Researchers measuring the effect of Hurricane Sandy on children in utero at the time reported: ‘Our findings are extremely alarming.’ Illustration: Ngadi Smart/The Guardian
Are growing rates of anxiety, depression, ADHD, PTSD, Alzheimer’s and motor neurone disease related to rising temperatures and other extreme environmental changes?
In late October 2012, a category 3 hurricane howled into New York City with a force that would etch its name into the annals of history. Superstorm Sandy transformed the city, inflicting more than $60bn in damage, killing dozens, and forcing 6,500 patients to be evacuated from hospitals and nursing homes. Yet in the case of one cognitive neuroscientist, the storm presented, darkly, an opportunity.
Yoko Nomura had found herself at the centre of a natural experiment. Prior to the hurricane’s unexpected visit, Nomura – who teaches in the psychology department at Queens College, CUNY, as well as in the psychiatry department of the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai – had meticulously assembled a research cohort of hundreds of expectant New York mothers. Her investigation, the Stress in Pregnancy study, had aimed since 2009 to explore the potential imprint of prenatal stress on the unborn. Drawing on the evolving field of epigenetics, Nomura had sought to understand the ways in which environmental stressors could spur changes in gene expression, the likes of which were already known to influence the risk of specific childhood neurobehavioural outcomes such as autism, schizophrenia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
The storm, however, lent her research a new, urgent question. A subset of Nomura’s cohort of expectant women had been pregnant during Sandy. She wanted to know if the prenatal stress of living through a hurricane – of experiencing something so uniquely catastrophic – acted differentially on the children these mothers were carrying, relative to those children who were born before or conceived after the storm.
More than a decade later, she has her answer. The conclusions reveal a startling disparity: children who were in utero during Sandy bear an inordinately high risk of psychiatric conditions today. For example, girls who were exposed to Sandy prenatally experienced a 20-fold increase in anxiety and a 30-fold increase in depression later in life compared with girls who were not exposed. Boys had 60-fold and 20-fold increased risks of ADHD and conduct disorder, respectively. Children expressed symptoms of the conditions as early as preschool.
Flooding in Lindenhurst, New York, in October 2012, after Hurricane Sandy struck. Photograph: Bruce Bennett/Getty Images
“Our findings are extremely alarming,” the researchers wrote in a 2022 study summarising their initial results. It is not the type of sentence one usually finds in the otherwise measured discussion sections of academic papers.
Yet Nomura and her colleagues’ research also offers a representative page in a new story of the climate crisis: a story that says a changing climate doesn’t just shape the environment in which we live. Rather, the climate crisis spurs visceral and tangible transformations in our very brains. As the world undergoes dramatic environmental shifts, so too does our neurological landscape. Fossil-fuel-induced changes – from rising temperatures to extreme weather to heightened levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide – are altering our brain health, influencing everything from memory and executive function to language, the formation of identity, and even the structure of the brain. The weight of nature is heavy, and it presses inward.
Evidence comes from a variety of fields. Psychologists and behavioural economists have illustrated the ways in which temperature spikes drive surges in everything from domestic violence to online hate speech. Cognitive neuroscientists have charted the routes by which extreme heat and surging CO2 levels impair decision-making, diminish problem-solving abilities, and short-circuit our capacity to learn. Vectors of brain disease, such as ticks and mosquitoes, are seeing their habitable ranges expand as the world warms. And as researchers like Nomura have shown, you don’t need to go to war to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder: the violence of a hurricane or wildfire is enough. It appears that, due to epigenetic inheritance, you don’t even need to have been born yet.
When it comes to the health effects of the climate crisis, says Burcin Ikiz, a neuroscientist at the mental-health philanthropy organisation the Baszucki Group, “we know what happens in the cardiovascular system; we know what happens in the respiratory system; we know what happens in the immune system. But there’s almost nothing on neurology and brain health.” Ikiz, like Nomura, is one of a growing cadre of neuroscientists seeking to connect the dots between environmental and neurological wellness.
As a cohesive effort, the field – which we might call climatological neuroepidemiology – is in its infancy. But many of the effects catalogued by such researchers feel intuitive.
Residents evacuate Evia, Greece, in 2021, after wildfires hit the island. Photograph: Bloomberg/Getty Images
Perhaps you’ve noticed that when the weather gets a bit muggier, your thinking does the same. That’s no coincidence; it’s a nearly universal phenomenon. During a summer 2016 heatwave in Boston, Harvard epidemiologists showed that college students living in dorms without air conditioning performed standard cognitive tests more slowly than those living with it. In January of this year, Chinese economists noted that students who took mathematics tests on days above 32C looked as if they had lost the equivalent of a quarter of a year of education, relative to test days in the range 22–24C. Researchers estimate that the disparate effects of hot school days – disproportionately felt in poorer school districts without access to air conditioning and home to higher concentrations of non-white students – account for something on the order of 5% of the racial achievement gap in the US.
Cognitive performance is the tip of the melting iceberg. You may have also noticed, for example, your own feelings of aggression on hotter days. You and everyone else – and animals, too. Black widow spiders tend more quickly toward sibling cannibalism in the heat. Rhesus monkeys start more fights with one another. Baseball pitchers are more likely to intentionally hit batters with their pitches as temperatures rise. US Postal Service workers experience roughly 5% more incidents of harassment and discrimination on days above 32C, relative to temperate days.
Neuroscientists point to a variety of routes through which extreme heat can act on behaviour. In 2015, for example, Korean researchers found that heat stress triggers inflammation in the hippocampus of mice, a brain region essential for memory storage. Extreme heat also diminishes neuronal communication in zebrafish, a model organism regularly studied by scientists interested in brain function. In human beings, functional connections between brain areas appear more randomised at higher temperatures. In other words, heat limits the degree to which brain activity appears coordinated. On the aggression front, Finnish researchers noted in 2017 that high temperatures appear to suppress serotonin function, more so among people who had committed violent crimes. For these people, blood levels of a serotonin transporter protein, highly correlated with outside temperatures, could account for nearly 40% of the fluctuations in the country’s rate of violent crime.
Prolonged exposure to heat can activate a multitude of biochemical pathways associated with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Illustration: Ngadi Smart/The Guardian
“We’re not thinking about any of this,” says Ikiz. “We’re not getting our healthcare systems ready. We’re not doing anything in terms of prevention or protections.”
Ikiz is particularly concerned with the neurodegenerative effects of the climate crisis. In part, that’s because prolonged exposure to heat in its own right – including an increase of a single degree centigrade – can activate a multitude of biochemical pathways associated with neurodegenerative diseases such as Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Air pollution does the same thing. (In rats, such effects are seen after exposure to extreme heat for a mere 15 minutes a day for one week.) Thus, with continued burning of fossil fuels, whether through direct or indirect effects, comes more dementia. Researchers have already illustrated the manners in which dementia-related hospitalisations rise with temperature. Warmer weather worsens the symptoms of neurodegeneration as well.
Prior to her move to philanthropy, Ikiz’s neuroscience research largely focused on the mechanisms underlying the neurodegenerative disease amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease or motor neurone disease). Today, she points to research suggesting that blue-green algae, blooming with ever-increasing frequency under a changing global climate, releases a potent neurotoxin that offers one of the most compelling causal explanations for the incidence of non-genetic ALS. Epidemiologists have, for example, identified clusters of ALS cases downwind of freshwater lakes prone to blue-green algae blooms.
A supermarket in Long Beach is stripped of water bottles in preparation for Hurricane Sandy. Photograph: Mike Stobe/Getty Images
It’s this flavour of research that worries her the most. Children constitute one of the populations most vulnerable to these risk factors, since such exposures appear to compound cumulatively over one’s life, and neurodegenerative diseases tend to manifest in the later years. “It doesn’t happen acutely,” says Ikiz. “Years pass, and then people get these diseases. That’s actually what really scares me about this whole thing. We are seeing air pollution exposure from wildfires. We’re seeing extreme heat. We’re seeing neurotoxin exposure. We’re in an experiment ourselves, with the brain chronically exposed to multiple toxins.”
Other scientists who have taken note of these chronic exposuresresort to similarly dramatic language as that of Nomura and Ikiz. “Hallmarks of Alzheimer disease are evolving relentlessly in metropolitan Mexico City infants, children and young adults,” is part of the title of a recent paper spearheaded by Dr Lilian Calderón-Garcidueñas, a toxicologist who directs the University of Montana’s environmental neuroprevention laboratory. The researchers investigated the contributions of urban air pollutionand ozone to biomarkers of neurodegeneration and found physical hallmarks of Alzheimer’s in 202 of the 203 brains they examined, from residents aged 11 months to 40 years old. “Alzheimer’s disease starting in the brainstem of young children and affecting 99.5% of young urbanites is a serious health crisis,” Calderón-Garcidueñas and her colleagues wrote. Indeed.
Flooding in Stonehaven, Aberdeenshire, in 2020. Photograph: Martin Anderson/PA
Such neurodevelopmental challenges – the effects of environmental degradation on the developing and infant brain – are particularly large, given the climate prognosis. Rat pups exposed in utero to 40C heat miss brain developmental milestones. Heat exposure during neurodevelopment in zebrafish magnifies the toxic effects of lead exposure. In people, early pregnancy exposure to extreme heat is associated with a higher risk of children developing neuropsychiatric conditions such as schizophrenia and anorexia. It is also probable that the ALS-causing neurotoxin can travel in the air.
Of course, these exposures only matter if you make it to an age in which neural rot has a chance to manifest. Neurodegenerative disease mostly makes itself known in middle-aged and elderly people. But, on the other hand, the brain-eating amoeba likely to spread as a result of the climate crisis – which is 97% fatal and will kill someone in a week – mostly infects children who swim in lakes. As children do.
A coordinated effort to fully understand and appreciate the neurological costs of the climate crisis does not yet exist. Ikiz is seeking to rectify this. In spring 2024, she will convene the first meeting of a team of neurologists, neuroscientists and planetary scientists, under the banner of the International Neuro Climate Working Group.
The goal of the working group (which, full disclosure, I have been invited to join) is to wrap a collective head around the problem and seek to recommend treatment practices and policy recommendations accordingly, before society finds itself in the midst of overlapping epidemics. The number of people living with Alzheimer’s is expected to triple by 2050, says Ikiz – and that’s without taking the climate crisis into account. “That scares me,” she says. “Because in 2050, we’ll be like: ‘Ah, this is awful. Let’s try to do something.’ But it will be too late for a lot of people.
“I think that’s why it’s really important right now, as evidence is building, as we’re understanding more, to be speaking and raising awareness on these issues,” she says. “Because we don’t want to come to that point of irreversible damage.”
For neuroscientists considering the climate problem, avoiding that point of no return implies investing in resilience research today. But this is not a story of climate anxiety and mental fortitude. “I’m not talking about psychological resilience,” says Nomura. “I’m talking about biological resilience.”
A research agenda for climatological neuroepidemiology wouldprobably bridge multiple fields and scales of analysis. It would merge insights from neurology, neurochemistry, environmental science, cognitive neuroscience and behavioural economics – from molecular dynamics to the individual brain to whole ecosystems. Nomura, for example, wants to understand how external environmental pressures influence brain health and cognitive development; who is most vulnerable to these pressures and when; and which preventive strategies might bolster neurological resilience against climate-induced stressors. Others want to price these stressors, so policymakers can readily integrate them into climate-action cost-benefit analyses.
Storm devastation in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Photograph: Mike Groll/AP
For Nomura, it all comes back to stress. Under the right conditions, prenatal exposure to stress can be protective, she says. “It’s like an inoculation, right? You’re artificially exposed to something in utero and you become better at handling it – as long as it is not overwhelmingly toxic.” Stress in pregnancy, in moderation, can perhaps help immunise the foetus against the most deleterious effects of stress later in life. “But everybody has a breaking point,” she says.
Identifying these breaking points is a core challenge of Nomura’s work. And it’s a particularly thorny challenge, in that as a matter of both research ethics and atmospheric physics, she and her colleagues can’t just gin up a hurricane and selectively expose expecting mothers to it. “Human research in this field is limited in a way. We cannot run the gold standard of randomised clinical trials,” she says. “We cannot do it. So we have to take advantage of this horrible natural disaster.”
Recently, Nomura and her colleagues have begun to turn their attention to the developmental effects of heat. They will apply similar methods to those they applied to understanding the effects of Hurricane Sandy – establishing natural cohorts and charting the developmental trajectories in which they’re interested.
The work necessarily proceeds slowly, in part because human research is further complicated by the fact that it takes people longer than animals to develop. Rats zoom through infancy and are sexually mature by about six weeks, whereas for humans it takes more than a decade. “That’s a reason this longitudinal study is really important – and a reason why we cannot just get started on the question right now,” says Nomura. “You cannot buy 10 years’ time. You cannot buy 12 years’ time.” You must wait. And so she waits, and she measures, as the waves continue to crash.
Clayton Page Aldern’s book The Weight of Nature, on the effects of climate change on brain health, is published by Allen Lane on 4 April.
Plastic waste is clogging the Niger River in Bamako, Mali. After it sediments, plastic will become part of the geological record of human impacts on the planet. Credit: Michele Cattani/AFP via Getty
After 15 years of discussion, geologists last week decided that the Anthropocene — generally understood to be the age of irreversible human impacts on the planet — will not become an official epoch in Earth’s geological timeline.
The rejected proposal would have codified the end of the current Holocene epoch, which has been in place since the end of the last ice age 11,700 years ago. It suggested that the Anthropocene started in 1952, when plutonium from hydrogen-bomb tests showed up in the sediment of Crawford Lake near Toronto, Canada.
The vote has drawn controversy over procedural details, and debate about its legitimacy continues. But whether or not it’s formally approved as a stratigraphic term, the idea of the Anthropocene is now firmly rooted in research. So, how are scientists using the term, and what does it mean to them and their fields?
‘It’s a term that belongs to everyone’
As head of the Leverhulme Centre for Anthropocene Biodiversity at the University of York, UK, Chris Thomas has perhaps more riding on the term than most. “When the news of this — what sounds like a slightly dodgy vote — happened, I sort of wondered, is it the end of us? But I think not,” he says.
For Thomas, the word Anthropocene neatly summarizes the sense that humans are part of Earth’s system and integral to its processes — what he calls indivisible connectedness. “That helps move us away from the notion that somehow humanity is apart from the rest of nature and natural systems,” he says. “It’s undoable — the change is everywhere.”
The concept of an era of human-driven change also provides convenient common ground for him to collaborate with researchers from other disciplines. “This is something that people in the arts and humanities and the social sciences have picked up as well,” he says. “It is a means of enabling communication about the extent to which we are living in a truly unprecedented and human-altered world.”
Seen through that lens, the fact that the Anthropocene has been formally rejected because scientists can’t agree on when it began seems immaterial. “Many people in the humanities who are using the phrase find the concept of the articulation of a particular year, based on a deposit in a particular lake, a ridiculous way of framing the concept of a human-altered planet.”
Jacquelyn Gill, a palaeoecologist at the University of Maine in Orono, agrees. “It’s a term that belongs to everyone. To people working in philosophy and literary criticism, in the arts, in the humanities, the sciences,” she says. “I think it’s far more meaningful in the way that it is currently being used, than in any attempts that stratigraphers could have made to restrict or define it in some narrow sense.”
She adds: “It serves humanity best as a loose concept that we can use to define something that we all widely understand, which is that we live in an era where humans are the dominant force on ecological and geological processes.”
Capturing human influences
The idea of the Anthropocene is especially helpful to make clear that humans have been shaping the planet for thousands of years, and that not all of those changes have been bad, Gill says. “We could do a better job of thinking about human–environment relationships in ways that are not inherently negative all the time,” she says. “People are not a monolith, and neither are our attitudes or relationships to nature.”
Some 80% of biodiversity is currently stewarded on Indigenous lands, Gill points out. “Which should tell you something, right? That it’s not the presence of people that’s the problem,” she says. “The solution to those problems is changing the way that many dominant cultures relate to the natural world.”
The concept of the Anthropocene is owned by many fields, Gill says. “This reiterates the importance of understanding that the role of people on our planet requires many different ways of knowing and many different disciplines.”
In a world in which the threat of climate change dominates environmental debates, the term Anthropocene can help to broaden the discussion, says Yadvinder Malhi, a biodiversity researcher at the University of Oxford, UK.
“I use it all the time. For me, it captures the time where human influence has a global planetary effect, and it’s multidimensional. It’s much more than just climate change,” he says. “It’s what we’re doing. The oceans, the resources we are extracting, habitats changing.”
He adds: “I need that term when I’m trying to capture this idea of humans affecting the planet in multiple ways because of the size of our activity.”
The looseness of the term is popular, but would a formal definition help in any way? Malhi thinks it would. “There’s no other term available that captures the global multidimensional impacts on the planet,” he says. “But there is a problem in not having a formal definition if people are using it in different terms, in different ways.”
Although the word ‘Anthropocene’ makes some researchers think of processes that began 10,000 years ago, others consider it to mean those of the past century. “I think a formal adoption, like a definition, would actually help to clarify that.”
A 1953 nuclear weapons test in Nevada was among the human activities that could have marked the Anthropocene. NNSA/NEVADA FIELD OFFICE/SCIENCE SOURCE
For now, we’re still in the Holocene.
Science has confirmed that a panel of two dozen geologists has voted down a proposal to end the Holocene—our current span of geologic time, which began 11,700 years ago at the end of the last ice age—and inaugurate a new epoch, the Anthropocene. Starting in the 1950s, it would have marked a time when humanity’s influence on the planet became overwhelming. The vote, first reported by The New York Times, is a stunning—though not unexpected—rebuke for the proposal, which has been working its way through a formal approval process for more than a decade.
“The decision is definitive,” says Philip Gibbard, a geologist at the University of Cambridge who is on the panel and serves as secretary-general of the International Commission on Stratigraphy (ICS), the body that governs the geologic timescale. “There are no outstanding issues to be resolved. Case closed.”
The leaders of the Anthropocene Working Group (AWG), which developed the proposal for consideration by ICS’s Subcommission on Quaternary Stratigraphy, are not yet ready to admit defeat. They note that the online tally, in which 12 out of 18 subcommission members voted against the proposal, was leaked to the press without approval of the panel’s chair. “There remain several issues that need to be resolved about the validity of the vote and the circumstances surrounding it,” says Colin Waters, a geologist at the University of Leicester who chaired AWG.
Few opponents of the Anthropocene proposal doubted the enormous impact that human influence, including climate change, is having on the planet. But some felt the proposed marker of the epoch—some 10 centimeters of mud from Canada’s Crawford Lake that captures the global surge in fossil fuel burning, fertilizer use, and atomic bomb fallout that began in the 1950s—isn’t definitive enough.
Others questioned whether it’s even possible to affix one date to the start of humanity’s broad planetary influence: Why not the rise of agriculture? Why not the vast changes that followed European encroachment on the New World? “The Anthropocene epoch was never deep enough to understand human transformation of this planet,” says Erle Ellis, a geographer at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County who resigned last year in protest from AWG.
Opponents also felt AWG made too many announcements to the press over the years while being slow to submit a proposal to the subcommission. “The Anthropocene epoch was pushed through the media from the beginning—a publicity drive,” says Stanley Finney, a stratigrapher at California State University Long Beach and head of the International Union of Geological Sciences, which would have had final approval of the proposal.
Finney also complains that from the start, AWG was determined to secure an “epoch” categorization, and ignored or countered proposals for a less formal Anthropocene designation. If they had only made their formal proposal sooner, they could have avoided much lost time, Finney adds. “It would have been rejected 10 years earlier if they had not avoided presenting it to the stratigraphic community for careful consideration.”
The Anthropocene backers will now have to wait for a decade before their proposal can be considered again. ICS has long instituted this mandatory cooling-off period, given how furious debates can turn, for example, over the boundary between the Pliocene and Pleistocene, and whether the Quaternary—our current geologic period, a category above epochs—should exist at all.
Even if it is not formally recognized by geologists, the Anthropocene is here to stay. It is used in art exhibits, journal titles, and endless books. And Gibbard, Ellis, and others have advanced the view that it can remain an informal geologic term, calling it the “Anthropocene event.” Like the Great Oxygenation Event, in which cyanobacteria flushed the atmosphere with oxygen billions of years ago, the Anthropocene marks a huge transition, but one without an exact date. “Let us work together to ensure the creation of a far deeper and more inclusive Anthropocene event,” Ellis says.
Waters and his colleagues will continue to press that the Anthropocene is worthy of recognition in the geologic timescale, even if that advocacy has to continue in an informal capacity, he says. Although small in size, Anthropocene strata such as the 10 centimeters of lake mud are distinct and can be traced using more than 100 durable geochemical signals, he says. And there is no going back to where the planet was 100 years ago, he says. “The Earth system changes that mark the Anthropocene are collectively irreversible.”
A panel of experts voted down a proposal to officially declare the start of a new interval of geologic time, one defined by humanity’s changes to the planet.
In weighing their decision, scientists considered the effect on the world of nuclear activity. A 1946 test blast over Bikini atoll. Credit: Jack Rice/Associated Press
Not yet, scientists have decided, after a debate that has spanned nearly 15 years. Or the blink of an eye, depending on how you look at it.
A committee of roughly two dozen scholars has, by a large majority, voted down a proposal to declare the start of the Anthropocene, a newly created epoch of geologic time, according to an internal announcement of the voting results seen by The New York Times.
By geologists’ current timeline of Earth’s 4.6-billion-year history, our world right now is in the Holocene, which began 11,700 years ago with the most recent retreat of the great glaciers. Amending the chronology to say we had moved on to the Anthropocene would represent an acknowledgment that recent, human-induced changes to geological conditions had been profound enough to bring the Holocene to a close.
The declaration would shape terminology in textbooks, research articles and museums worldwide. It would guide scientists in their understanding of our still-unfolding present for generations, perhaps even millenniums, to come.
In the end, though, the members of the committee that voted on the Anthropocene over the past month were not only weighing how consequential this period had been for the planet. They also had to consider when, precisely, it began.
By the definition that an earlier panel of experts spent nearly a decade and a half debating and crafting, the Anthropocene started in the mid-20th century, when nuclear bomb tests scattered radioactive fallout across our world. To several members of the scientific committee that considered the panel’s proposal in recent weeks, this definition was too limited, too awkwardly recent, to be a fitting signpost of Homo sapiens’s reshaping of planet Earth.
“It constrains, it confines, it narrows down the whole importance of the Anthropocene,” said Jan A. Piotrowski, a committee member and geologist at Aarhus University in Denmark. “What was going on during the onset of agriculture? How about the Industrial Revolution? How about the colonizing of the Americas, of Australia?”
“Human impact goes much deeper into geological time,” said another committee member, Mike Walker, an earth scientist and professor emeritus at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David. “If we ignore that, we are ignoring the true impact, the real impact, that humans have on our planet.”
Hours after the voting results were circulated within the committee early Tuesday, some members said they were surprised at the margin of votes against the Anthropocene proposal compared with those in favor: 12 to four, with two abstentions. (Another three committee members neither voted nor formally abstained.)
Even so, it was unclear on Tuesday whether the results stood as a conclusive rejection or whether they might still be challenged or appealed. In an email to The Times, the committee’s chair, Jan A. Zalasiewicz, said there were “some procedural issues to consider” but declined to discuss them further. Dr. Zalasiewicz, a geologist at the University of Leicester, has expressed support for canonizing the Anthropocene.
This question of how to situate our time in the narrative arc of Earth history has thrust the rarefied world of geological timekeepers into an unfamiliar limelight.
