Right Here, Right Now: A Personal Journey Through Oxford’s Climate and Human Rights Launch

By Roksanna Keyvan, GHRH Summer Intern

On a golden afternoon in early June, I boarded a train from London Marylebone bound for Oxford. It was my first visit to the historic university city, and the two-hour ride offered a gentle prelude: fields, sleepy hamlets, and countryside quietude—one last breath before stepping into the whirlwind of global discourse.

As I arrived at Oxford Station and realized the university was a mere ten-minute walk away, it struck me—some journeys aren’t long in distance, but deep in meaning. I wandered through cobbled streets lit by the setting sun, past neo-Gothic spires and the storied domes of Radcliffe Camera. The architecture wasn’t just beautiful—it was mythic, almost austere in its demand for truth and legacy. Students jogged by, bicycles zipped past, and I let myself get lost in the quiet hum of academic life.

Before the main event, I stopped at the Weston Library for the Photography 4 Humanity exhibit—a haunting and honest visual archive documenting the human toll of climate change. The images weren’t abstract warnings. They were real, raw depictions of the lives already impacted—especially in communities too often ignored. It was a quiet reckoning, one that reminded me: climate justice isn’t just about statistics. It’s about people.

And then, the Sheldonian Theatre.

Walking into the historic venue felt like stepping into a truth-chamber. Above us stretched an elaborate ceiling, reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel—an architectural demand for integrity. It felt like standing in court, where every speaker was about to “swear to tell the truth”—not with a hand on a holy book, but with their life’s work.

The event, marking the launch of the Right Here, Right Now Global Climate Summit, gathered leading voices across policy, activism, academia, and business. But it wasn’t your usual panel format. It was a fishbowl—a rotating seat structure where each speaker entered one by one, contributing their voice into a living, breathing conversation. Think: dialogue as ecosystem.

But before the first “fish” swam in, we were greeted by something completely unexpected—a poetic intervention.

A performance troupe took to the stage and began what can only be described as a Shakespearean mad-lib ritual. They asked us to reimagine climate justice using our five senses:

• What does climate justice sound like?
  Crackling of connection. Judges’ gavel. A call for help. Mooing and barking.

• What does it taste like?
  Mangoes. Clean water. A sharing platter. Sweat.

• What does it feel like? What does it look like?
  A golden retriever. A cold shower on a hot day. Clammy skin. A raised fist.

• And nouns to describe the sun? And climate justice?
  A “photon-spewer.” A “hot blob.”  A “Russian nesting doll of the next generation.”
  

Laughter and deep resonance wove together, creating a space that felt human—hopeful, even playful.

Then came the fishbowl.

Each speaker added their ripple to the conversation:

• Vanessa Nakate, activist and founder of the Rise Up Movement, reminded us that there is no climate justice without world peace—and that lived experience must be central to the global response.

• Professor Lavanya Rajamani, legal scholar, spoke of the limitations of the Paris Agreement and the emerging use of human rights law to discipline state actions and protect those most vulnerable.

• Paul Polman, business leader and former Unilever CEO, challenged corporations to think beyond profit—to reimagine capitalism as a tool for intergenerational justice.

• Dr. Omnia El Omrani, youth envoy and doctor, delivered perhaps the most emotionally devastating truth: climate change is now a health crisis. From asthma to anxiety, the wounds are visible and worsening.

• And others—from economic theorists to policymakers—all added strands of urgency, complexity, and hope.
  
  

Moderated by the BBC’s dynamic Climate Editor Justin Rowlatt, the discussion didn’t just share information—it pulsed. It was alive. As the final speaker finished, the poetry troupe returned. They wove our collective offerings into a final live performance that echoed under the Sheldonian’s vaulted ceiling:
“Right Here. Right Now.”

The words didn’t feel like a slogan. They felt like a summons.

And then, like a scene out of some time-bent fairytale, the clock struck ten. I found myself running—literally—through the ancient cobblestone streets of Oxford to catch the last train back to London. As I sat down, breathless and buzzing, I realized something:

Hope is not passive.

Hope is motion.
Hope is choosing to show up.
Hope is poetry in the mouth of a Ugandan girl with a sign.
Hope is a legal scholar holding nations to account.
Hope is running through a myth-soaked city with your heart on fire for the future.

Right here.
Right now.
That’s where it begins.

Photon spewer. Bird waker. Chariot rider. Hot blob

It starts right here. Right now. 

Bouncing off the oxford spires, dirftts, dust dizzy circles in swirls of ceiling truth illuminates the Sheldonian’s shine through climate truths and human crimes. 

Shadow carver, scorching light

Our wise waltzing sun has the right not to be complicit in our long kiss goodnight

A falling starlight gravel, swallow byt he land 

Darkness hits the room right here right now 

Right here right now

We transform christopher Wren’s 350 year old sheldonian 

Into a fishbowl under a ceiling painted with the truth as clouds descending

It’s never been heavier, has never changed is clothes so often

Look up dont look up

Look up don’t look up

Today we speak of rights, human and otherwise