The First Health System Was Community

Why community matters now more than ever for our health.

-Dr. Uma Aysola

In today’s wellness culture, health is often reduced to isolated metrics. Track your protein intake, count your steps, monitor your sleep cycles. Health, we are told, is a solo pursuit- a science of the self. Yet this individualistic narrative not only alienates- it consumes. It might silently distance us from centuries of community-based wisdom, accelerate environmental harm, and corrode the very relationships that once sustained well-being.

In the rise of nuclear families, the dislocation from rural traditions, and the uncritical embrace of wellness fads, we are not just losing recipes and remedies- we are losing memory. 

Collagen, Convenience, and the Cost of Trends

Consider the booming collagen supplement industry- touted as a magic elixir for skin, joints, and anti-aging. What few consumers realize is that a significant portion of bovine collagen is sourced from cow hides in Brazil, contributing to Amazon deforestation. A 2023 investigation by The Bureau of Investigative Journalism revealed that companies linked to collagen exports have been connected to the loss of more than 2,600 square kilometers of forest- impacting not only biodiversity, but also indigenous rights and livelihoods.

Even marine collagen, often considered a cleaner alternative, raises ecological concerns. It contributes to the overfishing of certain marine species, including sharks and sea cucumbers, placing pressure on fragile coastal ecosystems and communities. These supplements are marketed as individual health solutions, but they mask a deeper systemic problem: the commodification of wellness and the externalization of its costs.

Meanwhile, traditional systems across Asia, Africa, and Latin America have long emphasized whole foods, balanced eating, and seasonal awareness- often in ways that are gentler on the body and the planet. Lentils and millets provided plant-based proteins without the carbon footprint. Fermented foods offered probiotics without plastic packaging. Herbal teas supported immunity with zero environmental degradation.

We are not lacking in knowledge. We are failing to recognize the wisdom that already exists.

In traditional societies, health knowledge was not learned through apps or influencers- it was inherited. It was lived. But with the rise of nuclear families and urban migration, many children now grow up without these critical everyday exchanges.

In Bolivia, the Kallawaya healers (an Indigenous group known for their sophisticated understanding of medicinal plants) embody how health literacy once functioned as oral tradition. Their knowledge, passed from elder to apprentice, includes treatments for everything from altitude sickness to infectious disease. Similarly, in India, postpartum rituals, seasonal fasting, and food taboos around monsoons were once part of the oral culture- deeply tied to local ecology and physiology. Without community involvement and hyper-individualisation in the home, this transmission is breaking.

And public health systems haven’t filled the gap effectively. What we are losing, then, is not only information- but cultural context. Not just the “what” of health, but the “how,” “why,” and “when.”

The Community as the First Health System

If you think about it, in reality, the first responders in any health system are not doctors, but neighbours. Communities are the first to notice when someone is unwell, the first to bring food, the first to mobilize support. In many parts of the world, these systems have been formalized and shown remarkable results. 

Take the example of Uganda’s THETA (Traditional and Modern Health Practitioners Together Against AIDS) program, which has trained traditional healers to work alongside biomedical practitioners in HIV/AIDS education. Rather than dismissing community figures as out-dated, the program recognized their centrality in shaping beliefs and behaviour. The result? Wider outreach, greater trust, and better health outcomes.

In Australia’s Northern Territory, Aboriginal-led health literacy campaigns used local languages, storybooks, and culturally familiar characters to teach hygiene practices and disease prevention. In one community, skin infection rates among children dropped from 40% to 20% over four years- simply by reframing education through community narratives.

Even in urban areas, community-based programs like the U.S. Experience Corps- where older adults tutor children in underserved schools- have had dual benefits: improved academic outcomes for children and better mental and physical health for elders. Health is not an individual state. It is a collective capacity.

Rethinking What It Means to Be “Literate”

The World Health Organization defines health literacy as the ability to “access, understand, appraise, and apply health information.” But who decides what counts as health information? If we expand our definition, literacy must also include knowing how to forage local herbs, how to respond to a seasonal cough, how to rest when the body demands it, and how to prevent illness before it strikes.

In Australia, the concept of “caring for Country” includes not just environmental stewardship, but emotional and physical well-being. Controlled burns, seasonal harvesting, and kinship systems are all tied to health. Ignoring these traditions in favor of generic models strips health of its relational and ecological dimensions.