The grandly named chapters of our planet’s history are governed by a body of scientists, the International Union of Geological Sciences. The organization uses rigorous criteria to decide when each chapter started and which characteristics defined it. The aim is to uphold common global standards for expressing the planet’s history.
Polyethylene being extruded and fed into a cooling bath during plastics manufacture, circa 1950. Credit: Hulton Archive, via Getty Images
Geoscientists don’t deny our era stands out within that long history. Radionuclides from nuclear tests. Plastics and industrial ash. Concrete and metal pollutants. Rapid greenhouse warming. Sharply increased species extinctions. These and other products of modern civilization are leaving unmistakable remnants in the mineral record, particularly since the mid-20th century.
Still, to qualify for its own entry on the geologic time scale, the Anthropocene would have to be defined in a very particular way, one that would meet the needs of geologists and not necessarily those of the anthropologists, artists and others who are already using the term.
That’s why several experts who have voiced skepticism about enshrining the Anthropocene emphasized that the vote against it shouldn’t be read as a referendum among scientists on the broad state of the Earth. “This was a narrow, technical matter for geologists, for the most part,” said one of those skeptics, Erle C. Ellis, an environmental scientist at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. “This has nothing to do with the evidence that people are changing the planet,” Dr. Ellis said. “The evidence just keeps growing.”
Francine M.G. McCarthy, a micropaleontologist at Brock University in St. Catharines, Ontario, is the opposite of a skeptic: She helped lead some of the research to support ratifying the new epoch.
“We are in the Anthropocene, irrespective of a line on the time scale,” Dr. McCarthy said. “And behaving accordingly is our only path forward.”
The Anthropocene proposal got its start in 2009, when a working group was convened to investigate whether recent planetary changes merited a place on the geologic timeline. After years of deliberation, the group, which came to include Dr. McCarthy, Dr. Ellis and some three dozen others, decided that they did. The group also decided that the best start date for the new period was around 1950.
The group then had to choose a physical site that would most clearly show a definitive break between the Holocene and the Anthropocene. They settled on Crawford Lake, in Ontario, where the deep waters have preserved detailed records of geochemical change within the sediments at the bottom.
Last fall, the working group submitted its Anthropocene proposal to the first of three governing committees under the International Union of Geological Sciences. Sixty percent of each committee has to approve the proposal for it to advance to the next.
The members of the first one, the Subcommission on Quaternary Stratigraphy, submitted their votes starting in early February. (Stratigraphy is the branch of geology concerned with rock layers and how they relate in time. The Quaternary is the ongoing geologic period that began 2.6 million years ago.)
Under the rules of stratigraphy, each interval of Earth time needs a clear, objective starting point, one that applies worldwide. The Anthropocene working group proposed the mid-20th century because it bracketed the postwar explosion of economic growth, globalization, urbanization and energy use. But several members of the subcommission said humankind’s upending of Earth was a far more sprawling story, one that might not even have a single start date across every part of the planet.
The world’s first full-scale atomic power station in Britain in 1956. Credit: Hulton Archive, via Getty Images
This is why Dr. Walker, Dr. Piotrowski and others prefer to describe the Anthropocene as an “event,” not an “epoch.” In the language of geology, events are a looser term. They don’t appear on the official timeline, and no committees need to approve their start dates.
Yet many of the planet’s most significant happenings are called events, including mass extinctions, rapid expansions of biodiversity and the filling of Earth’s skies with oxygen 2.1 to 2.4 billion years ago.
Even if the subcommission’s vote is upheld and the Anthropocene proposal is rebuffed, the new epoch could still be added to the timeline at some later point. It would, however, have to go through the whole process of discussion and voting all over again.
Time will march on. Evidence of our civilization’s effects on Earth will continue accumulating in the rocks. The task of interpreting what it all means, and how it fits into the grand sweep of history, might fall to the future inheritors of our world.
“Our impact is here to stay and to be recognizable in the future in the geological record — there is absolutely no question about this,” Dr. Piotrowski said. “It will be up to the people that will be coming after us to decide how to rank it.”
Raymond Zhong reports on climate and environmental issues for The Times.
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Un comité de expertos ha tumbado la propuesta de declarar un nuevo momento geológico, pero el propio presidente denuncia irregularidades en la votación
Manuel Ansede
Madrid –
Extracción de un testigo de sedimentos del fondo del lago Crawford, a las afueras de Toronto (Canadá). TIM PATTERSON / UNIVERSIDAD DE CARLETON
La idea del Antropoceno —que la humanidad vive desde 1950 en una nueva época geológica caracterizada por la contaminación humana— se ha hecho tan popular en los últimos años que hasta la Real Academia Española adoptó el término en el Diccionario de la Lengua en 2021. Los académicos se dieron esta vez demasiada prisa. El concepto sigue en el aire, en medio de una vehemente polémica entre especialistas. Miembros del comité de expertos que debe tomar la decisión en la Unión Internacional de Ciencias Geológicas (UICG) —la Subcomisión de Estratigrafía del Cuaternario— han filtrado este martes al diario The New York Times que han votado mayoritariamente en contra de reconocer la existencia del Antropoceno. Sin embargo, el presidente de la Subcomisión, el geólogo Jan Zalasiewicz, explica a EL PAÍS que el resultado preliminar de la votación se ha anunciado sin su autorización y que todavía quedan “algunos asuntos pendientes con los votos que hay que resolver”. La humanidad todavía no sabe en qué época geológica vive.
El químico holandés Paul Crutzen, ganador del Nobel de Química por iluminar el agujero de la capa de ozono, planteó en el año 2000 que el planeta había entrado en una nueva época, provocada por el impacto brutal de los seres humanos. Un equipo internacional de especialistas, el Grupo de Trabajo del Antropoceno, ha analizado los hechos científicos desde 2009 y el año pasado presentó una propuesta para proclamar oficialmente esta nueva época geológica, marcada por la radiactividad de las bombas atómicas y los contaminantes procedentes de la quema de carbón y petróleo. El diminuto lago Crawford, a las afueras de Toronto (Canadá), era el lugar indicado para ejemplificar el inicio del Antropoceno, gracias a los sedimentos de su fondo, imperturbados desde hace siglos.
La mayoría de los miembros de la Subcomisión de Estratigrafía del Cuaternario de la UICG ha votado en contra de la propuesta, según el periódico estadounidense. El geólogo británico Colin Waters, líder del Grupo de Trabajo del Antropoceno, explica a EL PAÍS que se ha enterado por la prensa. “Todavía no hemos recibido una confirmación oficial directamente del secretario de la Subcomisión de Estratigrafía del Cuaternario. Parece que The New York Times recibe los resultados antes que nosotros, es muy decepcionante”, lamenta Waters.
El geólogo reconoce que el dictamen, si se confirma, sería el fin de su propuesta actual, pero no se rinde. “Tenemos muchos investigadores eminentes que desean continuar como grupo, de manera informal, defendiendo las evidencias de que el Antropoceno debería ser formalizado como una época”, afirma. A su juicio, los estratos geológicos actuales —contaminados por isótopos radiactivos, microplásticos, cenizas y pesticidas— han cambiado de manera irreversible respecto a los del Holoceno, la época geológica iniciada hace más de 10.000 años, tras la última glaciación. “Dadas las pruebas existentes, que siguen aumentando, no me sorprendería un futuro llamamiento a reconsiderar nuestra propuesta”, opina Waters, de la Universidad de Leicester.
El jefe del Grupo de Trabajo del Antropoceno sostiene que hay “algunas cuestiones de procedimiento” que ponen en duda la validez de la votación. La geóloga italiana Silvia Peppoloni, jefa de la Comisión de Geoética de la UICG, confirma que su equipo ha realizado un informe sobre esta pelea entre la Subcomisión de Estratigrafía del Cuaternario y el Grupo de Trabajo del Antropoceno. El documento está sobre la mesa del presidente de la UICG, el británico John Ludden.
La geóloga canadiense Francine McCarthy estaba convencida de que el lago Crawford convencería a los escépticos. Desde fuera parece pequeño, con apenas 250 metros de largo, pero su profundidad roza los 25 metros. Sus aguas superficiales no se mezclan con las de su lecho, por lo que el suelo del fondo se puede analizar como una lasaña, en la que cada capa acumula sedimentos procedentes de la atmósfera. Ese calendario subacuático del lago Crawford revela la denominada Gran Aceleración, el momento alrededor de 1950 en el que la humanidad empezó a dejar una huella cada vez más evidente, con el lanzamiento de bombas atómicas, la quema masiva de petróleo y carbón y la extinción de especies.
“Ignorar el enorme impacto de los humanos en nuestro planeta desde mediados del siglo XX tiene potencialmente consecuencias dañinas, al minimizar la importancia de los datos científicos para hacer frente al evidente cambio en el sistema de la Tierra, como ya señaló Paul Crutzen hace casi 25 años”, advierte McCarthy.
Grupo rejeitou que mudanças sejam profundas o bastante para encerrar o Holoceno
Raymond Zhong
5 de março de 2024
O Triássico foi o amanhecer dos dinossauros. O Paleogeno viu a ascensão dos mamíferos. O Pleistoceno incluiu as últimas eras glaciais.
Está na hora de marcar a transformação da humanidade no planeta com seu próprio capítulo na história da Terra, o “Antropoceno”, ou a época humana?
Ainda não, decidiram os cientistas, após um debate que durou quase 15 anos. Ou um piscar de olhos, dependendo do ângulo pelo qual você olha.
Um comitê de cerca de duas dezenas de estudiosos votou, em grande maioria, contra uma proposta de declarar o início do Antropoceno, uma época recém-criada do tempo geológico, de acordo com um anúncio interno dos resultados da votação visto pelo The New York Times.
Pela linha do tempo atual dos geólogos da história de 4,6 bilhões de anos da Terra, nosso mundo agora está no Holoceno, que começou há 11,7 mil anos com o recuo mais recente dos grandes glaciares.
Alterar a cronologia para dizer que avançamos para o Antropoceno representaria um reconhecimento de que as mudanças recentes induzidas pelo homem nas condições geológicas foram profundas o suficiente para encerrar o Holoceno.
A declaração moldaria a terminologia em livros didáticos, artigos de pesquisa e museus em todo o mundo. Orientaria os cientistas em sua compreensão do nosso presente ainda em desenvolvimento por gerações, talvez até por milênios.
No fim das contas, porém, os membros do comitê que votaram sobre o Antropoceno nas últimas semanas não estavam apenas considerando o quão determinante esse período havia sido para o planeta. Eles também tiveram que considerar quando, precisamente, ele começou.
Pela definição que um painel anterior de especialistas passou quase uma década e meia debatendo e elaborando, o Antropoceno começou na metade do século 20, quando testes de bombas nucleares espalharam material radioativo por todo o nosso mundo.
Para vários membros do comitê científico que avaliaram a proposta do painel nas últimas semanas, essa definição era muito limitada, muito recente e inadequada para ser um marco adequado da remodelação do Homo sapiens no planeta Terra.
“Isso restringe, confina, estreita toda a importância do Antropoceno”, disse Jan A. Piotrowski, membro do comitê e geólogo da Universidade de Aarhus, na Dinamarca. “O que estava acontecendo durante o início da agricultura? E a Revolução Industrial? E a colonização das Américas, da Austrália?”
“O impacto humano vai muito mais fundo no tempo geológico”, disse outro membro do comitê, Mike Walker, cientista da Terra e professor emérito da Universidade de Gales Trinity Saint David. “Se ignorarmos isso, estamos ignorando o verdadeiro impacto que os humanos têm em nosso planeta.”
Horas após a circulação dos resultados da votação dentro do comitê nesta terça-feira (5) de manhã, alguns membros disseram que ficaram surpresos com a margem de votos contra a proposta do Antropoceno em comparação com os a favor: 12 a 4, com 2 abstenções.
Mesmo assim, nesta terça de manhã não ficou claro se os resultados representavam uma rejeição conclusiva ou se ainda poderiam ser contestados ou apelados. Em um e-mail para o Times, o presidente do comitê, Jan A. Zalasiewicz, disse que havia “algumas questões procedimentais a considerar”, mas se recusou a discuti-las mais a fundo.
Zalasiewicz, geólogo da Universidade de Leicester, expressou apoio à canonização do Antropoceno.
Essa questão de como situar nosso tempo na narrativa da história da Terra colocou o mundo dos guardiões do tempo geológico sob uma luz desconhecida.
Os capítulos grandiosamente nomeados da história de nosso planeta são governados por um grupo de cientistas, a União Internacional de Ciências Geológicas. A organização usa critérios rigorosos para decidir quando cada capítulo começou e quais características o definiram. O objetivo é manter padrões globais comuns para expressar a história do planeta.
Os geocientistas não negam que nossa era se destaca dentro dessa longa história. Radionuclídeos de testes nucleares. Plásticos e cinzas industriais. Poluentes de concreto e metal. Aquecimento global rápido. Aumento acentuado de extinções de espécies. Esses e outros produtos da civilização moderna estão deixando vestígios inconfundíveis no registro mineral, especialmente desde meados do século 20.
Ainda assim, para se qualificar para a entrada na escala de tempo geológico, o Antropoceno teria que ser definido de uma maneira muito específica, que atendesse às necessidades dos geólogos e não necessariamente dos antropólogos, artistas e outros que já estão usando o termo.
Por isso, vários especialistas que expressaram ceticismo quanto à consagração do Antropoceno enfatizaram que o voto contra não deve ser interpretado como um referendo entre cientistas sobre o amplo estado da Terra.
“Este é um assunto específico e técnico para os geólogos, em sua maioria”, disse um desses céticos, Erle C. Ellis, um cientista ambiental da Universidade de Maryland. “Isso não tem nada a ver com a evidência de que as pessoas estão mudando o planeta”, afirmou Ellis. “A evidência continua crescendo.”
Francine M.G. McCarthy, micropaleontóloga da Universidade Brock em St. Catharines, Ontário (Canadá), é tem visão oposta: ela ajudou a liderar algumas das pesquisas para apoiar a ratificação da nova época.
“Estamos no Antropoceno, independentemente de uma linha na escala de tempo”, disse McCarthy. “E agir de acordo é o nosso único caminho a seguir.”
A proposta do Antropoceno teve início em 2009, quando um grupo de trabalho foi convocado para investigar se as recentes mudanças planetárias mereciam um lugar na linha do tempo geológica.
Após anos de deliberação, o grupo, que passou a incluir McCarthy, Ellis e cerca de três dezenas de outros, decidiu que sim. O grupo também decidiu que a melhor data de início para o novo período era por volta de 1950.
O grupo então teve que escolher um local físico que mostrasse de forma mais clara uma quebra definitiva entre o Holoceno e o Antropoceno. Eles escolheram o Lago Crawford, em Ontário, no Canadá, onde as águas profundas preservaram registros detalhados de mudanças geoquímicas nos sedimentos do fundo.
No outono passado, o grupo de trabalho enviou sua proposta do Antropoceno para o primeiro dos três comitês governantes da União Internacional de Ciências Geológicas —60% de cada comitê precisam aprovar a proposta para que ela avance para o próximo.
Os membros do primeiro comitê, a Subcomissão de Estratigrafia do Quaternário, enviaram seus votos a partir do início de fevereiro. (Estratigrafia é o ramo da geologia que se dedica ao estudo das camadas de rocha e como elas se relacionam no tempo. O Quaternário é o período geológico em curso que começou há 2,6 milhões de anos.)
De acordo com as regras da estratigrafia, cada intervalo de tempo da Terra precisa de um ponto de partida claro e objetivo, que se aplique em todo o mundo. O grupo de trabalho do Antropoceno propôs meados do século 20 porque isso abrangia a explosão do crescimento econômico pós-guerra, a globalização, a urbanização e o uso de energia.
Mas vários membros da subcomissão disseram que a transformação da humanidade na Terra era uma história muito mais abrangente, que talvez nem tenha uma única data de início em todas as partes do planeta.
Por isso, Walker, Piotrowski e outros preferem descrever o Antropoceno como um “evento”, não como uma “época”. Na linguagem da geologia, eventos são um termo mais amplo. Eles não aparecem na linha do tempo oficial, e nenhum comitê precisa aprovar suas datas de início.
No entanto, muitos dos acontecimentos mais significativos do planeta são chamados de eventos, incluindo extinções em massa, expansões rápidas da biodiversidade e o preenchimento dos céus da Terra com oxigênio há 2,1 bilhões a 2,4 bilhões de anos.
Mesmo que o voto da subcomissão seja mantido e a proposta do Antropoceno seja rejeitada, a nova época ainda poderá ser adicionada à linha do tempo em algum momento posterior. No entanto, terá que passar por todo o processo de discussão e votação novamente.
A member of the Indigenous Baduy tribe works at his field on Indonesia’s Java island. Anthropologist Gonzalo Oviedo says Indigenous communities in Southeast Asia “tend to recognize many more varieties of plant subspecies.” Credit: Bay Ismoyo/AFP via Getty Images
The past few years have been a triumph for traditional Indigenous knowledge, the body of observations, innovations and practices developed by Indigenous peoples throughout history with regard to their local environment.
First, the world’s top scientific and environmental policymaking bodies embraced it. Then, in 2022, the Biden administration instructed U.S. federal agencies to include it in their decision making processes. And, last year, the National Science Foundation announced $30 million in grants to fund it.
Traditional Indigenous knowledge, also called traditional ecological knowledge or traditional knowledge, is compiled by tribes according to their distinct culture and generally is transmitted orally between generations. It has evolved since time immemorial, yet mainstream institutions have only begun to recognize its value for helping to address pressing global problems like climate change and biodiversity loss, to say nothing of its cultural importance.
Traditional Indigenous knowledge has helped communities sustainably manage territories and natural resources—from predicting natural disasters to protecting biologically important areas and identifying medicinal plants. Today, more than a quarter of land globally is occupied, managed or owned by Indigenous peoples and local communities, with roughly 80 percent of Earth’s biodiversity located on Indigenous territories. Study after study has confirmed that those lands have better environmental outcomes than alternatives.
But, just as the links between those outcomes and Indigenous expertise are becoming more widely acknowledged, the communities stewarding this knowledge are coming under increasing threat from land grabbing, rapid cultural changes and other factors.
Then there is the backlash from the right and the left. As traditional Indigenous knowledge has moved into the mainstream alongside science for a better understanding and management of the natural world, critics on all sides have emerged. Some have argued that just as Christian creationism is incompatible with science, so too is traditional knowledge—this argument is widely seen as premised on a misunderstanding about what traditional knowledge is. On the other end of the ideological spectrum, some progressives have balked at the notion that there are fundamental differences between the two systems.
For a better understanding of what traditional knowledge is, Inside Climate News spoke with Gonzalo Oviedo, an anthropologist and environmental scientist who has worked on social aspects of conservation for more than three decades. This conversation has been lightly edited for clarity and length.
For people who may not know much about traditional knowledge, can you give some examples of what it is?
One key element of traditional knowledge is the understanding of where key biodiversity areas are located in the landscape where communities have traditionally lived.
This is exactly what conservation science does: identify areas that contain important genetic resources, or areas that contain important features that influence the rest of the ecosystem.
Traditional cultures do exactly this with areas that are key for the reproduction of animal species, for conserving water sources or for harboring certain types of plants including medicinal plants. Often, those areas become sacred places that Indigenous communities protect very rigorously. Protecting those key biodiversity areas is one of the most important management practices and it’s based on an understanding of how an ecosystem works in a given area.
Another element is closely related to the work of botanists, which is the creation of very sophisticated botanic taxonomy (the systematic classification of organisms). There are taxonomic systems generated by Indigenous peoples that are more sophisticated than mainstream taxonomy. In Southeast Asia, for example, Indigenous communities tend to recognize many more varieties of plant subspecies based on their practices and lifeways. They see the plants in a more detailed way and notice more differences. They also have more linguistic terms for diverse shades of green that represent different types of plants.
A third element is the understanding of the biological succession of forests and other ecosystems. Communities have very detailed knowledge of how ecosystems have changed and evolved over long periods of time. People who live within ecosystems, and in a way where their livelihoods are connected to the ecosystem, are a fundamental source of direct knowledge of how ecosystems evolve.
In places like the Arctic, where people are dependent on their ability to predict changes in the climate, there has been a lot of important research done with Indigenous communities to systematize their climate knowledge. In dry land climates, where traditional communities are very vulnerable to changes in precipitation, they’ve identified key biodiversity areas that serve as reservoirs for periods when droughts are prolonged and these communities strictly protect those reservoirs. Fishing communities in the Pacific are extremely knowledgeable about marine biodiversity and the management of those ecosystems.
What developments have contributed to more mainstream acceptance of traditional knowledge? It’s hard to imagine that Indigenous peoples’ advocacy for stronger protection of their rights hasn’t played a role. Have there been other developments contributing to the growing recognition of the value of this knowledge system to global conservation efforts?
The process of integrating traditional knowledge into the mainstream is still relatively new. Only in the last 20 years or so has there been more significant progress on this. The Convention on Biological Diversity, the CBD, entered into force in 1993 and has a very important provision in Article 8(j) on the recognition of traditional knowledge and the need to “respect, preserve and maintain” it. As a result of that provision, there has been a lot of interest in how to integrate that into public policy, biodiversity management and related fields.
The evolution of nature conservation paradigms in the last 20 to 30 years or so has also been an important driver. Three decades ago it was still very difficult to get conservation organizations to recognize that the traditional knowledge of Indigenous and local communities is a positive factor for conservation and that working together with those communities is fundamental. Today, the conservation movement universally agrees to this.
When you say “evolution of nature conservation paradigms,” are you referring to the shift away from “fortress conservation,” or the model where protected areas were fenced off and Indigenous and local communities removed from their traditional lands in the name of conservation?
There have been several factors contributing to the change and moving away from the fortress conservation concept to inclusive conservation has been one of them. By inclusive I mean the understanding that Indigenous and community held lands are better protected through traditional management practices and the value of traditional knowledge associated with that.
It is also better recognized today that working for sustainable livelihoods like subsistence farming and harvesting is good for conservation. In the past, livelihood activities were seen as a threat to conservation. Today, it is widely accepted that by supporting sustainable livelihoods, you’re supporting conservation as well.
Also, today, it is recognized that humans have always managed ecosystems. The concept of “empty wilderness” is no longer viable for conservation and it’s not true in most parts of the world. These are several ways that the conservation paradigm is evolving. It’s safe to say that not everyone is on the same page. But things are evolving in the direction of inclusiveness.
What are some of the biggest challenges to ensuring that traditional knowledge is protected and, if approved by communities, transmitted for use in mainstream conservation efforts?
There are two main challenges. One relates to how other knowledge systems see traditional knowledge.
This is essentially the problem of getting people to understand what traditional knowledge is, and overcoming unhelpful and incorrect stereotypes about it. For example, some people say that, unlike science, traditional knowledge is not based on evidence or is not based on credible scientific processes that allow for verification. That is not necessarily true.
There are, of course, differences between traditional knowledge and scientific knowledge. Traditional knowledge tends to use more qualitative methods and less quantitative approaches and methodologies compared to what science does today.
But there are several aspects in which both are quite similar. To start, the key motivation in both systems is problem solving. The intellectual process of both sometimes works through comparisons and applies methods of trial and error. You also have in both the process of moving from practical knowledge to abstraction, and also feedback looping and adaptive learning.
Misunderstandings or stereotypes about what traditional knowledge is have led to unfriendly public policies in natural resource management and education systems.
