envoy for the Marshall Islands and director of the nonprofit Jo-Jikum. “We’re talking about the potential erasure of entire cultures, languages, and ways of life that have existed for thousands of years.”
During the COP26 climate summit, developed nations reaffirmed their commitment to provide $100 billion annually in climate financing to developing countries. But two problems persist: this pledge remains unfulfilled, and small island states receive only a tiny fraction of the financing that does materialize.
According to data from the Climate Policy Initiative, only about 2% of global climate finance reaches SIDS, despite their outsized vulnerability. The bureaucratic hurdles to accessing these funds can be insurmountable for small nations with limited administrative capacity.
“We spend years navigating application processes for climate funds while our communities wash away,” says Racquel Moses, CEO of the Caribbean Climate-Smart Accelerator. “The system was designed for countries with armies of technical experts and grant writers—resources we simply don’t have.”
The situation creates a cruel paradox. As climate impacts intensify, these nations must divert more resources toward disaster response and recovery, leaving less for the long-term adaptation projects that could break this cycle.
In Fiji, where I traveled in 2019, the government spends an average of 2.5% of its GDP annually on climate-related disasters—money that could otherwise fund education, healthcare, or economic development. After Tropical Cyclone Winston struck in 2016, causing damage equivalent to one-third of Fiji’s GDP, the nation’s development trajectory was set back by years.
Yet innovative solutions are emerging from these same vulnerable nations. In the Seychelles, the government launched the world’s first sovereign blue bond in 2018, raising $15 million to support sustainable marine projects. The Bahamas has pioneered hurricane-resistant building codes that are now studied globally. And Barbados Prime Minister Mia Mottley’s Bridgetown Initiative proposes a complete overhaul of the international financial system to address climate vulnerability.
“We’re not asking for charity,” Prime Minister Mottley said during last year’s UN General Assembly. “We’re asking for fairness and recognition that the climate crisis represents an existential threat to our nations.”
The financial mechanisms needed to support these nations exist: debt-for-climate swaps, catastrophe bonds, blue bonds, and direct access to climate funds. What’s missing is political will and a sense of urgency from the international community.
For many island nations, climate finance isn’t about promoting green technology or achieving distant carbon neutrality goals—it’s about immediate survival. Adaptation projects like seawalls, water security systems, and climate-resilient agriculture require consistent, accessible funding now.
When I spoke with Anote Tong, former president of Kiribati, he emphasized that climate finance must be viewed through a justice lens. “Those who contributed least to this problem face the harshest consequences,” he said. “If there is any moral obligation in international relations, it begins here.“
The $12 billion annual figure identified by the UN report represents less than 0.01% of global GDP—a fraction of what the world spends on fossil fuel subsidies each year. Yet this relatively modest investment could preserve dozens of cultures, protect millions of livelihoods, and prevent displacement that would eventually impact nations worldwide.
As I left Samoa last week, Leilani handed me a small woven basket made from pandanus leaves. “This is how we’ve always carried what matters most,” she said. “Now we need the world to help us carry this burden.”
For small island nations, climate finance isn’t just about money—it’s about recognition that their future matters. The question isn’t whether the global community can afford $12 billion annually for these nations’ survival. The question is whether we can afford the consequences of inaction.