The irony is that modern wellness culture- obsessed with mindfulness, organic food, and bio hacking- is often rediscovering what communities have always known. But stripped of community context, these practices become empty trends that may not have universal application. 

Integrating the One Health Principle

What makes community wisdom even more relevant today is the growing urgency to adopt a One Health perspective- an approach that recognizes the interconnectedness of human, animal, and environmental health.

The COVID-19 pandemic laid bare how zoonotic diseases- those transmitted from animals to humans- are shaped by deforestation, habitat loss, and industrial farming. Yet many traditional communities have long practiced forms of ecological vigilance. Rotational grazing, sacred groves, seasonal hunting restrictions- these weren’t just spiritual customs, but public health strategies rooted in balance.

One Health isn’t a new concept to Indigenous or agrarian societies- it’s a rediscovery. Embedding One Health thinking into local health literacy efforts means educating not only about hygiene and nutrition, but also about environmental stewardship and animal welfare. Community knowledge systems often already hold the blueprint for such integration.

Globally, we see promising models:

• In Northeast India, research institutions are documenting tribal medicinal systems to preserve and revive them for future generations.
• In Bolivia and Peru, local health educators use Spanish and Indigenous languages like Quechua or Guaraní to improve comprehension and trust in health messaging.
• In cities around the world, intergenerational kitchens and community gardens are becoming sites of health education, food sovereignty, and cultural memory.

Reclaiming Community-Based Health Literacy

So how do we begin to revive and sustain community health literacy?

1. Document and Share Oral Knowledge: Record elders speaking about seasonal foods, postpartum care, plant remedies. These archives can inform curricula, media campaigns, and even urban health programs.
2. Design Community Spaces for Learning: Shared kitchens, healing gardens, and storytelling events can become living classrooms- places where knowledge is exchanged, not just taught.
3. Include Traditional Healers in Public Health: Like in Uganda’s THETA program, train and integrate community health practitioners into formal systems, with respect and equity.
4. Teach Young People to Listen: Health literacy isn’t just about what’s written on a label- it’s in what is spoken, shared, and remembered. Schools and public programs must honor that.
5. Embed One Health into Local Discourse: Educate communities about the links between human, animal, and environmental health. Respect traditional ecological practices as part of modern prevention strategies.

A Return to Wholeness

In replacing the ancestral knowledge with the glossy supplement aisle, we’re forgetting that health is not just a chemical equation- it’s a story, a habit, a relationship. It is something we build together. In community.

Across many traditional systems of knowledge- Ayurveda in India, Kampo in Japan, or Native American foodways- what you eat is intimately tied to where you live and what season you're in. These systems weren’t based on trend cycles; they were rooted in observation, environment, and survival.

For example, in central India, Madhya Pradesh, the late winter and early summer bring an abundance of ber (Indian jujube), guava, custard apples, tamarind, and amla- all rich in vitamin C, antioxidants, and gut-regulating fibre. These fruits grow with the land, require less artificial input, and support local biodiversity.

Now contrast that with choosing kiwis flown in from New Zealand- a fruit that doesn't grow naturally in your agro-climatic zone, requires significant refrigeration and packaging, and travels over 11,000 km to reach your plate. It's not just nutritionally redundant (amla has 20x more vitamin C than kiwi), it also comes with a high carbon footprint.

So the question isn't "Is kiwi healthy?"

It's: "Is kiwi what your body and ecosystem need right now?"

Many cultures had a guiding principle:

“Eat what grows within your environment- because your body and the land are in conversation.”

This isn't folklore- it’s biological intelligence. Local produce is harvested at its nutritional peak, aligns with seasonal gut microbiota shifts, and requires fewer emissions to grow, store, and transport. Studies have shown that imported foods can have up to 10–20 times the carbon footprint of local produce, depending on mode of transport and storage methods.

And this isn't about nostalgia. It’s about reclaiming the logic of proximity in a time of planetary precarity. If health literacy means understanding what we put into our bodies and why- then knowing the difference between seasonal and shipped is a small but crucial starting point.

Perhaps that’s the most radical act of health today: not self-optimization, but reconnection. Not faster, newer, shinier- but slower, older, wiser. The wisdom we need isn’t missing- it’s just waiting to be embraced.