To address this, institutions like the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) and the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) need to continue collecting evidence and information about traditional knowledge and communicate its value to policymakers. That is still a fundamental need.
A second major challenge relates to the erosion of the intergenerational transmission of traditional knowledge. That transmission mostly happens through oral systems that require direct physical contact between different generations. That is being lost because of demographic changes, migration and the use of formal education systems that take children into schools and separate them physically from transmitters of traditional knowledge. This is a serious problem but there are examples of helpful actions that have been implemented in places like Ecuador, where the formal education system works together with Indigenous communities under an inter-cultural model.
Another aspect of this is the loss of knowledge. If there is lack of transmission or insufficient transmission between generations, when elders die a significant amount of knowledge dies with them.
Cultural change is also a factor. People are coming into contact with other forms of knowledge, some that are presented in a more dynamic way, like on television, and that tend to capture the attention of younger people.
The pace of change is happening so fast. Traditional knowledge is transmitted slowly through in person contact and in the context of daily life. If the pace of cultural change isn’t managed, and communities aren’t supported in their maintenance of knowledge transmission, then that knowledge will be irreversibly lost.
There has been some pushback to the incorporation of traditional knowledge alongside science in policy making and into education curriculums. Critics have analogized traditional knowledge with “creationism.” What do you make of this?
It’s important to understand precisely what traditional knowledge is and to differentiate it from spirituality.
Communities often connect spirituality with traditional knowledge. Spirituality is part of the traditional life of the communities, but spirituality is not in itself traditional knowledge. For example, people in Laos fishing communities that live around wetlands have a sophisticated knowledge of how wetlands function. They have for generations fished and taken resources from the wetlands.
Based on their traditional knowledge of the wetlands, they understand the need for rules to avoid depletion of fish populations by preserving key areas for reproduction and ecological processes. They have developed a set of norms so people understand they cannot fish in certain areas, and those norms take place through spirituality. They say, “You can’t fish in this area because this is where our spirits live and these spirits shouldn’t be interfered with.” This becomes a powerful norm because it connects with a deep spiritual value of the community.
This doesn’t mean that when recognizing the traditional knowledge of the community, one has to take the topic of the spirits as knowledge that has to be validated. The spiritual aspect is the normative part, articulated around beliefs, it is not the knowledge. The same thing goes for practices protecting key biodiversity areas. Traditional cultures all over the world have sacred sites, waters, and they are based on some knowledge of how the ecosystem works and the need to protect key and sensitive areas. Traditional knowledge is essentially problem solving, practical and develops through empirical processes of observation and experience. You have to distinguish it from spirituality, that develops through stories, myths and visions from spiritual leaders.
The relationship between knowledge and spiritual beliefs happened in a similar way in the history of western science and with traditional Chinese medicine. Historically, you will find that Chinese medical science was intimately linked to Taoist religion and Confucianism. Yet the value of Chinese medicine doesn’t mean that you have to adopt Taoism or Confucianism. It takes a long time for societies to understand how to distinguish these things because their connections are very complex.
What is at stake if traditional knowledge is lost?
First, that would be a loss for all of humanity. There has been recent research showing that traditional knowledge can benefit the whole of society if understood and transmitted to other knowledge systems.
There are certain aspects of traditional knowledge that, if lost, will be difficult to recuperate like elements of botanic taxonomy that are not recorded. If lost, we’re losing an important part of human knowledge.
Second, traditional knowledge is important for cultures that have generated and use that knowledge, especially for their adaptation to climatic and other changes. If properly recognized and supported, that knowledge can be a factor of positive development and evolution for those communities. Change is happening everywhere and will continue to happen in traditional societies. But there are different types of cultural change and some are destructive to traditional communities, like the absorption of invasive external values and mythologies that completely destroy young peoples’ cultural background and erode the fabrics of traditional societies.
There is also cultural change that can be positive if it is well managed. Young peoples’ use of technology could be a good source of change if it is used to help maintain and transmit their traditional culture. That can prompt pride and value in communities, and promote intercultural understanding which is fundamental in a world where there is still so much cultural discrimination against Indigenous peoples and a lack of understanding of their cultures and value systems.
Traditional knowledge can play an important role in intercultural dialogues. We need healing processes within societies so that cultures can speak to each other on equal footing, which unfortunately isn’t the case in many places today.
Katie Surma is a reporter at Inside Climate News focusing on international environmental law and justice. Before joining ICN, she practiced law, specializing in commercial litigation. She also wrote for a number of publications and her stories have appeared in the Washington Post, USA Today, Chicago Tribune, Seattle Times and The Associated Press, among others. Katie has a master’s degree in investigative journalism from Arizona State University’s Walter Cronkite School of Journalism, an LLM in international rule of law and security from ASU’s Sandra Day O’Connor College of Law, a J.D. from Duquesne University, and was a History of Art and Architecture major at the University of Pittsburgh. Katie lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her husband, Jim Crowell.
Daniel Swain studies extreme floods. And droughts. And wildfires. Then he explains them to the rest of us.
February 6, 2024
By Tracie White
Illustrations by Tim O’Brien
7:00 a.m., 45 degrees F
The moment Daniel Swain wakes up, he gets whipped about by hurricane-force winds. “A Category 5, literally overnight, hits Acapulco,” says the 34-year-old climate scientist and self-described weather geek, who gets battered daily by the onslaught of catastrophic weather headlines: wildfires, megafloods, haboobs (an intense dust storm), atmospheric rivers, bomb cyclones. Everyone’s asking: Did climate change cause these disasters? And, more and more, they want Swain to answer.
Swain, PhD ’16, rolls over in bed in Boulder, Colo., and checks his cell phone for emails. Then, retainer still in his mouth, he calls back the first reporter of the day. It’s October 25, and Isabella Kwai at the New York Times wants to know whether climate change is responsible for the record-breaking speed and ferocity of Hurricane Otis, which rapidly intensified and made landfall in Acapulco as the eastern Pacific’s strongest hurricane on record. It caught everyone off guard. Swain posted on X (formerly known as Twitter) just hours before the storm hit: “A tropical cyclone undergoing explosive intensification unexpectedly on final approach to a major urban area . . . is up there on list of nightmare weather scenarios becoming more likely in a warming #climate.”
Swain is simultaneously 1,600 miles away from the tempest and at the eye of the storm. His ability to explain science to the masses—think the Carl Sagan of weather—has made him one of the media’s go-to climate experts. He’s a staff research scientist at UCLA’s Institute of the Environment and Sustainability who spends more than 1,100 hours each year on public-facing climate and weather communication, explaining whether (often, yes) and how climate change is raising the number and exacerbating the viciousness of weather disasters. “I’m a physical scientist, but I not only study how the physics and thermodynamics of weather evolve but how they affect people,” says Swain. “I lead investigations into how extreme events like floods and droughts and wildfires are changing in a warming climate, and what we might do about it.”
He translates that science to everyday people, even as the number of weather-disaster headlines grows each year. “To be quite honest, it’s nerve-racking,” says Swain. “There’s such a demand. But there’s a climate emergency, and we need climate scientists to talk to the world about it.”
No bells, no whistles. No fancy clothes, makeup, or vitriolic speech. Sometimes he doesn’t even shave for the camera. Just a calm, matter-of-fact voice talking about science on the radio, online, on TV. In 2023, he gave nearly 300 media interviews—sometimes at midnight or in his car. The New York Times, CNN, and BBC keep him on speed dial. Social media is Swain’s home base. His Weather West blog reaches millions. His weekly Weather West “office hours” on YouTube are public and interactive, doubling as de facto press conferences. His tweets reach 40 million people per year. “I don’t think that he appreciates fully how influential he is of the public understanding of weather events, certainly in California but increasingly around the world,” says Stanford professor of earth system science Noah Diffenbaugh, ’96, MS ’97, Swain’s doctoral adviser and mentor. “He’s such a recognizable presence in newspapers and radio and television. Daniel’s the only climate scientist I know who’s been able to do that.”
There’s no established job description for climate communicator—what Swain calls himself—and no traditional source of funding. He’s not particularly a high-energy person, nor is he naturally gregarious; in fact, he has a chronic medical condition that often saps his energy. But his work is needed, he says. “Climate change is an increasingly big part of what’s driving weather extremes today,” Swain says. “I connect the dots between the two. There’s a lot of misunderstanding about how a warming climate affects day-to-day variations in weather, but my goal is to push public perception toward what the science actually says.” So when reporters call him, he does his best to call them back.
7:30 a.m., winds at 5 mph from the east northeast
Swain finishes the phone call with the Times reporter and schedules a Zoom interview with Reuters for noon. Then he brushes his teeth. He’s used to a barrage of requests when there’s a catastrophic weather event. Take August 2020, when, over three days, California experienced 14,000 lightning strikes from “dry” thunderstorms. More than 650 reported wildfires followed, eventually turning the skies over San Francisco a dystopian orange. “In a matter of weeks, I did more than 100 interviews with television, radio, and newspaper outlets, and walked a social media audience of millions through the disaster unfolding in their own backyards,” he wrote in a recent essay for Nature.
Swain’s desire to understand the physics of weather stretches back to his preschool years. In 1993, his family moved from San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Rafael, and the 4-year-old found himself wondering where all that Bay City fog had gone. Two years later, Swain spent the first big storm of his life under his parents’ bed. He lay listening to screeching 100 mile-per-hour winds around his family’s home, perched on a ridge east of Mount Tamalpais. But he was more excited than scared. The huge winter storm of 1995 that blew northward from San Francisco and destroyed the historic Conservatory of Flowers just got 6-year-old Swain wired.
‘Climate change is an increasingly big part of what’s driving weather extremes today. I connect the dots between the two.’
“To this day, it’s the strongest winds I’ve ever experienced,” he says. “It sent a wind tunnel through our house.” It broke windows. Shards of glass embedded in one of his little brother’s stuffies, which was sitting in an empty bedroom. “I remember being fascinated,” he says. So naturally, when he got a little older, he put a weather station on top of that house. And then, in high school, he launched his Weather West blog. “It was read by about 10 people,” Swain says, laughing. “I was a weather geek. It didn’t exactly make me popular.” Two decades, 550 posts, and 2 million readers later, well, who’s popular now?
Swain graduated from UC Davis with a bachelor’s degree in atmospheric science. He knew then that something big was happening on the weather front, and he wanted to understand how climate change was influencing the daily forecast. So at Stanford, he studied earth system science and set about using physics to understand the causes of changing North Pacific climate extremes. “From the beginning, Daniel had a clear sense of wanting to show how climate change was affecting the weather conditions that matter for people,” says Diffenbaugh. “A lot of that is extreme weather.” Swain focused on the causes of persistent patterns in the atmosphere—long periods of drought or exceptionally rainy winters—and how climate change might be exacerbating them.
The first extreme weather event he studied was the record-setting California drought that began in 2012. He caught the attention of both the media and the scientific community after he coined the term Ridiculously Resilient Ridge, referring to a persistent ridge of high pressure caused by unusual oceanic warmth in the western tropical Pacific Ocean. That ridge was blocking weather fronts from bringing rain into California. The term was initially tongue-in-cheek. Today the Ridiculously Resilient Ridge (aka RRR or Triple R) has a Wikipedia page.
“One day, I was sitting in my car, waiting to pick up one of my kids, reading the news on my phone,” says Diffenbaugh. “And I saw this article in the Economist about the drought. It mentioned this Ridiculously Resilient Ridge. I thought, ‘Oh, wow, that’s interesting. That’s quite a branding success.’ I click on the page and there’s a picture of Daniel Swain.”
Diffenbaugh recommended that Swain write a scientific paper about the Ridiculously Resilient Ridge, and Swain did, in 2014. By then, the phrase was all over the internet. “Journalists started calling while I was still at Stanford,” says Swain. “I gave into it initially, and the demand just kept growing from there.”
11:45 a.m., precipitation 0 inches
Swain’s long, lanky frame is seated ramrod straight in front of his computer screen, scrolling for the latest updates about Hurricane Otis. At noon, he signs in to Zoom and starts answering questions again.
Reuters: “Hurricane Otis wasn’t in the forecast until about six to 10 hours before it occurred. What would you say were the factors that played into its fierce intensification?”
Swain: “Tropical cyclones, or hurricanes, require a few different ingredients. I think the most unusual one was the warmth of water temperature in the Pacific Ocean off the west coast of Mexico. It’s much higher than usual. This provided a lot of extra potential intensity to this storm. We expect to see increases in intensification of storms like this in a warming climate.”
Swain’s dog, Luna, bored by the topic, snores softly. She’s asleep just behind him, next to a bookshelf filled with weather disaster titles: The Terror by Dan Simmons; The Water Will Come by Jeff Goodell; Fire Weather by John Vaillant. And the deceptively hopeful-sounding Paradise by Lizzie Johnson, which tells the story of the 2018 Camp Fire that burned the town of Paradise, Calif., to the ground. Swain was interviewed by Johnson for the book. The day of the fire, he found himself glued to the comment section of his blog, warning anyone who asked about evacuation to get out.
“During the Camp Fire, people were commenting, ‘I’m afraid. What should we do? Do we stay or do we go?’ Literally life or death,” he says. He wrote them back: “There is a huge fire coming toward you very fast. Leave now.” As they fled, they sent him progressively more horrifying images of burning homes and trees like huge, flaming matchsticks. “This makes me extremely uncomfortable—that I was their best bet for help,” says Swain.
Swain doesn’t socialize much. He doesn’t have time. His world revolves around his home life, his work, and taking care of his health. He has posted online about his chronic health condition, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a heritable connective tissue disease that, for him, results in fatigue, gastrointestinal problems, and injuries—he can partially dislocate a wrist mopping the kitchen floor. He works to keep his health condition under control when he has down time, traveling to specialists in Utah, taking medications and supplements, and being cautious about any physical activity. When he hikes in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, he’s careful and tries to keep his wobbly ankles from giving out. Doctors don’t have a full understanding of EDS. So, Swain researches his illness himself, much like he does climate science, constantly looking for and sifting through new data, analyzing it, and sometimes sharing what he discovers online with the public. “If it’s this difficult to parse even as a professional scientist and science communicator, I can only imagine how challenging this task is for most other folks struggling with complex/chronic illnesses,” he wrote on Twitter.
‘“There is a huge fire coming toward you very fast. Leave now.” This makes me extremely uncomfortable—that I was their best bet for help. ’
It helps if he can exert some control over his own schedule to minimize fatigue. The virtual world has helped him do that. He mostly works from a small, extra bedroom in an aging rental home perched at an elevation of 5,400 feet in Boulder, where he lives with his partner, Jilmarie Stephens, a research scientist at the University of Colorado Boulder.
When Swain was hired at UCLA in 2018, Peter Kareiva, the then director of the Institute of the Environment and Sustainability, supported a nontraditional career path that would allow Swain to split his time between research and climate communication, with the proviso that he find grants to fund much of his work. That same year, Swain was invited to join a group at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR) located in Boulder, which has two labs located at the base of the Rocky Mountains.
“Daniel had a very clear vision about how he wanted to contribute to science and the world, using social media and his website,” says Kareiva, a research professor at UCLA. “We will not solve climate change without a movement, and communication and social media are key to that. Most science papers are never even read. What we do as scientists only matters if it has an impact on the world. We need at least 100 more Daniels.”
And yet financial support for this type of work is never assured. In a recent essay in Nature, Swain writes about what he says is a desperate need for more institutions to fund climate communication by scientists. “Having a foot firmly planted in both research and public-engagement worlds has been crucial,” he writes. “Even as I write this, it’s unclear whether there will be funding to extend my present role beyond the next six months.”
4:00 p.m., 67 degrees F
“Ready?” says the NBC reporter on the computer screen. “Can we just have you count to 10, please?”
“Walk me through in a really concise way why we saw this tropical storm, literally overnight, turn into a Category 5 hurricane, when it comes to climate change,” the reporter says.
“So, as the Earth warms, not only does the atmosphere warm or air temperatures increase, but the oceans are warming as well. And because warm tropical oceans are hurricane fuel, the maximum potential intensity of hurricanes is set by how warm the oceans are,” Swain says.
An hour later, Swain lets Luna out and prepares for the second half of his day: He’ll spend the next five hours on a paper for a science journal. It’s a review of research on weather whiplash in California—the phenomenon of rapid swings between extremes, such as the 2023 floods that came on the heels of a severe drought. Using atmospheric modeling, Swain predicted in a 2018 Nature Climate Change study that there would be a 25 percent to 100 percent increase in extreme dry-to-wet precipitation events in the years ahead. Recent weather events support that hypothesis, and Swain’s follow-up research analyzes the ways those events are seriously stressing California’s water storage and flood control infrastructure.
“What’s remarkable about this summer is that the record-shattering heat has occurred not only over land but also in the oceans,” Swain explained in an interview with Katie Couric on YouTube in August, “like the hot tub [temperature] water in certain parts of the shallow coastal regions off the Gulf of Mexico.” In a warming climate, the atmosphere acts as a kitchen sponge, he explains later. It soaks up water but also wrings it out. The more rapid the evaporation, the more intense the precipitation. When it rains, there are heavier downpours and more extreme flood events.
‘What we do as scientists only matters if it has an impact on the world. We need at least 100 more Daniels.’
“It really comes down to thermodynamics,” he says. The increasing temperatures caused by greenhouse gases lead to more droughts, but they also cause more intense precipitation. The atmosphere is thirstier, so it takes more water from the land and from plants. The sponge holds more water vapor. That’s why California is experiencing these wild alternations, he says, from extremely dry to extremely wet. “It explains the role climate change plays in turning a tropical storm overnight into hurricane forces,” he says.
October 26, expected high of 45 degrees F
In 2023, things got “ludicrously crazy” for both Swain and the world. It was the hottest year in recorded history. Summer temperatures broke records worldwide. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration reported 28 confirmed weather/climate disaster events with losses exceeding $1 billion—among them a drought, four flooding events, 19 severe storm events, two tropical cyclones, and a killer wildfire. Overall, catastrophic weather events resulted in the deaths of 492 people in the United States. “Next year may well be worse than that,” Swain says. “It’s mind-blowing when you think about that.”
“There have always been floods and wildfires, hurricanes and storms,” Swain continues. “It’s just that now, climate change plays a role in most weather disasters”—pumped-up storms, more intense and longer droughts and wildfire seasons, and heavier rains and flooding. It also plays a role in our ability to manage those disasters, Swain says. In a 2023 paper he published in Communications Earth & Environment, for example, he provides evidence that climate change is shifting the ideal timing of prescribed burns (which help mitigate wildfire risk) from spring and autumn to winter.
The day after Hurricane Otis strikes, Swain’s schedule has calmed down, so he takes time to make the short drive from his home up to the NCAR Mesa Lab, situated in a majestic spot where the Rocky Mountains meet the plains. Sometimes he’ll sit in his Hyundai in the parking lot, looking out his windshield at the movements of the clouds while doing media interviews on his cell phone. Today he scrolls through weather news updates on the aftermath of Hurricane Otis, keeping informed for the next interview that pops up, or his next blog post. In total, 52 people will be reported dead due to the disaster. The hurricane destroyed homes and hotels, high-rises and hospitals. Swain’s name will appear in at least a dozen stories on Hurricane Otis, including one by David Wallace-Wells, an opinion writer for the New York Times,columnist for the New York Times Magazine,and bestselling author of The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming. “It’s easy to get pulled into overly dramatic ways of looking at where the world is going,” says Wallace-Wells, who routinely listens to Swain’s office hours and considers him a key source when he needs information on weather events. “Daniel helps people know how we can better calibrate those fears with the use of scientific rigor. He’s incredibly valuable.”
From the parking lot in the mountains, Swain often watches the weather that blows across the wide-open plains that stretch for hundreds of miles, all the way to the Mississippi River. He never tires of examining weather in real time, learning from it. He studies the interplay between the weather and the clouds at this spot where storms continually roll in and roll out.
“After all these years,” he says, “I’m still a weather geek.”
We are told that 2030 is a significant year for global sustainability targets. What could we really achieve comprehensively from now until then, especially with climate change dominating so many discussions and proposals?
More sustainable transport on water and land, with many advantages beyond tackling climate change (Leeuwarden, the Netherlands). Source: Photo Taken by Ilan Kelman
Several United Nations agreements use 2030 for their timeframe, including the Sustainable Development Goals, the Sendai Framework for Disaster Risk Reduction, the Paris Agreement for tackling human-caused climate change, and the Addis Ababa Action Agenda on Financing for Development. Aside from the oddity of having separate agreements with separate approaches from separate agencies to achieve similar goals, climate change is often explicitly separated as a topic. Yet it brings little that is new to the overall and fundamental challenges causing our sustainability troubles.
Consider what would happen if tomorrow we magically reached exactly zero greenhouse gas emissions. Overfishing would continue unabated through what is termed illegal, unreported, and unregulated fishing, often in protected areas such as Antarctic waters. Demands from faraway markets would still devastate nearshore marine habitats and undermine local practices serving local needs.
Deforestation would also continue. Examples are illegal logging in protected areas of Borneo and slashing-and-burning through the Amazon’s rainforest, often to plant products for supermarket shelves appealing to affluent populations. Environmental exploitation and ruination did not begin with, and is not confined to, climate change.
A similar ethos persists for human exploitation. No matter how awful the harm, human trafficking, organ harvesting, child marriage, child labour, female genital mutilation, and arms deals would not end with greenhouse gas emissions.
If we solved human-caused climate change, then humanity—or, more to the point, certain sectors of humanity—would nonetheless display horrible results in wrecking people and ecosystems. It comes from a value favouring immediate exploitation of any resource without worrying about long-term costs. It sits alongside the value of choosing to live out of balance with the natural environment from local to global scales.
These are exactly the same values causing the climate to change quickly and substantively due to human activity. In effect, it is about using fossil fuels as a resource as rapidly as possible, irrespective of the negative social and environmental consequences.
Changing these values represents the fundamental challenge. Doing so ties together all the international efforts and agreements.
The natural environment, though, does not exist in isolation from us. Human beings have never been separate from nature, even when we try our best to divorce society from the natural environments around us. Our problematic values are epitomised by seeing nature as being at our service, different or apart from humanity.
Human-caused climate change is one symptom among many of such unsustainable and destructive values. Referring to the “climate crisis” or “climate emergency” is misguided since similar crises and emergencies manifest for similar reasons, including overfishing, deforestation, human exploitation, and an industry selling killing devices.
The real crisis and the real emergency are certain values. These values lead to behaviour and actions which are the antithesis of what the entire 2030 agenda aims to achieve. We do a disservice to ourselves and our place in the environment by focusing on a single symptom, such as human-caused climate change.
Revisiting our values entails seeking fundaments for what we seek for 2030—and, more importantly, beyond. One of our biggest losses is in caring: caring for ourselves and for people and environments. Dominant values promote inward-looking, short-term thinking for action yielding immediate, superficial, and short-lived gains.
We ought to pivot sectors with these values toward caring about the long-term future, caring for people, caring for nature, and especially caring for ourselves—all of us—within and connected to nature. A caring pathway to 2030 is helpful, although we also need an agenda mapping out a millennium (and more) beyond this arbitrary year. Rather than using “social capital” and “natural capital” to define people and the environment, and rather than treating our skills and efforts as commodities, our values must reflect humanity, caring, integration with nature, and many other underpinning aspects.
When we fail to do so, human-caused climate change demonstrates what manifests, but it is only a single example from many. Placing climate change on a pedestal as the dominant or most important topic distracts from the depth and breadth required to identify problematic values and then morph them into constructive ones.
