In the once-bustling harbors of Saint-Louis, Senegal, fishermen haul in more empty nets than fish. Their boats, modest pirogues with fading paint and patched sails, bob listlessly in waters that have long sustained local communities. But now, the ocean’s bounty is disappearing—and the culprits are not storms or pollution, but something far more structured: foreign fishing fleets.
Senegal’s fishing crisis is deepening, and with it comes a wave of desperation driving hundreds to risk their lives in search of hope across the Atlantic. According to a recent report by the Environmental Justice Foundation, 57% of Senegal’s fish stocks have collapsed due to overfishing, with nearly half of the country’s licensed fishing vessels operated by foreign entities—primarily from Spain and China. These industrial giants, legally sanctioned and sometimes dubiously registered, are vacuuming up the sea’s resources at a pace local fishermen simply cannot match.
The result? Hunger, unemployment, and exodus.
In a country where fish is both a staple food and a vital economic engine—employing around 600,000 people directly or indirectly in fisheries—the impact is severe. Coastal towns that once thrived on abundant catches now face food insecurity. Families are selling possessions to finance passage to Spain’s Canary Islands. Many don’t make it. According to the UN, 2024 saw a sharp spike in irregular arrivals to the Canaries from West Africa, and Senegalese migrants made up a troubling share of those numbers.
The irony bites harder than a barbed hook. Much of the fish caught by these foreign fleets is destined for European markets, while the Senegalese who once caught and ate those fish now rely on imported, lower-quality alternatives. Smoked, dried, and ground fishmeal produced in Senegal is increasingly used to feed animals in Europe and Asia rather than nourish humans in Africa.
There’s a political story behind the ecological one. Despite local opposition, the Senegalese government continues to issue industrial fishing licenses to foreign vessels, citing economic partnerships and revenue generation. Critics argue that the profits are minimal compared to the social costs, and allegations of corruption have long clouded the licensing process. Many small-scale fishermen believe they are being sold out for short-term gains and foreign appeasement.
Fishermen’s associations have taken to the streets, demanding tighter controls and a halt to licensing foreign trawlers. But enforcement remains weak. Illegal, unreported, and unregulated (IUU) fishing persists in Senegalese waters, often with little resistance. Patrol boats are scarce, and those available are under-equipped to chase modern fishing giants operating with advanced technology.
The government insists it is working on reforms. In 2023, a new national fisheries strategy was unveiled, promising sustainability and local empowerment. But implementation remains sluggish. Meanwhile, foreign ships continue to trawl the seas unchecked, leaving barren waters in their wake.
Beyond the environmental impact, the societal ripple effects are equally alarming. Young men in coastal communities, unable to fish and unwilling to wait, are turning to migration. Many crowd into fragile wooden boats, paying smugglers to reach the Canary Islands—Europe’s southernmost gateway. The journey is treacherous. Deaths at sea are frequent. Those who survive are often detained, deported, or left in legal limbo.
This migratory flow is not just a symptom of economic despair but a signal flare warning of broader instability. Senegal, once considered a bastion of democratic stability in West Africa, has seen growing unrest in recent years. The crisis at sea adds a combustible element to an already strained national atmosphere.
There are solutions, but they require political will and regional cooperation. A moratorium on foreign industrial licenses, strict enforcement of IUU laws, and a significant investment in artisanal fishing infrastructure could start to turn the tide. Civil society groups are calling for transparency in fisheries governance and greater inclusion of local voices in policymaking.
For now, the ocean remains silent, the nets remain empty, and the boats—those that haven’t yet set course for Europe—wait in sorrowful stillness. In the rhythm of Senegal’s fishing villages, you can still hear the old songs of the sea, but they are now laced with worry. The fish are not coming back soon. And neither, perhaps, are the sons who left chasing them across the horizon.