Focusing on the values that cause climate change and all the other ills is a baseline for reaching and maintaining sustainability. Then, we would not only solve human-caused climate change and achieve the 2030 agenda, but we would also address so much more for so much longer.
With the World Stumbling Past 1.5 Degrees of Warming, Scientists Warn Climate Shocks Could Trigger Unrest and Authoritarian Backlash
Most of the public seems unaware that global temperatures will soon push past the target to which the U.N. hoped to limit warming, but researchers see social and psychological crises brewing.
Activists march in protest on day nine of the COP28 Climate Conference on Dec. 9, 2023 in Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Credit: Sean Gallup/Getty Images
As Earth’s annual average temperature pushes against the 1.5 degree Celsius limit beyond which climatologists expect the impacts of global warming to intensify, social scientists warn that humanity may be about to sleepwalk into a dangerous new era in human history. Research shows the increasing climate shocks could trigger more social unrest and authoritarian, nationalist backlashes.
Established by the 2015 Paris Agreement and affirmed by a 2018 report from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, the 1.5 degree mark has been a cliff edge that climate action has endeavored to avoid, but the latest analyses of global temperature data showed 2023 teetering on that red line.
Paris negotiators were intentionally vague about the endeavor to limit warming to 1.5 degrees, and the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change put the goal in the context of 30-year global averages. Earlier this month, the Berkeley Earth annual climate report showed Earth’s average temperature in 2023 at 1.54 degrees Celsius above the 1850-1900 pre-industrial average, marking the first step past the target.
“The real danger is that there are so many other crises around us that there is no effort left for the climate crisis,” he said. “We will find all kinds of reasons not to put more effort into climate protection, because we are overburdened with other things like inflation and wars all around us.”
Steurer said he doesn’t expect any official announcement from major climate institutions until long after the 1.5 degree threshold is actually crossed, when some years will probably already be edging toward 2 degrees Celsius. “I think most scientists recognize that 1.5 is gone,” he said.
“We’ll be doing this for a very long time,” he added, “not accepting facts, pretending that we are doing a good job, pretending that it’s not going to be that bad.”
In retrospect, using the 1.5 degree temperature rise as the key metric of whether climate action was working may have been a bad idea, he said.
“It’s language nobody really understands, unfortunately, outside of science,” he said. ”You always have to explain that 1.5 means a climate we can adapt to and manage the consequences, 2 degrees of heating is really dangerous, and 3 means collapse of civilization.”
Absent any formal notification of breaching the 1.5 goal, he hopes more scientists talk publicly about worst-case outcomes.
“It would really make a difference if scientists talked more about societal collapse and how to prepare for that because it would signal, now it’s getting real,” he said. “It’s much more tangible than 1.5 degrees.”
Instead, recent public climate discourse was dominated by feel-good announcements about how COP28 kept the 1.5 goal alive, he added.
“This is classic performative politics,” he said. “If the fossil fuel industry can celebrate the outcome of the COP, that’s not a good sign.”
Like many social scientists, Steurer is worried that the increasingly severe climate shocks that warming greater than 1.5 degrees brings will reverberate politically as people reach for easy answers.
“That is usually denial, in particular when it comes to right-wing parties,” he said. “That’s the easiest answer you can find.”
“Global warming will be catastrophic sooner or later, but for now, denial works,” he said. “And that’s all that matters for the next election.”
‘Fear, Terror and Anxiety’
Social policy researcher Paul Hoggett, professor emeritus at the University of the West of England in Bristol, said the scientific roots of 1.5-degree target date back to research in the early 2000s that culminated in a University of Exeter climate conference at which scientists first spelled out the risks of triggering irreversible climate tipping points above that level of warming.
“I think it’s still seen very much as that key marker of where we move from something which is incremental, perhaps to something which ceases to be incremental,” he said. “But there’s a second reality, which is the reality of politics and policymaking.”
The first reality is “profoundly disturbing,” but in the political world, 1.5 is a symbolic maker, he said.
“It’s more rhetorical; it’s a narrative of 1.5,” he said, noting the disconnect of science and policy. “You almost just shrug your shoulders. As the first reality worsens, the political and cultural response becomes more perverse.”
A major announcement about breaching the 1.5 mark in today’s political and social climate could be met with extreme denial in a political climate marked by “a remorseless rise of authoritarian forms of nationalism,” he said. “Even an announcement from the Pope himself would be taken as just another sign of a global elite trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”
An increasing number of right-wing narratives simply see this as a set of lies, he added.
“I think this is a huge issue that is going to become more and more important in the coming years,” he said. “We’re going backwards to where we were 20 years ago, when there was a real attempt to portray climate science as misinformation,” he said. “More and more right wing commentators will portray what comes out of the IPCC, for example, as just a pack of lies.”
The IPCC’s reports represent a basic tenet of modernity—the idea that there is no problem for which a solution cannot be found, he said.
“Even an announcement from the Pope himself would be taken as just another sign of a global elite trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”
“However, over the last 100 years, this assumption has periodically been put to the test and has been found wanting,” Hoggett wrote in a 2023 paper. The climate crisis is one of those situations with no obvious solution, he wrote.
“Those are crucial political and individual emotions,” he said. “And it’s those things that drive this non-rational refusal to see what’s in front of your eyes.”
“At times of such huge uncertainty, a veritable plague of toxic public feelings can be unleashed, which provide the effective underpinning for political movements such as populism, authoritarianism, and totalitarianism,” he said.
“When climate reality starts to get tough, you secure your borders, you secure your own sources of food and energy, and you keep out the rest of them. That’s the politics of the armed lifeboat.”
The Emotional Climate
“I don’t think people like facing things they can’t affect,” said psychotherapist Rebecca Weston, co-president of the Climate Psychology Alliance of North America. “And in trauma, people do everything that they possibly can to stop feeling what is unbearable to feel.”
That may be one reason why the imminent breaching of the 1.5 degree limit may not stir the public, she said.
“We protect ourselves from fear, we protect ourselves from deep grief on behalf of future generations and we protect ourselves from guilt and shame. And I think that the fossil fuel industry knows that,” she said. “We can be told something over and over and over again, but if we have an identity and a sense of ourselves tied up in something else, we will almost always refer to that, even if it’s at the cost of pretending that something that is true is not true.”
Such deep disavowal is part of an elaborate psychological system for coping with the unbearable. “It’s not something we can just snap our fingers and get ourselves out of,” she said.
People who point out the importance of the 1.5-degree warming limit are resented because they are intruding on peoples’ psychological safety, she said, and they become pariahs. “The way societies enforce this emotionally is really very striking,” she added.
But how people will react to passing the 1.5 target is hard to predict, Weston said.
“I do think it revolves around the question of agency and the question of meaning in one’s life,” she said. “And I think that’s competing with so many other things that are going on in the world at the same time, not coincidentally, like the political crises that are happening globally, the shift to the far right in Europe, the shift to the far right in the U.S. and the shift in Argentina.”
Those are not unrelated, she said, because a lack of agency produces a yearning for false, exclusionary solutions and authoritarianism.
“If there’s going to be something that keeps me up at night, it’s not the 1.5. It’s the political implications of that feeling of helplessness,” she said. “People will do an awful lot to avoid feeling helpless. That can mean they deny the problem in the first place. Or it could mean that they blame people who are easier targets, and there is plenty of that to witness happening in the world. Or it can be utter and total despair, and a turning inward and into a defeatist place.”
She said reaching the 1.5 limit will sharpen questions about addressing the problem politically and socially.
“I don’t think most people who are really tracking climate change believe it’s a question of technology or science,” she said. “The people who are in the know, know deeply that these are political and social and emotional questions. And my sense is that it will deepen a sense of cynicism and rage, and intensify the polarization.”
Unimpressed by Science
Watching the global temperature surging past the 1.5 degree mark without much reaction from the public reinforces the idea that the focus on the physical science of climate change in recent decades came at the expense of studying how people and communities will be affected and react to global warming, said sociologist and author Dana Fisher, a professor in the School of International Service at American University and director of its Center for Environment, Community, and Equity.
“It’s a fool’s errand to continue down that road right now,” she said. “It’s been an abysmal ratio of funds that are going to understand the social conflict that’s going to come from climate shocks, the climate migration and the ways that social processes will have to shift. None of that has been done.”
Passing the 1.5 degree threshold will “add fuel to the fire of the vanguard of the climate movement,” she said. “Groups that are calling for systemic change, that are railing against incremental policy making and against business as usual are going to be empowered by this information, and we’re going to see those people get more involved and be more confrontational.”
“When you see a big cycle of activism growing, you get a rise in counter-movements, particularly as activism becomes more confrontational, even if it’s nonviolent, like we saw during the Civil Rights period,” she said. “And it will lead to clashes.”
Looking at the historic record, she said, shows that repressive crackdowns on civil disobedience is often where the violence starts. There are signs that pattern will repeat, with police raids and even pre-emptive arrests of climate activists in Germany, and similar repressive measures in the United Kingdom and other countries.
“I think that’s an important story to talk about, that people are going to push back against climate action just as much as they’re going to push for it,” she said. “There are those that are going to feel like they’re losing privileged access to resources and funding and subsidies.”
“When you see a big cycle of activism growing, you get a rise in counter-movements, particularly as activism becomes more confrontational, even if it’s nonviolent, like we saw during the Civil Rights period.”
A government dealing effectively with climate change would try to deal with that by making sure there were no clear winners and losers, she said, but the climate shocks that come with passing the 1.5 degree mark will worsen and intensify social tensions.
“There will be more places where you can’t go outside during certain times of the year because of either smoke from fires, or extreme heat, or flooding, or all the other things that we know are coming,” she said. “That’s just going to empower more people to get off their couches and become activists.”
‘A Life or Death Task For Humanity’
Public ignorance of the planet’s passing the 1.5 degree mark depends on “how long the powers-that-be can get away with throwing up smokescreens and pretending that they are doing something significant,” said famed climate researcher James Hansen, who recently co-authored a paper showing that warming is accelerating at a pace that will result in 2 degrees of warming within a couple of decades.
“As long as they can maintain the 1.5C fiction, they can claim that they are doing their job,” he said. “They will keep faking it as long as the scientific community lets them get away with it.”
But even once the realization of passing 1.5 is widespread, it might not change the social and political responses much, said Peter Kalmus, a climate scientist and activist in California.
“Not enough people care,” he said. “I’ve been a climate activist since 2006. I’ve tried so many things, I’ve had so many conversations, and I still don’t know what it will take for people to care. Maybe they never will.”
Hovering on the brink of this important climate threshold has left Kalmus feeling “deep frustration, sadness, helplessness, and anger,” he said. “I’ve been feeling that for a long time. Now, though, things feel even more surreal, as we go even deeper into this irreversible place, seeming not to care.”
“No one really knows for sure, but it may still be just physically possible for Earth to stay under 1.5C,” he said, “if humanity magically stopped burning fossil fuels today. But we can’t stop fossil fuels that fast even if everyone wanted to. People would die. The transition takes preparation.”
And there are a lot of people who just don’t want to make that transition, he said.
“We have a few people with inordinate power who actively want to continue expanding fossil fuels,” he said. “They are the main beneficiaries of extractive capitalism; billionaires, politicians, CEOs, lobbyists and bankers. And the few people who want to stop those powerful people haven’t figured out how to get enough power to do so.”
Kalmus said he was not a big fan of setting a global temperature threshold to begin with.
“For me it’s excruciatingly clear that every molecule of fossil fuel CO2 or methane humanity adds to the atmosphere makes irreversible global heating that much worse, like a planet-sized ratchet turning molecule by molecule,” he said. “I think the target framing lends itself to a cycle of procrastination and failure and target moving.”
Meanwhile, climate impacts will continue to worsen into the future, he said.
“There is no upper bound, until either we choose to end fossil fuels or until we simply aren’t organized enough anymore as a civilization to burn much fossil fuel,” he said. “I think it’s time for the movement to get even more radical. Stopping fossil-fueled global heating is a life-or-death task for humanity and the planet, just most people haven’t realized it yet.”
Bob Berwyn an Austria-based reporter who has covered climate science and international climate policy for more than a decade. Previously, he reported on the environment, endangered species and public lands for several Colorado newspapers, and also worked as editor and assistant editor at community newspapers in the Colorado Rockies.
In 2017, the Brazilian journalist Eliane Brum moved from São Paulo to a small city in the Amazon. Her new book vividly uncovers how the rainforest is illegally seized and destroyed.
In August 2017 Eliane Brum, one of Brazil’s best-known journalists, moved from the great metropolis of São Paulo to Altamira, a small, violence-plagued city along the Xingu River in the Amazon. Brum worked for the country’s most respected newspaper, Folha de São Paulo, as well as other smaller news outlets, where she was known for a column called The Life No One Sees, about lives that are usually “reduced to a footnote so tiny it almost slides off the page.” She regularly embedded for long periods of time with those who had no obvious reason to appear in a newspaper: a retired school lunch lady who is slowly dying of cancer, a baggage handler who dreams of taking a flight one day.
Born to Italian immigrants in Brazil, Brum was a single, teenage mother when she began working as a journalist in Florianópolis, a midsize beach city in the south. She wrote news coverage, several nonfiction books, and a novel, and codirected three documentaries. During her time in São Paulo, after covering urban Brazil for decades, she decided that the biggest story—not just in the country, but in the world—was in the rainforest. Her new book’s subtitle is “The Amazon as the Center of the World.” The book is about her move, what pulled her to Altamira, and what she found there—her attempt to radically remake her life, which she calls “reforesting” herself.
About three quarters of the Amazonian population live in towns and cities. Altamira—a city in the state of Pará, nearly twice as large as Texas—is not beautiful, it is not picturesque, it is not pleasant. Though the waters of the Xingu River used to run clear, it is now not anyone’s idea of an idyllic rainforest outpost. Once a Jesuit mission, it is now a 100,000-strong city of hulking Land Rovers with tinted windows threatening to mow down those poor or reckless enough to walk in the street. It has the dubious distinction of being among Brazil’s most violent cities, worse than Rio de Janeiro, with its famous street crime, where I was scolded within an inch of my life by an elderly stranger for leaving apartment keys and cash folded into a towel on the beach while I went for a solo swim.
Altamira is territory of the grileiros—whom Brum’s translator, Diane Whitty, glosses as “land grabbers”—and their henchmen. Worth the price of admission is Brum’s detailed explanation of their particular technique of seizing and destroying the Amazon: the grileiros hire private militias to drive out Indigenous peoples, along with anyone else who lives on public preserves in the forest; chop down hardwood trees (illegally—but who is to tell in such a remote area?); and then set the rest on fire. Once that patch of the Amazon is burned, grileiros bring in cattle or plant soybeans to solidify their claim, as well as to turn a profit beyond the value of the stolen land. At the local level, corrupt officials bow to or directly work with the grileiros.The noncorrupt rightly fear them. At the national level, Brazilians have neither the resources nor the will to do much to stop them. Grileiros are, Brum writes with a flourish, “key to understanding the destruction of the rainforest, yesterday, today, always.”
The fires that spread in the Amazon in 2019 and so horrified those of us watching abroad on tiny screens were unusually large, but not unusual in any other way. The Amazon burns continuously in fires set by those working for grileiros,even now, after Jair Bolsonaro, who was elected president in 2018 on a platform of explicit support for the grileiros (his enthusiasm for murdering the rainforest earned him the nickname Captain Chainsaw), was voted out of office. The feverish pace of deforestation of the Bolsonaro years has slowed, dropping by 33.6 percent during the first six months after Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva—known to all as Lula—was inaugurated president for his third term in 2023. But less has changed than those of us rooting for the survival of planet Earth might like: the local dynamics, the destructive ways of making money from the rainforest, the permissiveness and lawlessness have remained the same.
Over the past fifty years, an estimated 17 percent of the Amazon has been turned into cropland or cattle pasture. Many scientists warn that, at around 20 or 25 percent deforestation, the Amazon could reach a tipping point, at which the poetically named “flying rivers” that recycle water vapor from the forest into rain in other areas of South America would cease to fly. Huge areas of the rainforest would turn to scrubby savanna, possibly over only a few decades, with potentially catastrophic effects, like severe droughts in places as far away as the western United States.
Heriberto Araújo, a Spanish journalist who has covered China and Latin America for Agence France-Presse and the Mexican news agency Notimex, among others, wrote in his recent book Masters of the Lost Land1 that when he traveled the Trans-Amazonian Highway past Altamira and deeper into the state of Pará, he saw not the thick vegetation of rainforest but rolling pastures and fields of soybeans:
While I had vaguely hoped to see a wild jaguar—a beast formerly so common in these forests that pioneers, unafraid, had even domesticated some specimens and treated them like pets—I was disappointed; the sole animal in sight was the humpbacked, floppy-eared, glossy white Nelore cow, the ultimate conqueror of the frontier.
Visitors in the nineteenth century described the Amazon as a wall of sound, loud with the bellows of red howler monkeys and the calls of birds and frogs. Now large areas are silent but for the rustling of cows’ tails as they slap flies—except where chainsaws grate against the remaining trees.
The subject of Brum’s book is not the rainforest itself but the human beings who live in it, logging, burning, farming, gathering, tending, replanting. An estimated 30 million people live in the Amazon. This sounds wrong to some outsiders: Apart from Indigenous groups, shouldn’t the Amazon be empty of humans, the better to leave the plants and animals in peace? (Some go so far as to argue that even the Indigenous should be displaced to cities, echoing anti-Native conservationist ideas throughout history and around the world, including in the US.)
But Brum distinguishes between the human residents of the Amazon who harm their environment, like the grileiros and big cattle, oil, and timber,and those who make a less damaging living from farming, gathering, or engaging in renewable or smaller-scale extraction. The latter group, many of whom were driven out by huge development projects like dams, mourn the trees and fish and fruit. Brum thinks that this group should have the right to stay. Her book is an attempt to be more like them, to get up close with those who have merged with the rainforest in a way that she seeks to emulate, and then to try to convey to outsiders what she has heard and felt and learned—with all its sweat and noise and discomfort. She confesses that the “book harbors the desire to make the Amazon a personal matter for those reading it.”
Brum is a useful guide to the people of the Amazon, from the Yanomami in and around Altamira and the “pioneers” who first brought in the cows to the hired guns and the workers who today clear the forest and tend cattle and soy for little or no pay. Some grileiros are small-time cattle rustlers or heads of neo-Pentecostal churches preaching the gospel of prosperity. The most powerful “don’t live in the Amazon or get their hands dirty” at all; they are members of the country’s one percent, from São Paulo, Minas Gerais, and Rio Grande do Sul. “Right now, while I’m writing and you’re reading,” she says, “they might be playing polo or listening to the São Paulo Symphony Orchestra.”
Most victims of the Amazon’s many murders are workers who demand back wages or other rights, activists who demand land for the landless, and foreign or local Yanomami environmental defenders. In 2005 an American-born nun named Dorothy Stang, who was supporting the poor in their efforts to defend land against ranchers so that they could earn a living extracting forest products without cutting down the trees, was killed on the orders of a local cattleman.
The term grileiro derives from the Portuguese word for “cricketer,” because back in the 1970s, Brum writes,
the men used to consummate their fraud by placing new sheets of paper and live crickets in boxes where the insects…produced excrement that yellowed the documents and made them look more believably like old land titles.
Grileiros worked with lawyers and corrupt civil servants who helped authenticate the fake papers: a bribe to officials registering deeds made the title official. Unlike homesteading in the United States, which was also often made possible by fraudulent claims, land grabs in the Amazon are ongoing. In Brazil, scattered notaries public, rather than a centralized registry, oversee land titles, leaving the door wide open to fraud and corruption. The researcher and journalist Maurício Torres found in 2009 that the municipality of São Félix do Xingu, in Pará, would have to be three stories high to make space for all the titles registered at the land deed offices.
This whole set of flora and fauna—cows, soybeans, grileiros—is part of the long story of what in Brazil is called “colonization.” That word, as in other Latin American countries, refers not to overseas colonies but to projects that fill out the population in valuable hinterlands. Since Brazil gained its independence from Portugal in 1822, the country has been preoccupied with keeping control over the Amazon. Brazil claims the largest portion of the rainforest, but it spills over national borders into Peru and Colombia, with smaller portions held by five other nations, as well as 3,344 separate acknowledged Indigenous territories. Beyond symbolizing natural majesty, not to mention mystery, in the world’s imagination, the Amazon represents wealth. Ten percent of all species live there, and the Amazon River, with over a thousand tributaries, holds a fifth of the planet’s fresh water.
The word “colonization” in Brazil once had the sort of positive connotation that “exploration” and “westward expansion” did to North American ears. The violent process still occupies a place among the country’s founding myths: bandeirantes (literally “flag carriers”) are honored with statues all over Brazil. During the colonial period bandeirantes cleared and settled the areas around São Paulo, then explored the interior, pushing land claims well beyond what had been allotted to the Portuguese in their 1494 treaty with the Spanish. In the eighteenth century they set off a gold rush. To grab more land for Brazil, the bandeirantes organized sneak attacks on Indigenous villages and enslaved captives. Their actual and spiritual heirs went on to slaughter Indigenous people and clear lands around the country for centuries.
After independence, government officials promoted the settlement of more remote areas in the hope of encouraging smallholding farms, not unlike the Jeffersonian ideal for early North America. Who might those farmers be? Not Indigenous peoples. Certainly not Black Brazilians, since slavery lasted for six and a half decades after independence, later than any other country in the Americas. (During the colonial period, Brazilians built an economy of sugar plantations worked by enslaved Africans—over 40 percent of all Africans forcibly brought to the New World disembarked in Brazil.) The land was for whiter Brazilians.
Europeans were shipped in, too, though mostly as workers. As in similar schemes to attract European migrants to Argentina, Venezuela, and elsewhere in Latin America, Brazilian officials in the state of São Paulo engaged in an explicit program of branqueamento,or “whitening,” just as Brazilian slaves became free. They offered free transatlantic boat passage to European immigrants, even sending agents over to impoverished northern Italian port cities to sign up the likes of Brum’s great-great-grandparents.
When Brum was still new to Altamira, she went shopping in a supermarket with an activist who worked on land conflicts, and ran into a tall white stranger. Exchanging pleasantries, she realized they were from the same part of southern Brazil, where people proudly refer to themselves as gaúchos, a kind of Brazilian cowboy. Brum had been proud of this heritage, too. After the man left, the activist told her, “He’s a grileiro.” “Still naive, I replied, ‘Gosh, a gaúcho, how disgraceful.’ Then he explained, ‘You have to understand that gaúchos are known as the Amazon’s locusts.’”
While colonization schemes “integrated” the Amazon into the rest of Brazil, the result was not sweet little farms but a thriving rubber economy. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, men from northeastern Brazil, including many recently manumitted slaves, worked throughout the Amazon as tappers on a freelance basis—affixing drains to trees to siphon off latex, the basis of wild rubber, which was at that time an important raw material for the global industrial revolution. (In 1928 Henry Ford, in an attempt to vertically integrate his car empire, briefly opened a rubber plantation and model city in the Amazon called Fordlândia.)
Escaping harsh work conditions and debts to predatory traders, many of these migrant workers vanished into the forest and settled, intermarrying with Indigenous people and quilombolas,the descendants of runaway slaves. Brum writes about the difficulty of characterizing this group, called the beiradeiros—literally, those who live on the edge of the river—to outsiders. She explains that they are the “third people” of the forest, neither quilombolas nor Indigenous. “The beiradeiros fish and hunt, crack Brazil nuts, pick açaí, plant fields, make flour, sometimes raise chickens,” she writes.
They might tap rubber if the price is good, prospect a little when there’s a new gold strike. They hunted a lot of jaguars and oncillas in the past because whites wanted the hides.
Brum opposes the conservationist groups who would oust the beiradeiros in the name of preserving the ecosystem: “Humans—this generic term invented to conceal asymmetries—are not a threat to the forest; rather, some humans are. Others interact with it, transform it, and even plant it.” Since before the “colonization” of the Amazon, even before the Portuguese disembarked in what is now Brazil, Indigenous peoples of the region have contributed to the richness of the soil and density of the forest cover by cultivating sweet potatoes, peanuts, cacao, manioc, and squash.
Brazil’s military dictatorship, in power from 1964 to 1985, oversaw a new colonization scheme in the Amazon that was much like the old one, but with more chainsaws, more funding, and more paranoia. Their colossal development plan involved displacing almost one million people—rubber tappers, farmers, Indigenous people—to exploit natural resources and build infrastructure like the Trans-Amazonian Highway, a 2,500-mile road connecting the whole basin from east to west. They also offered tax breaks, special lines of credit, and cheap land to those who would relocate to the Amazon from elsewhere in the country. On September 27, 1972, the dictator Emílio Garrastazu Médici traveled to Altamira to cut the ribbon on the project and claimed that it solved two problems: “men without land in the northeast and land without men in the Amazon.” The slogan of the project became “a land without men for men without land.” It is no accident that this sounds much like the Zionist phrase “a land without a people for a people without a land”—both draw on the concept of terra nullius (nobody’s land) that has given a legal veneer to the seizure of land around the world.
There was widespread fear in the government that foreign powers, particularly the US, had designs on the Amazon, as well as cold war concerns that guerrilla fighters might use the remote rainforest as a base. “Occupy so as not to surrender” was one not-so-subtle slogan. There were some guerrilla fighters active in Pará, but they were executed upon capture in the 1970s. After spending some time in Brazil, I was startled to learn that many people still believe that outsiders—now often the European Union and the United Nations—wish to invade, steal, or prohibit Brazilians from profiting from the Amazon, or even from entering it, by declaring it an international reserve.
As president, Bolsonaro floated the idea that international nonprofits had set the enormous 2019 blazes because they “lost money.” Later, when questioned by foreign reporters about his evidence-free assertions about international conspiracies to take over the Amazon, he said, with characteristic indelicacy, “Brazil is the virgin that every foreign pervert wants to get their hands on.” This may be a case of projection—the most successful national land grabs in the Amazon have been by Brazil, which took Acre from Bolivia and a piece of what is now Amapá from French Guiana. The historian Barbara Weinstein recalls that Itamar Franco, Brazil’s president after Fernando Collor de Mello was impeached for corruption in 1992, referred to US organizations that complained about destruction in the Amazon as “palefaces.” The implication was that North Americans slaughtered their Indigenous populations and stole and settled their land. Why shouldn’t Brazilians do the same? Bolsonaro’s views are crude but not new.
Colonization involved the massacre of whole Indigenous settlements: a truth commission report later found that over the course of the military dictatorship, government officials killed at least 8,350 Indigenous people. It also turned out to be an economic disaster for everyone other than cattle ranchers and grileiros, costing billions of dollars, and to this day the infrastructure is plagued by mudslides and flooding. Between 1978 and 1988 the Amazon was deforested by the equivalent of the whole state of Connecticut each year. Ideas of environmental protection have certainly evolved, but the destruction of the Amazon caused an outcry even at the time. The environmentalist Chico Mendes, head of the rubber tappers’ union, opposed the destruction of the Amazon, saying the government should demarcate “extractive reserves” for people to use the rainforest, but cautiously and in sustainable ways. (Dorothy Stang, the murdered nun, echoed this approach.) Mendes was assassinated by a rancher in 1988. In 1989 the prominent Kayapó leader Raoni Metuktire toured the world warning of climate collapse:
If you continue the burn-offs, the wind will increase, the Sun will grow very hot, the Earth too. All of us, not just the Indigenous, will be unable to breathe. If you destroy the forest, we will all be silenced.
In 1988, during the transition to democracy, the new Brazilian constitution granted Indigenous people “their original rights to the lands they traditionally occupy,” making it the state’s responsibility to demarcate these lands and ensure respect for property. Over the next several decades, 690 Indigenous preserves—13 percent of the national territory, much of it in the Amazon—were cordoned off. In addition to representing (insufficient) reparations for past harms, the preserves appear to be by far the best option to prevent deforestation: Indigenous peoples have proved themselves to be the world’s best protectors of the forest in study after scientific study.
Last September, Brazil’s Supreme Court blocked efforts by agribusiness-supported politicians to mandate that groups were only entitled to land they physically occupied when the 1988 constitution was signed, even though many communities had been expelled from their lands during the dictatorship. After nine of eleven judges sided with Indigenous peoples, a member of the Pitaguarí group told news outlets about the celebrations outside the courthouse:
We’re happy and we cry because we know that it’s only with demarcated territory, with protected Indigenous territory, that we’ll be able to stop climate change from happening and preserve our biome.
Then agribusiness struck back. Its allies in the National Congress quickly amended part of the legislation that the Supreme Court had found unconstitutional. Lula vetoed the new bill, but Congress overturned the veto, reinstating the absurd rule, at least until the question returns to the Supreme Court.
Though technically 13 percent of the country’s land is protected for Indigenous groups, in practice people living on these preserves—Indigenous, Black, and a combination of the two groups—are often forced out by violence or extreme poverty. The latest available numbers show 36 percent of Brazil’s Indigenous people living in cities. The Covid-19 pandemic fell hard on Indigenous Brazilians, killing many of the elders who led resistance movements or were among the last to speak their languages.
Before he was elected president, Bolsonaro’s anti-Indigenous views were already notorious. He lamented that Brazil had been less “efficient” than the North Americans, “who exterminated the Indians.” He called the demarcation of Yanomami territory “high treason” and said, “I’m not getting into this nonsense of defending land for Indians,” especially in mineral-rich areas. Brum writes that Bolsonaro “used the virus as an unexpected biological weapon in his plan to destroy original peoples” by refusing to make vaccines available or implement public health measures as it became clear that the virus’s victims were disproportionately Indigenous.
For many years Brum resisted writing directly about Indigenous groups, including the Yanomami who occupy the area nearest to Altamira. She felt she didn’t know enough, worried that she didn’t speak the language. After moving to Altamira, she got over her reticence. Some of the most intriguing quotations in her book are from the Yanomami shaman and diplomat Davi Kopenawa, who refers to outsiders to the forest as “commodities people” or “forest eaters.” He describes our books as “paper skin” where words are imprisoned, but nevertheless agreed to write one, as told in Yanomami to a French anthropologist named Bruce Albert. I followed Brum’s book into Kopenawa’s The Falling Sky (2013),2 thinking I would read just a few sections, and then tore through its six hundred pages. “I gave you my story so that you would answer those who ask themselves what the inhabitants of the forest think,” he tells Albert at the beginning of the book. Kopenawa hopes that outsiders can come to understand the following:
The Yanomami are other people than us, yet their words are right and clear…. Their forest is beautiful and silent. They were created there and have lived in it without worry since the beginning of time. Their thought follows other paths than that of merchandise.
In quoting Kopenawa extensively, Brum wants the reader to see that everyone outside the Amazon, not just gaúchos, are the locusts. Through our consumption patterns—the voracious global appetite for red meat, construction materials, new furniture, new paper created from pulped trees—most of us are preying on the Amazon and by extension on people like the Yanomami. In a place like Altamira, Brum writes, the “chain of relations is short or even nonexistent. Here it’s impossible to play innocent, or play innocent so well that we believe it ourselves, as you can do in cities like São Paulo or New York.” Brum could have included a bit more information from further up the supply chain—many of the “forest eaters” are not individual consumers but agribusiness firms unchained in Brazil, where regulations often go unenforced—but the point stands.
Brum finds plenty to criticize in Lula’s mixed record on environmental issues, and reserves her sharpest words for his support of the Belo Monte dam. The dam is a hydroelectric power plant built on the Xingu River, a project that she wrote about with rage and at length in a previous book, The Collector of Leftover Souls (2019). The fifth largest in the world, the plant was first dreamed up by the military dictatorship, but fiercely opposed by inhabitants of the Amazon because the plans required diverting rivers, destroying animal habitats, flooding huge sections of the rainforest, and displacing at least tens of thousands of people. Construction of a slightly modified plan went ahead anyway during Lula’s first term and was completed in 2019, with builders digging more earth than was moved to construct the Panama Canal. Critics say that even aside from large-scale environmental destruction, the engineering of the plant meant it would never produce the amount of energy originally promised.
Lula is of course better on Amazon policy than Bolsonaro. So is a potato, or a child. But like other Latin American leftists, he paid for extensive social spending, especially successful programs fighting malnutrition and hunger, with income from high-priced global commodities. Producing and exporting these commodities, like soybeans, takes a high environmental toll. Nonetheless, there is reason for modest optimism. His environment and climate change minister, Marina Silva, is an extraordinary woman who was born in a rubber-tapping region of the Amazon and became an environmental activist alongside Chico Mendes. But the National Congress is still dominated by agribusiness and with many earlier land grabs already laundered into legality with false paperwork, one of the most effective strategies has been not taking back stolen land, but slowing deforestation and ongoing land theft in less frequently claimed parts of the Amazon.
Though she lived a daring life even before her move to the Amazon, Brum has written a semi-memoir surprisingly low on memoir, heavy on close readings of other people, and appealingly self-deprecating. “Any journalist who makes themself out to be a great adventurer is simply foolish,” she writes.
Just live alongside the pilots and bowmen of Amazonian motor canoes and you’ll retreat into your inescapable insignificance. They can spot tracajá eggs where I see only sand, pointy rocks where I see only water, rain where I see only blue. I could barely manage to hang my hammock in a tree at bedtime.
She points out what should be obvious: that those best equipped to care for and report on the Amazon are those who are native to it and know it best.
Her projects in the Amazon now go well beyond journalism, extending into activism. She writes that her first marriage did not endure the move to Altamira, and she later married a British journalist named Jonathan Watts, who covers the environment for The Guardian.The couple, along with four other journalists, founded the Rainforest Journalism Fund in 2018 to promote reporting initially in the Amazon, and then in the Congo Basin and Southeast Asia as well. Brum and Watts have since set up an experimental 1.2-acre reforestation scheme in Altamira, on lands that had been devastated by burning for cattle grazing.
In El País in 2014, Brum interviewed the Brazilian anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, who told her, “The Indigenous are experts in the end of the world.” Brum’s recommendation—really, her plea—is that as the planet warms and the Amazon turns to savanna, outsiders “listen to the people who have been called barbarians…. Listen [out of] an ultimate survival instinct.” She writes:
Perhaps, if we are fortunate, those whose lives have so often been destroyed by those who label themselves civilized will agree to teach us to live after the end of the world.
“O mundo está mudando: sinto-o na água, sinto-o na terra e farejo-o no ar.” Quem só assistiu aos filmes da série “O Senhor dos Anéis” se acostumou a ouvir essa frase na voz augusta de Cate Blanchett (a elfa Galadriel); nos livros, quem a pronuncia é o ent (gigante arvoresco) Barbárvore. Trata-se, no fundo, de um resumo da conclusão do romance de fantasia de J.R.R. Tolkien: o fim de uma era e o começo de outra, caracterizada pelo Domínio dos Homens. E se fosse possível detectar diretamente algo muito parecido com isso no nosso mundo do século 21? Algo que prove, para além de qualquer dúvida, que a nossa espécie passou a moldar a Terra de forma irreversível?
A resposta a essa pergunta pode ser encontrada em muitos lugares, mas tudo indica que a versão mais contundente e consolidada dela, a que entrará para os livros de geologia e de história, vem do lago Crawford, no Canadá. Os cientistas encarregados de definir formalmente o início do chamado Antropoceno –a época geológica caracterizada pela intervenção humana maciça em diversos aspectos do funcionamento do planeta– estão usando o lago como o exemplo por excelência desse fenômeno.
É por isso que convido o leitor para um mergulho naquelas águas alcalinas. Entender os detalhes que fazem do lugar um exemplo tão útil para entender o Antropoceno é, ao mesmo tempo, uma pequena aula de método científico e um retrato do poderio –frequentemente destrutivo– que desenvolvemos como espécie.
Uma das análises mais completas da lagoa canadense foi publicado na revista científica The Anthropocene Review por uma equipe da Universidade Brock, no Canadá. A primeira coisa a se ter em mente é que o lago Crawford parece um grande funil: relativamente pequeno (2,4 hectares de área) e fundo (24 m entre a superfície e o leito). Isso faz com que as camadas d’água, embora bem oxigenadas, misturem-se pouco. Por causa da salinidade e alcalinidade elevadas, há pouca vida animal no fundo.
E esse é o primeiro grande pulo do gato: tais características fazem com que camadas muito estáveis de sedimento possam se depositar anualmente no leito do lago Crawford. Todo ano é a mesma história: durante o outono, uma lâmina mais escura de matéria orgânica desce ao fundo (como estamos no Canadá, muitas árvores perdem as folhas nessa época); no verão, essa camada é recoberta por outra, mais clara, de minerais ricos em cálcio. Essa regularidade nunca é bagunçada pela chamada bioturbação (invertebrados aquáticos cavando o leito, por exemplo).
Ou seja, o fundo do lago é um reloginho, ou melhor, um calendário. Cilindros de sedimento tirados de seu fundo podem ser datados ano a ano com pouquíssima incerteza.
Isso significa que dá para identificar com precisão o aparecimento do elemento químico plutônio –resultado direto do uso de armas nucleares, principalmente em testes militares– a partir de 1948, com um pico em 1967 e uma queda nos anos 1980. Dada a natureza dos elementos radioativos, essa assinatura estará lá rigorosamente “para sempre” (ao menos do ponto de vista humano).
Algo muito parecido vale para as chamadas SCPs (partículas esferoidais carbonáceas, na sigla inglesa). Elas são produzidas pela queima industrial, em altas temperaturas, de carvão mineral e derivados do petróleo. Começam a aparecer nos sedimentos da segunda metade do século 19, mas sua presença só dispara mesmo, de novo, no começo dos anos 1950. Nada que não seja a ação humana poderia produzir esse fenômeno.
É por isso que os cientistas estão propondo o ano de 1950 como o início do Antropoceno. Ainda que a proposta não “pegue” nesse formato exato, o peso de evidências como as camadas do lago Crawford é dificílimo de contrariar. Está na água, na terra e no ar. E, para o bem ou para o mal, a responsabilidade é nossa.
Uma pesquisa inédita feita pelo Ipec (Inteligência em Pesquisa e Consultoria Estratégica) a pedido do Instituto Pólis revela que 7 em cada 10 brasileiros já vivenciaram ao menos um evento extremo ligado às mudanças climáticas.
Entre os episódios sofridos mais citados pelos entrevistados estão chuvas muito fortes (20%), seca e escassez de água (20%), alagamentos, inundações e enchentes (18%), temperaturas extremas (10%), apagão (7%), ciclones e tempestades de vento (6%) e queimadas e incêndios (5%).
O Ipec ouviu 2.000 pessoas com 16 anos ou mais entre os dias 22 e 26 de julho deste ano. A pesquisa encomendada pelo Instituto Pólis, com apoio do Instituto Clima e Sociedade, tem uma margem de erro de dois pontos percentuais, para mais ou para menos, e um índice de confiança de 95%.
O levantamento mostra que as temperaturas extremas —seja muito frio ou muito calor— são as ocorrências mais associadas pela população (44%) à crise climática. Em termos práticos, porém, a falta de água e a seca são os eventos que mais preocupam, sendo apontados por 34% dos respondentes.
Na sequência são citados temores em relação a alagamento, inundação e enchente (23%), incêndios e queimadas (18%) e chuva forte (17%). A preocupação com o advento do calor ou do frio extremo surge em quinto lugar, sendo temido por 16% dos entrevistados.
Ainda de acordo com a pesquisa, as apreensões variam de acordo com a classe e com cor dos entrevistados. Alagamentos, inundações e enchentes preocupam mais as classes D e E, sendo indicadas por 25% dos entrevistados desses segmentos, do que as classes A e B (19%). A média nacional é de 23%.
A população negra, por sua vez, apresenta maior preocupação (25%) em relação a essas mesmas ocorrências do que a população branca (21%).
Para pesquisadores que integram o Pólis, as respostas também indicam que a população brasileira defende o investimento em fontes renováveis de energia para combater as mudanças climáticas.
Do total de entrevistados, 84% dizem se preocupar com o futuro e apoiar o investimento nessas modalidades. Para 57%, a energia solar deveria ser priorizada em termos de investimentos públicos. Fontes hídricas (14%) e a eólicas (13%) são citadas na sequência.
Por outro lado, os entrevistados afirmam que o petróleo (73%), o carvão mineral (72%) e o gás fóssil (67%) são as categorias que mais contribuem para o agravamento das mudanças climáticas.
“A pesquisa indica, de forma inédita, que há uma tendência de custo político cada vez mais elevado se o caminho das decisões governamentais continuar sendo no investimento de fontes não renováveis”, afirma o diretor-executivo do Instituto Pólis, Henrique Frota.
“Os números mostram que os brasileiros querem investimento prioritário em fontes renováveis e entendem essa decisão como fundamental para o combate às mudanças climáticas”, completa Frota.
In the summer of 2016, a fifty-seven-year-old Texan named Stephen McRae drove east out of the rainforests of Oregon and into the vast expanse of the Great Basin. His plan was to commit sabotage. First up was a coal-burning power plant near Carlin, Nevada, a 242-megawatt facility owned by the Newmont Corporation that existed to service two nearby gold mines, also owned by Newmont.
McRae hated coal-burning power plants with a passion, but even more he hated gold mines. Gold represented most everything frivolous, wanton, and destructive. Love of gold was for McRae a form of civilizational degeneracy, because of the pollution associated with it, the catastrophic disruption of soil, the poisoning of water and air, and because it set people against one another.
Gold mines needed to die, McRae told me years later, around a campfire in the wilderness, when he felt that he could finally share his story. “And the power plant too. I wanted it all to go down. But it was only that summer I got up the balls to finally do it.”
He was compelled at last to act because of what he had seen in the conifer forests of Washington and Oregon that summer. They were hot and dry when they should have been cool and lush, rich with rain. He saw few of the birds that he had thought of as his companions in the Pacific Northwest—the flycatchers and vireos, the hermit warbler, the Pacific wren, the varied thrush. Even the most common birds, say the dark-eyed junco with its flashing white tail and sharp trilling, were nowhere to be found. Living out of the back of his car, camping on public lands, he stomped about at night before his fire with fists clenched, enraged at the loss.
As far as authorities know, McRae had committed industrial sabotage only once before, in San Juan County, Utah, on April Fools’ Day 2015. It was an attack on an electrical substation, a crime for which, had he been caught and convicted, he could have faced imprisonment under terrorism enhancement statutes for as many as twenty years, even though no human life had been endangered by the act. This was an essential point for McRae. “They called me a terrorist with anarchist intentions,” he would later explain. “But my hatred is for machines, not people.” He referred to the complex of machines and its technocratic tenders as the “megamachine,” after the formulation of the social historian Lewis Mumford, who warned against the takeover of society by technologies that would make us its dependents and, at long last, its servants—technologies that have now deranged the climate because they are fueled by burning carbon. “Down with the megamachine” was McRae’s motto.
Now he struck as opportunity arose, on his way across northern Nevada, headed east on I-80, bound for the Newmont power plant and mines. On the evening of August 30, 2016, while driving down a dirt road to his campsite in the foothills of the Montana Mountains in Humboldt County, some hundred and fifty miles northwest of the Newmont site in Carlin, he happened upon the Quinn River substation, a 115-kilovolt node of the sort that typically serves large industrial customers.
At 8 am the next day, he pulled up near the substation in his rickety purple Isuzu truck. The long shadows of the Nevada morning stretched across the desert. McRae scanned the horizon for traffic or pedestrians. Seeing no one, he raised his .30–40 Krag, a rifle known for its power and accuracy, and fired a single round from inside the truck. The bullet pierced the cooling fins of the transformer, as intended, causing mineral oil to gush onto the sagebrush.
The noise of the shot was tremendous, and for a moment it stunned him. He looked around as though finally awake to what he was doing. It was then that he asked himself something he would end up asking a lot, which was how it had come to this, how had he stooped so low.
McRae had once been a successful entrepreneur, the head of a high-end carpentry business in Dallas that catered to wealthy clients and brought him a six-figure income. At the height of his success, he oversaw ten journeymen, but the 2008 financial crash killed the business. Now he no longer had a cell phone, credit card, or bank account. He lived hand to mouth, working odd jobs. He had been married and in love, his wife a backpacker like him, smitten with wild places. But she was long gone, like everything else that had been stable and orderly in his life.
For one at the bottom of society’s rungs, who had given up on the doomed American dream, nomadism in the wide-open West was the way to go. He relieved his anger and despair and sadness in the solace of his campsites, where at least there were trees to talk to, stars immense and cosmic, and, if he was lucky, a purling stream running down from snowmelt high in the mountains, above the burning desert. There was room to be a bum with a degree of dignity, to disappear in the enormous backcountry, beyond the eyes of the cops and the reach of what McRae called in his diary “the Corporate Police State.” Here he declared himself a “madly matriarchal, tree-hugging, godless feminist with a gun.”
He ejected a single cartridge as he shot the Quinn River substation, and he noted where it fell in the truck so that he could quickly dispose of the evidence. (Always shoot from inside the truck, he advised, so there are no ballistics or shoe prints at the site.) Satisfied that the transformer would fail within the hour, he turned east into the sun on Nevada State Route 140, bound for the Newmont power plant.
But the Newmont attack never happened, for the stupidest of reasons: he got a flat. He knew he would have to drive on a spare over many dirt roads to escape, and he didn’t dare attempt taking out the facility on three good tires alone.
I first met McRae—and first appeared in his FBI case records—not long after the aborted assault on the Newmont site. On October 7 that same year, I stopped by the home of a friend in Escalante, Utah, where I was living that fall. The friend was Mark Austin, a sixty-five-year-old contractor who built homes for wealthy transplants. He could see I was rattled, and welcomed me in for a drink. A deer—a large buck—had charged across a field as I motored slowly into town and had rammed its antlers into my driver’s side window, shattering glass in my face and hair before fleeing. McRae was at Austin’s house for dinner when I arrived, and he thought my story was funny. The beasts of the earth are coming for you, he said. “It’s your New York plates.”
I was in no mood for joking. McRae seemed to be a big, aggressive, silver-haired Southerner, above six feet in height, with enormous shoulders, hands about the size of my head, and a broad smile that revealed a hollow space of molars gone from lack of care. A steak-fed Fort Worth or Dallas specimen, I figured, who made up with body mass what’s lacking in mind. This first impression, needless to say, was all wrong.
We ended up drinking a lot of wine, then tequila. We bonded over his love of English literature and Russian despair, the Brontës and Dostoevsky. He seemed quick to hate and quick to love, his disposition a mix of mania and menace. He said he was a follower of Native American cultures, enamored especially of the Apache, their chiefs Geronimo and Cochise, the last and fiercest of indigenous leaders in the lower forty-eight to resist white invasion. He fancied himself their ally, and he soon declared with adolescent glee his intention to destroy the white man’s industrial civilization. His most important targets were fossil fuel infrastructure and the energy grid. We discussed taking down the enemy—the Fortune 500 CEOs, say—and how the world would be a better place if they were all beheaded. “Would you really have a problem with me killing the Koch brothers?” he asked.
His eyes gleamed. He shouted over us. (The other participants in the conversation were Viva Fraser, my girlfriend; Erica Walz, publisher of the local newspaper; and Mark.) We talked about animals getting vengeance on Homo sapiens, attacking our cars en masse, cars that had killed so many of them. “Organize the animals!” cried McRae. He stood up and paced and sat down and stood up again. We drank more, and I mentioned to him that I had been a writer for this magazine. He hooted and smiled a half-toothless smile and said, “Harper’s! Goddamn!”
I have a copy of the FBI’s recording of this conversation courtesy of the Department of Justice. It goes on for another four or so hours. Much of it is garbled, the sound quality so lousy it’s unintelligible. There’s a dramatic moment around hour three, when McRae and I, barely acquainted, consider heading out the next morning to target the “infrastructure that makes industrial capitalism work,” because, he said, it “is very weak at certain points.” He harangued us, saying, “I hate everything about this culture.” We listened. I tried to get a word in. He shouted me down. According to the FBI transcript, which I’ve distilled slightly, the conversation went as follows:
McRae: I’m willing to die for what I believe. I’ve committed fifty fucking felonies against the corporate state in the last sixty days.
Ketcham: Really?
McRae: Yeah, that are called terrorism. Because I hate ’em.
Austin: I hope to God that you haven’t been killing people, dude.
McRae: I don’t have to kill people.
Ketcham: If you actually have been committing such felonies, you should be quiet about it.
McRae: I don’t care.
Ketcham: In fact, I’m inclined to think that because of your bloviating about it, that you haven’t been doing any of it.
McRae: You think I’m a fuckin liar? You’re gonna call me a fuckin liar? Come on, come get in my fuckin truck! In an hour we’ll commit five felonies.
(McRae starts yelling and cursing.)
Austin: Steve, Steve, relax!
McRae: Come get in my truck with me, in one hour, we can make five felonies. I’m not fuckin scared of the Goddamn NSA, the FBI, or any of those motherfuckers.
Walz: But Steve, what’s the point?
McRae: To teach the world how to destroy industrial capitalism. I have a political agenda to destroy industrial capitalism. I don’t want to hurt people. I’ve never hurt people. And I will try to avoid that at all costs. I know how to shut down huge mining operations costing millions and millions of dollars, by myself, for weeks. I know how to shut them down. Do I need to go on? I’m serious as a fuckin heart attack. Think I’m lying?
Ketcham: Let’s go out and do it.
McRae: You think I’m full of shit. You don’t believe me. Okay, we’ll go tomorrow, okay, is that cool? I’ll do it in broad daylight, that’s when they don’t expect it . . . You question my integrity, man.
Walz: You know what, I don’t want to hear this conversation. I prefer you not have this conversation in front of me at all.
McRae: Relax, I’m a fuckin liar, okay, fuckin lies. So anyway, do you want to meet me here in the morning?—well then, just tell me when and where.
Ketcham: We’ll talk tomorrow.
McRae: I’ll be around tomorrow . . . And if you really are a journalist you could help out my political cause. I think we can beat them. Enough of us can beat them.
Tomorrow never came, of course, because I thought he was a blowhard and a liar. I figured he’d read The Monkey Wrench Gang too many times. (He had.) The 1975 novel by Edward Abbey—the literary father of ecological sabotage—features a quartet of citizen defenders of the sandstone wilderness in southern Utah, so-called monkey wrenchers, who, like their hero Ned Ludd, the mythical eighteenth-century English weaver who rebelled against the machines overtaking the textile industry, vow to throw a spanner in the works. (Ludd’s forebears in fourteenth-century Holland are said to have used wooden shoes called sabots to smash the weaving machines that were putting them out of business.) Armed with gasoline, explosives, and rifles, Abbey’s saboteurs burn bulldozers and other road-building equipment, blow up bridges, and send coal trains into canyons, all the while pursued by local authorities. McRae, it seemed to me, was playacting in some cartoonish Abbeyite pulp fiction.
After that encounter, I had no contact with McRae for several weeks. We met again at a raucous Halloween party in Escalante, where I was dressed as a terrorist. McRae sat motionless in a chair, without a costume, alone and apart. He cast me a dour look. My face was mostly hidden in a balaclava and a kaffiyeh, and I pulled away the covering and smiled at him in what I imagine now was a dismissive way. Later he told me that it hurt his feelings to be doubted by a journalist from his favorite magazine. He had been serious about taking me along to commit felonies.
Measured against the march of machine civilization, the history of ecological sabotage has been one of petty local victories, scorched-earth retreats, and, ultimately, abject failure. The movement dates to the Seventies, when Abbey’s fictional monkey wrenchers inspired a generation of young Americans to coalesce into the direct-action group Earth First! “It is time for women and men, individually and in small groups, to act heroically and admittedly illegally in defense of the wild, to put a monkeywrench into the gears of the machine,” wrote Dave Foreman, a former Wilderness Society lobbyist and co-founder of Earth First!, and Bill Haywood in their 1985 how-to book Ecodefense. “We will not make political compromises,” the group had earlier announced in a 1980 newsletter. Saboteurs using their methods, they promised, could be “effective in stopping timber cutting, road building, overgrazing, oil & gas exploration, mining, dam building, powerline construction.” Members of Earth First! organized to defend old growth forests in the Northwest, spiking trees with sixty-penny nails to ward off chainsaw crews, blockading roads to stop logging trucks, and sitting in the crowns of ancient fir and pine to prevent their felling. They were occasionally successful, but mostly not.
The Earth Liberation Front, ideological heirs to Earth First!, arrived on the scene in the Nineties with new and improved acts of ecodefense. The elves, as they called themselves, set fire to ski resorts, SUVs on dealer lots, and labs where animals were believed to be abused. Their stated intent was to harm no living being, and to their credit, they maintained that standard. The rising militancy of the ELF produced consternation in U.S. law enforcement circles, and enough financial trouble to turn the heads of a few corporate leaders. Their crowning achievement was the daring and intricate 1998 arson of the Vail Ski Resort, undertaken with the Animal Liberation Front, which caused an estimated $24 million in damage. This led the FBI to call the two groups “the most active criminal extremist elements in the United States.” By 2006, dozens of ELF members had ratted one another out under the tremendous pressure of terrorism statutes enacted in the wake of 9/11. The FBI proclaimed victory, but writ large the government’s work was much ado about very little. The sum of the damages from arson, vandalism, and animal releases over decades of activity totaled a mere $45 million.
The growing understanding of ecosabotage as a serious endeavor coincided with an era of expansive plunder and spoliation, referred to by some historians as the Great Acceleration, a period in which human enterprise under capitalism kicked into overdrive, taxing the earth in unprecedented ways. Almost every measure of ecological health suggested decline. The problem was the seeming inevitability of the juggernaut, the constancy of its forward motion, and the inefficacy of mere individuals in the face of such odds.
Given these trends, it’s unsurprising that the movement would turn to catastrophism. At the vanguard of this shift was a group called Deep Green Resistance, the brainchild of the authors Derrick Jensen, Lierre Keith, and Aric McBay, self-described ecophilosophers and activists who had published numerous books of remonstrance against industrial society. The three asserted that our civilization was untenable and would render the earth uninhabitable. Jensen in particular exhorted his readers to
put our bodies and our lives between the industrial system and life on this planet. We must start to fight back. Those who come after, who inherit whatever’s left of the world once this culture has been stopped . . . are going to judge us by the health of the landbase, by what we leave behind. They’re not going to care how you or I lived our lives. They’re not going to care how hard we tried. They’re not going to care whether we were nice people.
His was an apocalyptic vision: the longer we waited to dismantle the machine, the more its progress would undermine the planet’s carrying capacity, and the greater our ultimate suffering would be. The American public had encountered this thinking before, of course, as it was popularized in the Nineties by the homicidal maniac Theodore Kaczynski, whose manifesto inveighed against industrial society and called for its violent overthrow. “In order to get our message before the public,” Kaczynski wrote, “we’ve had to kill people.” He addressed himself to those
who will be opposed to the industrial system on a rational, thought-out basis, with full appreciation of the problems and ambiguities involved, and of the price that has to be paid for getting rid of the system.
A majority of people will appreciate, on a rational basis, that the price is too high. As unsustainable as the megamachine may be, we must maintain it because hundreds of millions, perhaps billions, of people would likely suffer without its provisioning. To his credit, Jensen, who has Crohn’s disease and depends on high-tech drug treatments, admits that he’ll be among the first to go. (“I am also aware,” he writes, “that the fact that these drugs will probably save my life is not a good enough reason to not take down civilization.”) McRae likened our state of affairs to life on the Death Star. The Death Star succors, energizes, feeds, clothes, medicates, houses, warms, and cools us with its throbbing complexity—woe to the planets in the way of its progress. There are jobs galore paying good money to make sure the Death Star is oiled and functioning. “More money for more gadgets, gizmos, gewgaws, baubles,” McRae told me in an email. “The endless fascination with more, more, more shiny objects to continue a life of tending machines.”
After abandoning the attack on the Newmont gold mine, McRae pulled off I-80 into Carlin to get his flat fixed. He was paranoid to the point of delirium. Traffic cameras might catch his truck, cops might take random notice of him. Then there was the awfulness of visiting a Nevada town, the hideous, twisted faces of the people, the heat bearing down, the sky a burning chromium white, every interaction a kind of torture.
From Carlin he headed south in a zigzag on rough dirt roads, avoiding cops and people, feeling the pit in his gut grow. He had his eye on a substation in White Pine County two hundred miles away, not far from a favorite place replete with good memories, Great Basin National Park. As a young man he had climbed the mountain meadows with his wife. They slept under whispering bristlecone pines on a midsummer night. When he shot the Baker substation in White Pine County on September 14, 2016, he had expected, naïvely he now realized, that at some point he would have experienced an affirmation similar to the feeling he got when he climbed a mountain or smelled pines in the breeze, that is, a sense of joy, purpose, a vision of truth and beauty and meaning. But this never came. And it never would.
Every lesson from his good middle-class upbringing told him there was something wrong with what he was doing. He looked for rationalizations in the perpetual muttering of troubled people on the verge of breakdown. He spoke aloud before a lonely campfire. He thought of the peace-loving water defenders in the Dakotas, the Native Americans at Standing Rock who hoped to block the Dakota Access Pipeline, and who were attacked and beaten that summer by hired thugs from the oil companies. What had the togetherness of locked hands accomplished in defense of Mother Earth?
He had tried peaceful resistance for most of his life, volunteering for conservation groups and contributing what he could. But it was nonsense, a waste of time and money and, worse, spirit. It felt like a Ponzi scheme. He supported the right candidate, he thought: the Democrats, Hillary Clinton in particular. (He told friends and family that he was “gonna support a woman, because a woman is the only person who can lead us out of this mess.”) He tried to follow the example of his father, Jack, a civics teacher who taught in Dallas public schools for thirty years. Jack had been a socialist and later an LBJ Democrat. He believed in civic discourse, civil disobedience if necessary—but never rage and riot, never violence. When McRae was five years old, in 1964, his father traveled to Mississippi to join the Freedom Summer black voter drives.
McRae spent his late forties as caretaker to his ailing father, who died in 2008, at eighty-six, of congestive heart failure. He once told his dad that to be a pacifist was to be a fool. Jack had served in World War II, in the bloody campaigns in North Africa and Italy, so he knew violence. He was a quiet man who rarely raised his voice. But he became angry with his son. They argued for hours. McRae figured his father would be ashamed at what he had become.
It took him more than a week to cross Nevada, crawling on rutted back roads in his crummy old car, through the dust and tumbleweeds and the vast scorched salt basins and over the spines of mountains. He was heading toward the high country of the Colorado Plateau, the Canyonlands, where he found some carpentry work from Mark Austin. When McRae had visited Escalante in 2015 and first met Austin, he thought he had found a friend, a rare person he could trust. Their worldviews had seemed to align.
As the two got to know each other, Austin expressed sympathy with certain small acts of sabotage, such as toppling roadside commercial billboards. This delighted McRae. Better still, Austin was a fan of Abbey’s writing and a close friend of Doug Peacock, the Vietnam War veteran on whom Abbey based his wild-eyed saboteur George Hayduke in The Monkey Wrench Gang. McRae adored Hayduke, and was impressed that Austin knew the man who’d been the inspiration for him. He confided in Austin about Deep Green Resistance and spoke vaguely of sabotage he may or may not have committed. McRae also described, in what Austin said was an obsessive manner, taking down the energy grid. “He was maniacal,” Austin recalled. “There’s a big difference between cutting down illegal billboards and taking out infrastructure.” McRae worked several months on Austin’s job sites, drew a paycheck, hit the road, and Austin, who was mildly frightened by the man’s rhetoric, expected never to hear from him again.
On September 25, 2016, the power in Escalante went out for several hours. It had gone out, in fact, across much of southwestern Utah. It was a Sunday, and I was in Escalante at the time. The townsfolk wandered into the streets with wide eyes, wondering what had happened, as power tended to fail only in big winter storms. When Austin heard that the cause was rifle fire on a substation, he immediately suspected McRae. By the time McRae showed up to ask Austin for work two days later, Austin had already called the Garfield County sheriff to share his suspicions.
Sheriffs in White Pine and Humboldt counties had been mulling the similarities of the attacks in their jurisdictions, and now they reached out to Garfield County. Perhaps this suspect was tied to the 2014 strikes on the California electrical grid, including a rifle attack in Silicon Valley described by the New York Times as “mysterious and sophisticated.” The FBI also took an interest. The bureau suggested that Austin engage with the suspect and record their conversations. Within a few weeks of taking a job with Austin, McRae was revealing details of his recent crimes. He also began hinting at a grand plan that he was hatching for the fall. It involved taking out so many substations across the Southwest that a blackout would stretch from Las Vegas to the coast.
Though Austin considered the prospect alarming, ecosabotage now appears, in some circles, a reasonable response to the mad trajectory of the carbon machine. Even the conformist bozos in Hollywood have hinted at sympathy, with the film How to Blow Up a Pipeline, which takes after a book of the same name by Andreas Malm, a human ecologist at Lund University. Malm has advocated for organized attacks on fossil fuel infrastructure and the disruption of oil supplies. He says that he is inspired by the suffragettes of England, whose militancy centered on property destruction.
The suffragettes specialized in the “argument of the broken pane,” their enraged crews of well-dressed women mobbing central London to shatter storefronts and tear down statues and paintings with hammers and axes. Following the defeat of legislation that would have given them the vote, in 1913 the women embarked on “a systematic campaign of arson,” Malm writes, burning or blowing up “villas, tea pavilions, boathouses, hotels, haystacks, churches, post offices, aqueducts, theatres.” They burned cars and sank yachts. Over the course of a year and a half, they claimed responsibility for at least 337 attacks, which resulted in several deaths. So it should be, argues Malm, with the fight against fossil fuels: we need a critical mass of saboteurs willing to move beyond non-violence.
Or consider Kim Stanley Robinson’s 2020 novel The Ministry for the Future, in which a character clubs to death a wealthy man on a beach off of Lake Maggiore, and gets away with it, his murderous rage driven by having witnessed a heat wave in India that killed more people “than in the entirety of the First World War.” The book spans decades of climatic unraveling to chronicle the rise of the Children of Kali, a cabal that kills thousands of innocent people on Crash Day, sometime in the 2030s, by flying drones into the engines of dozens of commercial airliners. It’s a ruthless act of terrorism that Robinson’s omniscient narrator celebrates for causing the end of global aviation as we know it. No literary justice here: the saboteurs live on to fight another day, unpunished.
Here’s a novelist of no small renown—Barack Obama has endorsed Robinson’s book—who envisions an effective sabotage campaign by cells that operate in large numbers, coordinate on a global scale, and act with fanatical devotion and a code of absolute secrecy. “The War for the Earth is often said to have begun on Crash Day,” he writes. Thereafter, campaigns to sink container ships, poison the meat supply, and, not least, take out power plants and substations result in electricity outages, stock market crashes, and the end of globalization. The upside of Crash Day is that the many commercial flights felled “had been mostly occupied by business travelers.”
In the twenty-two hours of recordings that Mark Austin produced for the FBI, McRae does most of the talking. He is by turns irate, preacherly, vulgar, lyrical, sanctimonious, and cynical, but always inflamed with the belief that he can change the world. He glories in the abiding solitude of the Escalante canyons, with their curvaceous walls and hanging gardens, where in his youth he wandered for days on end. He hates that his only means of income is building homes for the rich.
McCrae, who was at one time a methamphetamine addict, also reveals that he did time in jail as a young man—imprisoned in Texas on felony charges of burglary and drug possession. Mostly he goes on tirades about the things and people he hates. These include roads, cars, fences, ranchers, cities, computers, cell phones, the rich but also the ignorant poor (most of all, white-trash Trump voters), Nazis, NPR’s Kai Ryssdal, technocrats, Apple, the internet, and monotheism. Austin listens to all this with seeming sympathy, and he chimes in at strategic moments to urge him on.
Most of the recordings were made in Austin’s pickup truck while the men drove to and from work sites, hauling construction materials across the canyons and plateaus of southwest Utah. It was during these winding sojourns that McRae began to speak in code, describing the “work” and “research” he had pursued in Nevada and his more recent “activities” in Utah.
After a long drive from Escalante to Kanab, Utah, in the third week of October, he and Austin visited a company that cut sandstone for home decor, and then drove east on Highway 89, familiar to McRae as the road he had traveled when he attacked the Buckskin substation three weeks earlier. Edward Abbey had considered this highway to be holy territory: there were the deep, remote canyons of the Paria River, and its tributaries that cut through the nearby wilderness to areas that no machine could reach. McRae, too, thought it sacred.
A construction crew was laying fiberglass cable along the highway. “What the hell is this right here?” asked Austin.
“They’re working on, that’s microfiber ca—God, now I’m tell—” said McRae, catching himself. Then he let go. “I know what all this shit is and exactly what they’re doing and I’ve got my eye on it, and I really want to fuck it up. How about that?”
He and Austin muttered back and forth. “This is Abbey’s country,” McRae went on. “Is there nothing sacred, nothing, fucking nothing? I bet you could take a gallon of gasoline and put it on that cable and burn it.”
On and on their conversations go for nearly four weeks, as Austin baits McRae and McRae bites, until at last he all but admits that he shot the Buckskin substation with his rifle. Still, Austin prods. He notes that McRae issued no communiqués, which made his effort meaningless. The Earth Liberation Front, by contrast, publicized every attack with well-written and occasionally charming statements. Austin goes on to wonder about McRae’s bizarre candor with “the journalist,” McRae’s term for me. Why risk exposing himself to a relative stranger? “I thought Ketcham was an anarchist bomb thrower,” he says. “Now I see he’s a coward.”
As the FBI prepared for an arrest, McRae described his plans for “putting Las Vegas in darkness.” He gloried in the vision of the death of the Luxor Hotel & Casino (the largest single source of light pollution on the planet) and of Caesars Palace (a monument to empire), and the quieting of the noise and febrile lights of the Strip. The air-conditioned, sunless tunnels of bright malls, the sprawl and traffic and smog, the whorehouses and strip clubs, the doomed Sodom in the desert—shut off the power and it would come to an end. Las Vegas once meant “the meadows,” but that sweet oasis was long gone, dried up and pounded under concrete. Of all the cities of the West, Vegas was most deserving of destruction.
Austin listened and nudged McRae for more information. McRae described “the grandmomma” of attacks, “five substations in a row,” by which he could produce a cascading and catastrophic energy failure across the southern regions of Nevada and California. The key was a substation facility near the town of Moapa. He expected to do $20 million in damage to the transformers alone. “If I had all the money and time, I would bring the world to its knees by myself,” he told Austin.
“This is the culmination of four years for me this week,” McRae said in a recording dated November 2, 2016. “I’m going to meet my destiny.” The next day, he awoke at 7 am to load his purple Isuzu with the camping gear he had stored in the basement of Austin’s house, where he had also stored his .30–40 Krag, a testament to how much he trusted Austin. He was headed to finish the job at Newmont and then hit Moapa. It was a lovely blue-sky day. As he emerged from the basement, seven FBI agents surrounded him. A SWAT team told him to put his hands up, which he did without resistance or complaint. He thought it laughable. Why would anybody point a gun at poor empty-handed Stephen Plato McRae? They cuffed him, and as he was being hauled away he looked over to Austin, who was also being cuffed. McRae knew instantly that Austin had betrayed him.
He was held first in Iron County in Utah, then in Salt Lake City, then put on a plane and transported to a federal pretrial holding facility in North Carolina. When three separate psychiatrists working with the U.S. Bureau of Prisons examined McRae in the years following his arrest, one concluded that he was not fit to stand trial and another questioned his fitness. McRae showed “psychotic symptoms,” including “thought disorganization, and pre-occupying persecutory delusions,” along with “depressive symptoms meeting criteria for a major depressive episode.” He also displayed “symptoms of mania.” The psychiatrists believed that he may have had bipolar disorder, possibly schizoaffective disorder, and also narcissistic personality disorder—which “makes him difficult to work with.”
While he awaited trial in the two years after his arrest, McRae and I spoke often on the phone and exchanged letters. Sometimes he shouted at me, demanding that I “do the right thing” by immediately publishing an article that came to his defense. His plan was to tell the prosecutors “to go fuck themselves,” as he would never take a plea deal. Sometimes his voice was resigned and trembled with sadness and fear. As the trial date approached, McRae’s lawyer, Robert Steele, informed me that I might be called as a witness for the defense. At the last minute, at Steele’s urging, McRae pleaded guilty to one count of industrial sabotage, the attack on the Buckskin facility in Utah, and admitted to three other attacks, against the substations in Humboldt County and White Pine County, Nevada, and in San Juan County, Utah, for which he was not prosecuted.
He was sentenced to eight years and placed in one of the nastiest institutions in the federal system, a medium-security facility in Florence, Colorado, near the supermax where the Unabomber was held until his death earlier this year. McRae saw cellmates get murdered and commit suicide. He was nearly killed in a race riot. His health, poor to begin with, took a dive with the stress of incarceration. He was infected three times with COVID-19, and was chronically infected with MRSA. Given time served, McRae wasn’t expected to get out a day before his sixty-third birthday. He suddenly felt very old.
There were few people McRae felt he could call who would answer, and often he spent hours waiting in line to spend his fifteen minutes of allotted daily phone time talking with me. His calls arrived randomly. Once, when I was with my daughter Josie, who was then nine years old, I put him on speakerphone; I had told her his story and she wanted to hear his voice.
“McRae, Josie is here, so you know,” I said.
“H-hi, Josie,” he stammered.
“Hi, McRae,” said Josie.
Then a long pause—rare for this motormouth. He knew that I’d told her what he had done, why he was in prison. “Josie, I just wanna . . . I just wanna say . . . I was thinking about . . . the youth when I did what I did. About you. I want nine-year-old girls to still be able to see a grizzly when they are grown up.”
“I want to see a grizzly, too,” replied Josie. It was the natural thing to say. Then his fifteen minutes were up and the line went dead.
Psychologists have come up with a term—solastalgia—for the feeling that occurs with the disappearance of what’s perceived as the normal, stable, healthy, natural world. The Australian philosopher Glenn Albrecht, who coined the term, identifies it as a suffering at the loss of solace, “a deep emotional response to the desolation of a loved home environment.” The condition of solastalgia, then, is primarily one of grief, environmental grief, mourning for the death of home, which is the place of solace. (“Stephen McRae seems to be a man who refused to ignore such emotion,” Albrecht told me.)
It may be that hypersensitivity to the ecological unraveling of the only home on earth we know, will ever know, is the necessary condition of an attuned few who can awaken the rest of us to the existential nature of the ecological crisis we face. If Steve McRae sounds to some like a madman, I’d suggest he’s ahead of the curve in feeling deeply the pain of solastalgia. Perhaps those of us who deny the seriousness of the crisis have had our senses dulled, our hearts hardened, and are not feeling enough.
I went to see McRae last December, two months after he got out of prison. An elderly Mormon couple who lived on a homestead in the remote Gila National Forest of southwestern New Mexico had taken him in. McRae worked as the caretaker of a little cabin they rented to elk hunters. In his emails to me, he was grateful that the family had welcomed him, but he was also deeply depressed. During my visit, I confronted him with the fact that his attacks on substations had not in any way altered the course of industrial civilization. He shattered a glass, stood up, and screamed at me. I thought he was ready to kill.
I stayed awhile in the cabin with him. We went camping in the Gila Wilderness. No machines are allowed in the protected area, no mechanized transport of any kind. We built a towering fire of pinyon and juniper and oak. It was the only time I saw him relax, happy that we were together in this sacred redoubt, beyond the reach of what he called Machine World. He spent most of the time talking about the forest. “When I walk these forests, I feel the trees’ antiquity and their beingness,” he said. He told me of the giant ponderosa pines in the high-elevation ciénaga wetlands unique to the region, where they mingle with pinnacles of rock and Gambel oaks and gray oaks as gray as the lichen-engulfed rocks that surround them. Fiery red blooming cactus at eight thousand feet—“Gorgeous!” he cried. He told me of cliff rose, and mountain mahogany, and wild yellow pea in green meadows with joyous miniature flowers of varied brilliance painting the broken land. And about the twisted, bleached, and sun-scorched ancient bonsai alligator juniper that cluster on steep cliffs. “No anthropo-meddling needed for those bonsai, praise Jesus! I’ll show you some really beautiful ones tomorrow,” McRae said. And in the morning he did.
António Guterres told world leaders gathered in New York that their efforts to address the climate crisis had come up “abysmally short.”
António Guterres in India this month. “History is coming for the planet-wreckers,” he has said. Credit: Arun Sankar/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
The world’s top diplomat, António Guterres, the United Nations secretary general, on Tuesday told world leaders their efforts to address the climate crisis had come up “abysmally short” and called on them to do what even climate-ambitious countries have been reluctant to do: stop expanding coal, oil and gas production.
“Every continent, every region and every country is feeling the heat, but I’m not sure all leaders are feeling that heat,” he said in his opening remarks to presidents and prime ministers assembled for their annual gathering in the General Assembly. “The fossil fuel age has failed.”
Mr. Guterres, now in his second and last term, has made climate action his centerpiece issue and has become unusually blunt in his language about the need to rein in the production of fossil fuels and not just focus on reducing greenhouse gas emissions from their use.
As always, he pointed to the world’s 20 largest economies for not moving fast enough. As always, he stopped short of calling on specific countries.
Not China, the world’s coal behemoth. Not Britain or the United States, who both have ambitious climate laws but continue to issue new oil and gas permits. Not the United Arab Emirates, a petrostate where a state-owned oil company executive is hosting the upcoming United Nations climate negotiations — a move that activists have decried as undermining the very legitimacy of the talks.
The contradictions show not only the constraints on Mr. Guterres, a 74-year-old politician from Portugal, but also the shortcomings of the diplomatic playbook on a problem as urgent as global warming.
“The rules of multilateral diplomacy and multilateral summitry are not fit for the speedy and effective response that we need,” said Richard Gowan, who decodes the rituals of the United Nations for the International Crisis Group.
The 2015 Paris climate accord asks only that countries set voluntary targets to address climate pollution. The agreements that come out of annual climate negotiations routinely get watered down, because every country, including champions of coal, oil and gas, must agree on every word and comma.
The secretary general can cajole but not command, urge but not enforce. He doesn’t name specific countries, though nothing in the United Nations Charter prevents him from doing so.
Despite his exhortations, governments have only increased their fossil fuel subsidies, to a record $7 trillion in 2022. Few nations have concrete plans to move their economies away from fossil fuels, and many depend directly or indirectly on revenues from coal, oil and gas. The human toll of climate change continues to mount.
“He has interpreted his role as a sort of truth teller,” said Rachel Kyte, a former United Nations climate diplomat and a professor at the Fletcher School at Tufts University. “The powers available to him as secretary general are awesome but limited.”
On Wednesday, he is deploying a bit of a diplomatic wink-nod. At a Climate Ambition Summit he is hosting , he is giving the mic only to those countries that have done as he has urged, and only if they send a high-level leader, to show that they take the summit seriously. “A naming and shaming device that doesn’t actually require naming and shaming anyone,” Mr. Gowan said.
Diplomatic jockeying around who will get on the list has been intense. More than 100 countries sent in requests to speak, and Mr. Guterres’s aides have in turn requested more information to prove they deserve to be on the list. What have you done on coal phaseout, some have been asked. How much climate funding have you offered? Are you still issuing new oil and gas permits? And so on.
“It’s good to see Guterres trying to hold their feet to the fire,” said Mohamed Adow, a Kenyan activist.
Mr. Guterres has waited until the last possible minute to make public the list of speakers.
The Secretary General has invited neither the United States nor China, the worlds biggest climate polluters, to speak at the summit on Wednesday. Nor has India secured a speaking invitation. Brazil, South Africa and the European Union have.
Expect the awkward.
John Kerry, the United States climate envoy, is expected to attend but not speak. (Mr. Guterres is giving the mic only to high-level national leaders.) It’s unclear whether the head of the Chinese delegation this year, Vice President Han Zheng, will have a speaking role. The European Commission president, Ursula von der Leyen, has secured the mic. Britain’s prime minister, Rishi Sunak, isn’t coming to the General Assembly conclave at all. Sultan al-Jaber, the head of the Emirati oil company, and host of the next climate talks, is scheduled to speak.
Mr. Guterres will also invite companies with what he calls “credible” targets to reduce their climate emissions to participate. Expect to count them with the fingers of one hand.
“If fossil fuel companies want to be part of the solution, they must lead the transition to renewable energy,” he said Tuesday.
Mr. Guterres, who had led the United Nations refugee agency for 10 years before being selected for the top job, didn’t always make climate change his centerpiece issue.
In fact, he didn’t talk about it when he was chosen to head the United Nations in 2016. Climate was seen as the signature issue of his predecessor, Ban Ki-moon, who shepherded through the Paris Agreement in 2015. Mr. Guterres spoke instead about the war in Syria, terrorism, and gender parity in the United Nations. (His choice disappointed those who had pressed for a woman to lead the world body for the first time in its 70-year history.)
In 2018 came a shift. At that year’s General Assembly, he called climate change “the defining issue of our time.” In 2019, he invited the climate activist Greta Thunberg to the General Assembly, whose raw anger at world leaders (“How dare you?” she railed at world leaders) spurred a social media clash with President Donald J. Trump, who was pulling the United States out of the Paris Accord.
Mr. Guterres, for his part, studiously avoided criticism of the United States by name.
By 2022, as oil companies were raking in record profits in the aftermath of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, he amped up his language. “We need to hold fossil fuel companies and their enablers to account,” he told world leaders at the General Assembly. He called for a windfall-profit tax, urged countries to suspend subsidies for fossil fuels and appointed a committee to issue guidelines for private companies on what counts as “greenwashing.”
This year, he stepped into the contentious debate between those who want greenhouse gas emissions from oil and gas projects captured and stored away, or “abated,” and those who want to keep oil and gas tucked in the ground altogether. “The problem is not simply fossil fuel emissions. It’s fossil fuels, period,” Mr. Guterres said in June.
The reactions from the private sector are mixed, said Paul Simpson, a founder and former head of CDP, a nongovernmental group that works with companies to address their climate pollution. Some executives privately say Mr. Guterres is right to call for a swift phaseout of fossil fuels, while others note that most national governments still lack concrete energy transition plans, no matter what he says.
“The question really is, how effective is the United Nations?” Mr. Simpson said. “It has the ability to get governments to focus and plan. But the U.N. itself doesn’t have any teeth, so national governments and companies must act.”
Somini Sengupta is The Times’s international climate correspondent. She has also covered the Middle East, West Africa and South Asia and is the author of the book, “The End of Karma: Hope and Fury Among India’s Young.”
A version of this article appears in print on , Section A, Page 11 of the New York edition with the headline: U.N. Chief Implores Leaders to Improve on Climate.
Gastos com energia limpa representaram 4% do investimento do país em estruturas, equipamentos e bens duráveis
O investimento privado em projetos de energia limpa, como painéis solares, energia de hidrogênio e veículos elétricos, aumentou depois que o presidente Joe Biden sancionou uma lei abrangente sobre o clima, no ano passado, um desdobramento que mostra de que maneira os incentivos fiscais e os subsídios federais ajudaram a redirecionar alguns gastos dos consumidores e empresas dos Estados Unidos.
Novos dados divulgados nesta quarta-feira (13) sugerem que a lei do clima e outras partes da agenda econômica de Biden ajudaram a acelerar o desenvolvimento de cadeias de suprimentos automotivas no sudoeste dos Estados Unidos, gerando sustentação adicional para os centros tradicionais de fabricação de automóveis nas regiões industrias do centro-oeste e do sudeste.
A lei de 2022, que foi aprovada com apoio apenas do Partido Democrata, ajudou o investimento em fábricas em bastiões conservadores como o Tennessee e nos estados de Michigan e Nevada, que serão alvo de forte disputa na eleição presidencial do ano que vem. A lei também ajudou a sustentar uma onda de gastos com carros elétricos e painéis solares residenciais na Califórnia, Arizona e Flórida.
Os dados mostram que, no ano seguinte à aprovação da lei do clima, os gastos com tecnologias de energia limpa representaram 4% do investimento total do país em estruturas, equipamentos e bens de consumo duráveis —mais do que o dobro da participação registrada quatro anos atrás.
A lei não teve sucesso em estimular um setor importante na transição para além dos combustíveis fósseis que Biden está tentando acelerar: a energia eólica. O investimento americano em produção eólica diminuiu no ano passado, apesar dos grandes incentivos da lei do clima aos produtores. E a lei não alterou a trajetória dos gastos dos consumidores com determinadas tecnologias de economia de energia, como bombas de aquecimento de alta eficiência.
Mas o relatório, que avalia a situação até o nível estadual, fornece a primeira visão detalhada de como as políticas industriais de Biden estão afetando as decisões de investimento em energia limpa do setor privado.
Os dados são do Clean Investment Monitor, uma nova iniciativa da consultoria Rhodium Group e do Centro para a Pesquisa de Energia e Política Ambiental do Instituto de Tecnologia de Massachusetts (MIT). Suas constatações vão além de estimativas mais simples, da Casa Branca e de outras fontes, e oferecem a visão mais abrangente até o momento sobre os efeitos da agenda econômica de Biden sobre a emergente economia de energia limpa dos Estados Unidos.
Os pesquisadores que lideram essa primeira análise de dados incluem Trevor Houser, ex-funcionário do governo Obama, que é sócio da Rhodium; e Brian Deese, ex-diretor do Conselho Econômico Nacional de Biden, que pesquisa sobre inovação no MIT.
A Lei de Redução da Inflação, que Biden assinou em agosto de 2022, inclui uma ampla gama de incentivos para encorajar a fabricação nacional e acelerar a transição do país para longe dos combustíveis fósseis.
Isso inclui incentivos fiscais ampliados para a produção de baterias avançadas, instalação de painéis solares, compra de veículos elétricos e outras iniciativas. Muitas dessas isenções fiscais são ilimitadas, para todos os fins práticos, o que significa que podem acabar custando centenas de bilhões de dólares aos contribuintes —ou até mesmo mais de US$ 1 trilhão— se tiverem sucesso em gerar nível suficiente de novos investimentos.
Os funcionários do governo Biden tentaram quantificar os efeitos dessa lei, e da legislação bipartidária sobre infraestrutura e semicondutores assinada pelo presidente no início de seu mandato, por meio da contabilização dos anúncios empresariais de novos gastos vinculados à legislação.
Um site da Casa Branca estima que empresas tenham anunciado até agora US$ 511 bilhões em compromissos de gastos novos vinculados a essas leis, incluindo US$ 240 bilhões para veículos elétricos e tecnologia de energia limpa.
A análise da Rhodium e do MIT se baseia em dados de agências federais, organizações setoriais, anúncios de empresas e registros financeiros, reportagens e outras fontes, para tentar construir uma estimativa em tempo real de quanto investimento já foi realizado nas tecnologias de redução de emissões visadas pela agenda de Biden. Para fins de comparação, os dados remontam a 2018, quando o presidente Donald Trump ainda estava no poder.
Os números mostram que o investimento real —e não o anunciado— de empresas e consumidores em tecnologias de energia limpa atingiu US$ 213 bilhões no segundo semestre de 2022 e no primeiro semestre de 2023, depois que Biden assinou a lei do clima. Esse valor foi superior aos US$ 155 bilhões do ano anterior e aos US$ 81 bilhões do primeiro ano dos dados, sob Trump.
As tendências nos dados sugerem que o impacto da agenda de Biden sobre o investimento em energia limpa variou dependendo das condições econômicas existentes para cada tecnologia visada.
Os maiores sucessos de Biden ocorreram ao estimular o aumento do investimento industrial nos Estados Unidos e ao catalisar o investimento em tecnologias que permanecem relativamente novas no mercado.
Alimentado em parte por investimentos estrangeiros, por exemplo em fábricas de baterias na Geórgia, o investimento real na fabricação de energia limpa mais do que dobrou no ano passado, em relação ao ano anterior, mostram os dados, totalizando US$ 39 bilhões. Esse investimento foi quase inexistente em 2018.
A maior parte dos gastos se concentrou na cadeia de suprimentos de veículos elétricos, o que inclui o novo polo de atividades automotivas do sudoeste da Califórnia, Nevada e Arizona. A Lei de Redução da Inflação inclui vários incentivos fiscais para esse tipo de investimento, com requisitos de conteúdo nacional destinados a incentivar a produção de minerais essenciais e baterias, e a montagem de automóveis nos Estados Unidos.
No entanto, os grandes beneficiários em termos de investimentos em produção, como porcentagem das economias estaduais, continuam a ser os estados automotivos tradicionais: Tennessee, Kentucky, Michigan e Carolina do Sul.
A lei do clima também parece ter impulsionado o investimento no chamado hidrogênio verde, que divide átomos de água para criar um combustível industrial. O mesmo se aplica ao gerenciamento de carbono – que busca capturar e armazenar as emissões de gases causadores do efeito estufa pelas usinas de energia existentes, ou retirar o carbono da atmosfera. Todas essas tecnologias tiveram dificuldades para ganhar força nos Estados Unidos antes de a lei lhes conceder incentivos fiscais.
O hidrogênio e grande parte dos investimentos em captura de carbono estão concentrados ao longo da costa do Golfo do México, uma região repleta de empresas de combustíveis fósseis que começaram a se dedicar a essas tecnologias. Outro polo de investimentos em captura de carbono está concentrado em estados da região centro-oeste, como Illinois e Iowa, onde as empresas que produzem etanol de milho e outros biocombustíveis estão começando a investir em esforços para capturar suas emissões.
Os incentivos para essas tecnologias na Lei de Redução da Inflação, juntamente com outras medidas de apoio contidas na lei de infraestrutura bipartidária, “mudam fundamentalmente a economia dessas duas tecnologias, e pela primeira vez as tornam amplamente competitivas em termos de custos”, disse Houser em uma entrevista.
Outros incentivos ainda não alteraram a situação econômica de tecnologias essenciais, principalmente a energia eólica, que cresceu muito nos últimos anos mas agora está enfrentando retrocessos globais, pois o financiamento dos projetos está cada vez mais caro.
O investimento em energia eólica foi menor no primeiro semestre deste ano do que em qualquer outro momento desde que o banco de dados foi iniciado.
Nos Estados Unidos, os projetos eólicos estão enfrentando dificuldades para passar pelos processos governamentais de licenciamento, transmissão de energia e seleção de locais, incluindo a oposição de alguns legisladores estaduais e municipais.
Os projetos solares e os investimentos relacionados em armazenagem para energia solar, observou Houser, podem ser construídos mais perto dos consumidores de energia e têm menos obstáculos a superar, e o investimento neles cresceu 50% no segundo trimestre de 2023, com relação ao ano anterior.
Alguns mercados consumidores ainda não se deixaram influenciar pela promessa de incentivos fiscais para novas tecnologias de energia. Os americanos não aumentaram seus gastos com bombas de aquecimento, embora a lei cubra gastos de até US$ 2 mil para a compra de uma nova bomba. E, no ano passado, os estados com os maiores gastos em bombas de aquecimento, em proporção às dimensões de suas economias, estavam todos concentrados no sudeste —onde, segundo Houser, é mais provável que os consumidores já disponham de bombas desse tipo, e precisem substitui-las.
Mundo já ultrapassou 6 das 9 fronteiras planetárias, como são chamados os limites seguros para a existência no planeta
Os sistemas de suporte à vida na Terra enfrentam riscos e incertezas maiores do que nunca, e a maioria dos principais limites de segurança já foram ultrapassados como resultado de intervenções humanas em todo o planeta, apontou estudo científico divulgado nesta quarta-feira (13).
Em uma espécie de “check-up de saúde” do planeta publicado na revista Science Advances, uma equipe internacional de 29 especialistas concluiu que a Terra atualmente está “bem fora do espaço operacional seguro para a humanidade” devido à atividade humana.
Ao todo, afirma o estudo, 8 das 9 fronteiras estão sob pressão maior do que a verificada na avaliação de 2015, aumentando o risco de mudanças dramáticas nas condições de vida da Terra. A camada de ozônio é o único dos quesitos a melhorar.
“Não sabemos se podemos prosperar sob grandes e dramáticas alterações das nossas condições”, disse a principal autora do estudo, Katherine Richardson, da Universidade de Copenhague.
Os autores afirmam que cruzar as fronteiras não representa um ponto de inflexão no qual a civilização humana simplesmente entrará em colapso, mas pode trazer mudanças irreversíveis nos sistemas de suporte à vida na Terra.
“Podemos pensar na Terra como um corpo humano e nos limites planetários como a pressão sanguínea. Acima de 120/80 [na medição da pressão sanguínea] não necessariamente indica um ataque cardíaco, mas aumenta o risco”, disse Richardson.
Os cientistas soaram o alarme sobre o aumento do desmatamento, o consumo excessivo de plantas como combustível, a proliferação de produtos como o plástico, organismos geneticamente modificados e produtos químicos sintéticos.
Dos nove limites avaliados, apenas a acidificação dos oceanos, a destruição da camada de ozônio e a poluição atmosférica —principalmente com partículas semelhantes à fuligem— foram consideradas ainda dentro de limites seguros. O teto da acidificação dos oceanos, no entanto, está perto de ser ultrapassado.
A concentração atmosférica de dióxido de carbono, o principal gás causador do efeito estufa, aumentou para cerca de 417 ppm (partes por milhão), significativamente superior ao nível seguro de 350 ppm.
Estima-se também que a atual taxa de extinção de espécies seja pelo menos dezenas de vezes mais rápida do que a taxa média dos últimos 10 milhões de anos, o que significa que o planeta já ultrapassou a fronteira segura para a diversidade genética.
“Na minha carreira nunca me baseei em tantas evidências como hoje”, disse Johan Rockström, coautor do estudo e diretor do Instituto Potsdam para Pesquisa de Impacto Climático.
MIDLAND, TEXAS – A petroleum pipeline running along the ground in the Permian Basin oil field on March 13, 2022 in Midland, Texas. (Photo by Joe Raedle/Getty Images)
Does slow climate progress justify violence against fossil fuel infrastructure? This subject was thrust into the limelight by a recent movie, How to Blow Up a Pipeline, which is based on the book by Andreas Malm. In the film, eight activists seek to blow up a fossil fuel pipeline in Texas’ Permian Basin. Their argument is that given the severity of the climate crisis and the role of fossil fuel companies in enabling it, they have the moral authority to damage fossil fuel infrastructure.
In recent years, some climate groups have resorted to disruptive action to focus public attention on climate policy lethargy. Activists have thrown tomato soups on paintings in prominent museums, blocked trains and major highways, picketed oil terminals, and glued themselves to the floor of BMW showrooms. So, why not escalate disruption by attacking fossil fuel infrastructure?
Yet, when it comes to the climate question, some surveys suggest that the public does not support disruptive action. Indeed, Extinction Rebellion (XR), a prominent UK-based climate group, recently announced that that it will temporarily suspend mass disruptive action. This motivated a group of scholars to write an open letter in support of nonviolent direct action. They underlined the idea that radical action does not equal violence.
Why is violence problematic? Apart from the moral and legal issues, violent activism undermines the climate cause and diminishes positive sentiments about climate advocacy in policy conversations. Moreover, the theory of change motivating violent action is weak. Most in the world recognize the climate challenge. Climate inaction does not reflect media neglecting climate change which can be corrected by newsworthy action. It reveals deeper distributional conflicts rooted in pushback from the fossil fuel industry and unions, fossil-fuel-dependent communities, rural residents opposing renewable energy projects, and the working class opposing higher energy prices. Thus, slow climate progress is not a simple story of the ruling capitalist class impeding policy change over the objections of the majority.
This means that the movement should resolve these complex issues through political mechanisms. Moreover, violence-based activism allows climate opponents to brand climate movement as eco-terrorism. At least 17 U.S. states have enacted “critical infrastructure” laws criminalizing protests against fossil fuel pipelines. Violent actions to damage fossil fuel infrastructure will justify their actions and even motivate a wider crackdown.
Moral and Legal Implications of Property Violence
In How to Blow Up a Pipeline, eight activists view property violence as an advocacy tactic because they feel this is the only way forward and their lived experiences have convinced them about the moral justification for their actions. The problem with this position is that individuals prioritize different issues. Many also feel disenfranchised. Should these aggrieved individuals resort to violence? Who decides which issues are worthy of violent advocacy and which are not?
Democracies have a process for policy change. Sometimes, the policy we favor gets enacted, and sometimes it does not. If we feel that policy inaction causes an existential crisis, we are frustrated. But we can voice our frustration in elections, in the media, and through non-violent advocacy. This is how citizens negotiate their differences. A commitment to ballots not bullets is crucial because both liberals and conservatives have grievances. We must ensure that grievances do not spin out of control into violence—especially important in this era of sharp polarization and angry rhetoric.
Some might argue that violence against property is different from violence against people, and property violence against corporations is different from say burning down the home of an individual. We disagree. The modern corporation’s functional logic is to pool resources from shareholders (both individuals and institutional investors such as pension funds) and use them to run a business. Eventually, violence against corporations is an attack on the livelihood and financial security of people whose assets the corporation manages.
This does not mean that activists should avoid subjecting corporations to economic pressure; they should do so through legal means. Shareholders can assess how their wealth might suffer because the firm faces problems on regulatory issues or social legitimacy grounds. The risk-return trade-off is a part of the bargain shareholders strike with corporations. And if shareholders consider corporate actions or inaction to be harmful, they can use economic and legal mechanisms such as shareholders’ vote or even divest.
What if property violence against corporations hurts the livelihood of impoverished communities? There is widespread poverty in many fossil fuel communities. They often view climate change as an elite issue favored by a predominantly urban climate movement. Might these communities view violence against fossil fuel infrastructure as an attack on their livelihood—on their very existence?
Even lesser actions such as transportation disruption can invite a backlash from affected parties. Consider the incident in London in 2019: “as XR began a second two-week mass mobilization in London, one local branch staged an action in Canning Town, a predominantly Black and Asian working-class neighborhood, in which several XR members clambered onto a subway car, preventing the train from leaving. Commuters dragged the protesters down onto the platform and beat them.”
About 24% of U.S. counties have enacted local ordinances to restrict solar and wind facilities. They view such facilities as spoiling rural landscapes. In some cases, environmental groups and native nations have joined protests against new renewable energy sites. There is also a backlash against new mining projects that will provide critical minerals for energy transition. The lesson is that some actors and communities oppose climate policies, not because they question climate science, but because they view climate action as imposing unfair burdens on them. To mitigate the opposition, underlying climate justice issues need to be addressed and violence is clearly the wrong way to accomplish this task.
What is the Way Forward?
Climate efforts are impeded by, among other things, rising energy prices. As the Ukraine crisis has reminded us, energy politics has economic and national security dimensions. Energy inflation provokes domestic backlash. This is why the Biden administration, which has shown a remarkable commitment to climate issues, sold oil from Strategic Petroleum Reserve and allowed the Willow project. Instead of dismantling pipelines, it is permitting new LNG infrastructure for exporting natural gas to Europe. The lesson is that supply disruptions by destroying fossil fuel pipelines will not serve the climate cause. They will probably do the opposite—by raising energy prices, they could motivate new drilling and investments in fossil fuel infrastructure.
Biden has enacted at least two major laws to fund climate transition, the Bipartisan Infrastructure Deal and the Inflation Reduction Act. It is undertaking administrative actions as well, as in vehicular tailpipe emissions. The reality is that in most countries, the climate movement is supported by the political establishment. Moreover, in the U.S., the movement now has the opportunity to take on the fossil fuel industry in the legal arena. Last week, the U.S. Supreme Court allowed local governments to sue the fossil fuel industry in state courts as opposed to federal courts which the industry wanted. It is possible that the industry might seek a settlement instead of risking jury trials, as happened with the tobacco industry, the opioid industry, and more recently Fox News. Thus, the movement should exploit these new legal opportunities to push the fossil fuel industry to take aggressive pro-climate actions.
Nives Dolsak is Stan and Alta Barer Professor in Sustainability Science and Director of the School of Marine & Environmental Affairs. Aseem Prakash is the Walker Family Professor and the Director of the Center for Environmental Politics. Both are at the University of Washington, Seattle.
Preocupação com eventos extremos une apoiadores de Lula (PT) e Bolsonaro (PL)
Lucas Lacerda
6 de abril de 2023
Nove entre dez brasileiros acham que vão sofrer impactos das mudanças climáticas na vida pessoal, e dois terços da população enxergam que a vida será muito prejudicada por eventos climáticos extremos nos próximos cinco anos.
Também há consenso sobre a distribuição desse impacto: 95% das pessoas acham que a parcela mais pobre sofrerá com esses efeitos.
Os dados fazem parte de pesquisa do Datafolha que ouviu 2.028 pessoas, de 126 municípios, com mais de 16 anos, nos dias 29 e 30 de março. A margem de erro é de dois pontos percentuais.
Enquanto a maioria acha que as mudanças climáticas vão prejudicar muito a parcela mais pobre da população (82%), uma minoria acha que a população rica vai sofrer da mesma forma (24%).
Quando avaliam a preocupação com os impactos na vida pessoal, 70% das mulheres afirmam que haverá muito prejuízo —índice que cai para 62% entre os homens.
Para Lori Regattieri, senior fellow da Mozilla Foundation, o destaque indica ainda que as mulheres podem estar mais atentas a riscos para a saúde própria e da família, além de reagirem mais rápido.
“Elas despontam em nível de preocupação principalmente quando temos questões que envolvem a saúde delas, da família e dos filhos”, diz a pesquisadora, que estuda comportamento digital e desinformação na agenda climática e socioambiental.
Regattieri destaca que a percepção também precisa considerar aspectos de cor e renda. “Quando falamos de mulheres negras, há maior probabilidade de morarem em áreas de risco. É onde se percebe o racismo ambiental.”
A percepção de muito prejuízo na vida pessoal foi apontada por 69% das pessoas pretas e pardas ouvidas na pesquisa, contra 61% entre pessoas brancas. A margem de erro é de três pontos percentuais para pessoas pardas, e quatro e seis para brancos e negros, respectivamente.
A pesquisa revela ainda uma preocupação com as mudanças climáticas muito similar entre quem declarou voto no presidente Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (PT) e quem disse ter votado no ex-presidente Jair Bolsonaro (PL) no segundo turno das eleições de 2022. Os percentuais também são próximos quando comparam-se os de apoiadores de PT e PL (quando citadas apenas as siglas, sem mencionar os candidatos em questão).
O prejuízo na vida pessoal decorrente de mudanças no clima é apontado por 89% dos eleitores de Lula e 88% dos de Bolsonaro. A pesquisa, assim, pode indicar que o medo de impactos na própria vida supera o posicionamento político —em campanha, Lula disse que priorizaria a agenda climática, enquanto a gestão Bolsonaro promoveu um desmonte das políticas públicas ambientais.
Na visão de Marcio Astrini, secretário-executivo do Observatório do Clima, rede de organizações socioambientais, isso ocorre porque a relação entre o apoio político e mudanças climáticas ainda não é tão direta no Brasil quanto problemas de emprego, fome, pobreza e saúde.
“Para a composição do voto, a questão de clima e ambiente não é tão decisiva [no Brasil] como em países que já venceram esses problemas”, diz.
“O que verificamos é que há uma narrativa criada para esse público: que o Bolsonaro não é uma pessoa ruim para a agenda de meio ambiente, que as acusações são invenção de esquerdistas, que o movimento ambiental do mundo é bancado por comunistas contra o desenvolvimento do país.”
Os danos imediatos que possam ser causados por uma chuva extremamente forte são outra preocupação em destaque na pesquisa. Para mais da metade da população (61%), a precipitação extrema é um risco para a casa onde moram, e 86% apontam risco para a infraestrutura —ruas, pontes e avenidas— da cidade em que vivem.
A percepção ampla sobre mudanças climáticas não é novidade no Brasil, de acordo com pesquisas anteriores do Datafolha. Levantamento realizado em 2010 mostrou que 75% dos brasileiros achavam que as atividades humanas contribuíam muito para o aquecimento global —o que é um consenso científico, amplamente difundido. Em 2019, esse índice caiu para 72%.
O mais recente relatório do painel científico do clima da ONU (IPCC, na sigla em inglês), lançado em 20 de março —poucos dias antes da realização da pesquisa do Datafolha, portanto—, enfatiza que o mundo vive sob pressão climática sem precedentes e que alguns danos já são irreversíveis.
Os cientistas alertam que o prazo para agir e frear o aquecimento do planeta em 1,5°C, meta do Acordo de Paris, é curto e exige ações rápidas dos países.
O projeto Planeta em Transe é apoiado pela Open Society Foundations.
Cientista brasileira Thelma Krug, que pode se tornar a primeira mulher no cargo, destaca necessidade de medidas rápidas
Cristiane Fontes
9 de abril de 2023
O Brasil apresenta nesta segunda (10) a candidatura da cientista Thelma Krug à presidência do IPCC (Painel Intergovernamental sobre Mudança do Clima da ONU), para o ciclo de 2023 a 2028.
Se eleita, Krug, que já é uma das vice-presidentes do órgão, será a primeira mulher e a primeira representante da América Latina no cargo mais alto da instituição. As eleições ocorrerão em sessão plenária em julho.
A matemática, com atuação no IPCC desde 2002, afirma que, além dos aprendizados sobre a evolução da ciência do clima —que hoje aponta como inequívoca a associação da ação humana ao aquecimento global—, foram o comprometimento dos milhares de autores do painel e o estímulo do neto, Luca, de 10 anos, que a levaram se candidatar a essa função.
“Rápidas, profundas e sustentadas reduções de emissões [de gases de efeito estufa] são necessárias para limitar o aquecimento a 1,5°C ou mesmo abaixo de 2°C”, diz Krug, que ressalta que as escolhas que fizermos nesta década terão um impacto direto para um futuro sustentável.
“O custo da ação vai ser bem menor do que o custo da inação, quando o planeta todo estiver sofrendo com esses impactos do clima com um aquecimento maior.”
Com o aumento do volume e da velocidade da produção científica sobre mudanças climáticas, ela defende que o painel produza relatórios menores e mais frequentes. Krug adianta que no próximo ciclo do painel será elaborado um documento especial sobre cidades.
“As cidades contribuem para aproximadamente 90% das emissões se nós considerarmos todo o escopo”, explica ela, que trabalhou por 37 anos no Inpe (Instituto Nacional de Pesquisas Espaciais), até 2019.
Krug decidiu se aposentar do instituto na época de acusações do então presidente Jair Bolsonaro (PL) de que os dados de desmatamento contabilizados pelo órgão seriam manipulados.
Como ser portadora de alertas tão sérios do IPCC sem levar o mundo ao cinismo e à inação? Os relatórios do IPCC já há muito tempo indicam a situação sobre a mudança do clima e, mais recentemente, essa inequívoca associação entre a ação humana e o aquecimento na atmosfera se tornou um fato.
A partir de 2018, o IPCC indicou a necessidade de transformações em todos os setores da sociedade, e a gente não viu uma resposta equivalente. Eu não diria que é inação, mas eu diria que a ação não corresponde à urgência que a ciência mostra, se quisermos ter um futuro sustentável.
Passados cinco anos, o que a gente vê é que esse desafio tornou-se ainda maior. Essa maior frequência de eventos extremos mostra que os custos já são grandes e serão muito maiores no futuro.
O custo da ação vai ser bem menor do que o custo da inação, quando o planeta todo estiver sofrendo com esses impactos do clima com um aquecimento maior.
O último relatório do IPCC diz que ainda temos tempo de conter os piores impactos da crise climática, se grandes e rápidas reduções de emissões de gases de efeito estufa forem feitas. Como isso pode ser realizado? O IPCC indica —e eu me fixo um pouco na parte de 1,5°C, porque 1,5°C [de aumento na temperatura] já vai ser insustentável para muitos países insulares— que as emissões têm de ser cortadas pela metade até 2030.
Não é que seja o final do mundo. Mas, se isso não acontecer, as coisas vão se tornando cada vez mais difíceis.
Poderia comentar essas opções de mitigação? Você tem opções para todos os setores. No setor de energia, a gente fala muito da questão de descarbonização. Hoje há essa eletrificação dos automóveis, que é questionável, mas em muitos lugares poderia funcionar bem.
Se olharmos os preços da energia solar, eram muito altos, mas hoje são mais acessíveis para uma implementação mais larga. A expansão indica avanços que não estão acontecendo só no Brasil, mas em outras partes do mundo.
Outros exemplos também estão ocorrendo, principalmente na questão do uso da terra na agricultura, ou seja, principalmente, a redução do desmatamento, que é indicada como uma das formas de grandes reduções de emissões, e o Brasil é um exemplo disso.
Além de toda a parte de planejamento urbano. No próximo ciclo do IPCC, vamos ter um relatório especial sobre a mudança do clima em cidades. As cidades contribuem para aproximadamente 90% das emissões se nós considerarmos todo o escopo das cidades.
Qual deveria ser o papel do IPCC nos próximos anos, considerando o robusto consenso científico existente sobre a crise do clima, a inação política e a revisão do Acordo de Paris em 2025? O IPCC, através de modelos cada vez mais robustos, faz essa avaliação da literatura [científica] em todo o mundo. E a velocidade de publicações científicas na temática de mudança do clima tem sido enorme.
Talvez o painel decida refletir sobre a importância e necessidade de uma frequência maior de relatórios menores, que permitam que a gente esteja sempre atualizado.
Quais foram os seus principais aprendizados na vice-presidência do IPCC e por que lançar agora a sua candidatura à presidência do painel? A submissão do meu nome como candidata à presidência do IPCC é prerrogativa do ponto focal do Brasil, que nesse caso é do Ministério das Relações Exteriores.
O Ministério das Relações Exteriores fez consultas com outros ministérios, e a indicação do meu nome foi bem recebida por todos, junto com a minha contribuição ao IPCC por 22 anos.
Durante esse período, houve um aprendizado enorme: não só de entender a evolução da ciência, mas também de ter um conjunto de autores que, de uma maneira voluntária, se dedicam a produzir essa ciência, porque acreditam que vai gerar ação.
Essa dedicação, essa vontade de fazer a diferença desses cientistas, dedicando tempo a isso de uma maneira muito profunda, me fizeram perguntar: será que eu também posso fazer uma diferença nesse papel [na presidência do IPCC]? Nós temos muito bons candidatos, eu sou uma delas.
Uma análise recente do portal Carbon Brief revelou que a proporção de mulheres e de autores do sul global no IPCC aumentou nas últimas décadas, mas ainda há muito a ser feito pela diversidade. Como o IPCC vem implementando a política de equidade de gênero, estabelecida em 2020, e quais são as suas propostas nesse sentido? Quando a gente fala da questão de gênero, acho que ela é um pouquinho mais complexa. Porque a gente normalmente trabalha com esse binário, feminino e masculino, mas hoje existe uma diversidade bem maior a ser analisada.
Eu particularmente penso que não é você aumentar o número de mulheres, aumentar a diversidade. Acho que a questão maior é se essas pessoas que estão lá, em maior número, estão sendo respeitadas. Elas estão sendo incluídas como tais, elas têm a percepção de pertencimento?
O painel autorizou que fosse contratada uma empresa que vai fazer uma pesquisa junto a todos que participaram de 2015 a 2023, para buscar entender se se sentiram parte desse conjunto de autores de uma maneira equitativa, se oportunidades foram dadas a todos que estão envolvidos. Acho que os resultados vão ser muito importantes para entender as ações necessárias.
Em uma entrevista recente à Agência Pública, a senhora afirmou que a vulnerabilidade da produção agropecuária no Brasil aos impactos das mudanças climáticas merece atenção especial. O que deveria ser feito nos próximos anos? Essa afirmação foi baseada nas projeções feitas para a região Centro-Oeste, que já está sendo impactada pela mudança do clima. Ou seja, com o aumento atual, essa região já está sendo impactada e, para 1,5°C [de aquecimento], esses riscos de impactos aumentam por conta de maiores secas.
A gente espera que planos de ação antecipem o que o futuro pode ser e, fazendo isso, eles não estão dizendo que não existe mais solução, mas, se chegarmos lá, como estaremos preparados. A própria Embrapa estava desenvolvendo espécies mais resilientes ao calor, à falta de água.
O que deveria ser priorizado pelo país para reconquistar credibilidade na cena climática internacional? E o que deveria ser negociado em termos de cooperação e financiamento, além de recursos para o Fundo Amazônia? O nosso grande gargalo continua sendo a questão do desmatamento, que foi um dos elementos que fizeram com que o Brasil perdesse muito da sua credibilidade.
Acho que o Fundo Amazônia não é suficiente. Ele tem sido importantíssimo, mas financeiramente é insuficiente. Esse fundo ele compensa, vamos assim dizer, as reduções de emissões quando estas são demonstradas, e nós não estamos num estágio onde isso seja sustentável.
Apesar da importância do fundo, a gente precisa de mais investimentos de outros países, que possibilitem com que essa cooperação possa vir sem vínculos iniciais, para dar ao Brasil condição de iniciar esse processo de reversão.
RAIO-X
Thelma Krug, 72
Graduada em matemática pela Roosevelt University (EUA), com doutorado em estatística espacial pela University of Sheffield (Inglaterra), foi pesquisadora no Inpe (Instituto Nacional de Pesquisas Espaciais) por 37 anos. Foi ainda secretária nacional adjunta no Ministério da Ciência, Tecnologia e Inovação e diretora de políticas de combate ao desmatamento no Ministério do Meio Ambiente. No IPCC, copresidiu a força-tarefa sobre inventários nacionais de gases de efeito estufa de 2002 a 2015 e ocupa, desde 2015, uma das três vice-presidências do painel.
Decisão é considerada histórica por poder abrir caminho para mais processos contra governos
Camila Hodgson
29 de março de 2023
A Corte Internacional de Justiça (CIJ) avaliará as obrigações legais dos Estados de proteger as gerações atuais e futuras das mudanças climáticas, depois que os países apoiaram uma resolução na ONU.
A opinião consultiva da CIJ, o principal órgão jurídico da ONU, pode aumentar o risco de litígio para os países que não cumprirem as leis e tratados internacionais existentes, ao mesmo tempo em que orienta os governos sobre o que devem fazer para defender os direitos humanos e o meio ambiente dos danos climáticos.
Os países aprovaram a resolução por consenso sem votação, após uma campanha de anos liderada por Vanuatu, nação insular do Pacífico que corre risco devido à elevação do nível do mar. Mais de cem países copatrocinaram a resolução, mas não os Estados Unidos e a China, os dois maiores emissores anuais do mundo.
Delta Merner, cientista chefe do Polo Científico para Litígio Climático da União de Cientistas Preocupados, disse que a decisão de quarta-feira (29) na Assembleia Geral da ONU marcou “um momento histórico para a justiça climática internacional”.
A CIJ, que pode levar um ano ou mais para entregar suas conclusões, “alteraria a forma como pensamos sobre as responsabilidades pelas emissões e a prestação de contas, incluindo a responsabilidade corporativa”, e “reforçaria” as justificativas legais para “milhares de casos de litígio climático atualmente arquivados“, acrescentou ela.
Dirigindo-se à ONU, o secretário-geral António Guterres disse que os pareceres da CIJ têm “uma importância tremenda e poderão ter um impacto duradouro na ordem jurídica internacional”, embora não sejam juridicamente vinculantes.
O apoio ao que começou como uma iniciativa liderada por estudantes de Vanuatu cresceu no ano passado, pois muitos países sofreram eventos climáticos extremos devastadores. Com as emissões permanecendo teimosamente altas, os principais cientistas climáticos do mundo alertaram recentemente que as temperaturas médias provavelmente atingirão em breve 1,5°C acima dos níveis pré-industriais.
Embora ativistas tenham recorrido aos tribunais para forçar governos e empresas a efetuarem cortes mais rápidos nas emissões, autoridades disseram que o parecer da CIJ não foi visto como um caminho para novos processos, mas uma forma de dar aos governos maior clareza sobre suas responsabilidades.
Ralph Regenvanu, ministro da Mudança Climática de Vanuatu, disse que a iniciativa “não foi dirigida a nenhum estado [individual]”, nem teve “a intenção de culpar, envergonhar ou buscar qualquer julgamento”.
No entanto, especialistas disseram que ela poderia afetar os processos climáticos mais diretamente. Lavanya Rajamani, professora de direito ambiental internacional da Universidade de Oxford, que apoiou a iniciativa de Vanuatu, disse que as descobertas poderiam “apoiar litígios climáticos nacionais e regionais” ao identificar “um padrão ou referência para o que se espera dos estados”.
A decisão de quarta-feira ocorre meses depois que uma coalizão de pequenos países insulares, incluindo Vanuatu e Antígua e Barbuda, pediu a outro órgão intergovernamental uma opinião sobre as obrigações legais dos países de proteger os ambientes oceânicos das mudanças climáticas.
As conclusões do Tribunal Internacional do Direito do Mar devem ser entregues em 2024, antes que a CIJ conclua seu trabalho.
Payam Akhavan, advogado que apoia a iniciativa dos oceanos, disse que a opinião do tribunal pode resultar em contestações legais contra os países, mas um resultado “mais importante” seria usá-la para pressionar os grandes poluidores nas cúpulas climáticas da COP e “colocar alguns dentes no Acordo de Paris”.
Indigenous communities protect more than 80% of the world’s remaining biodiversity.
To achieve the Sustainable Development Goal 2 of the Global Goals, Indigenous voices are crucial to ensuring that a future free of famine is created by 2030. | IFAD
As stewards of the earth, the 476 million Indigenous Peoples living across more than 90 countries have an essential role to play in our world’s future. Generations of traditional knowledge, cultural responsibility, and sustainable land management have proven how critical Indigenous voices are to both protecting our planet and solving the global food crisis.
Yet for decades, Indigenous communities and activists have called for urgent action on climate change and food security — calls that have largely gone ignored. As protectors of more than 80% of the world’s remaining biodiversity, their leadership and consultation hold the key to a resilient and sustainable future.
And two things are clear — Indigenous voices must be heard, and their recommendations must be taken seriously.
That’s why, in 2011, the Indigenous Peoples Forum (IPFI) was launched by the UN agency, the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD), to ensure an in-person, open dialogue existed between communities at the heart of climate change and development agencies on the front lines. The 2023 Indigenous Peoples Forum runs from Feb. 9-13, and is bringing together Indigenous leaders to discuss food security, climate action, traditional knowledge, and more.
Indigenous communities come face to face with climate change every day — one of the reasons why it’s important that they have the opportunity to shape the future of climate action and inform adaptation measures beyond their communities.
Despite contributing the least to climate emissions, Indigenous Peoples are among the communities suffering most from its impacts, which threaten food security, livelihoods, and millennia of culture. Here are five key reasons it’s essential to make sure Indigenous voices are present at every climate discussion.
1. Custodians of Knowledge
From unusual weather patterns to land management and sustenance farming, Indigenous Peoples have spent millennia accumulating knowledge about their environment. This place-based knowledge can help us predict and adapt to accelerated climate change on a global scale, because protecting and conserving ecosystems and nature is about preserving the diversity of human cultures.
Just 6% of the global population is Indigenous. Still, they speak more than 4,000 languages, including unique words and concepts to describe how they interact with the natural environment that demonstrate a respectful, symbiotic relationship.
Triệu Thị Tàn, a traditional healer from the Dao-Que Lam community who lives in the village of Phien Phang in Northern Vietnam, used traditional knowledge to help save her daughter’s life during pregnancy using a recipe passed on by her grandmother.
Like generations before her, she collects and cultivates medicinal plants in the complex forest-based ecosystems near her home, using ancestral knowledge to grow medical plants that only survive where their original habitats are intact.
Over 3 days of productive dialogue, representatives of Indigenous Peoples around the world have gathered at IFAD to share their views and recommendations & celebrate indigenous climate leadership.
— International Fund for Agricultural Development (@IFAD) February 13, 2023
2. Life-Saving Food Systems
The climate crisis is driving up rates of hunger worldwide. Today, the realities of globalized networks and years of compounding crises, like war and COVID-19, have uncovered the weaknesses in the global food system. From 2019 to 2022 alone, the number of malnourished people grew by as many as 150 million.
One of the best solutions is to build resilient food systems at the community level, with Indigenous knowledge serving as both beneficiaries and drivers of the answers we need to curb hunger.
The food systems of Indigenous Peoples’ have traditionally provided healthy diets anchored in sustainable livelihood practices. One of the main goals of the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD) has always been to place small-scale farmers and other rural people at the heart of work to transform food systems, fostering action-orientated and sustainable solutions for food systems around the world.
This includes IFAD’s investment in Slow Foods — a program that’s dedicated to enhancing “local value chains for traditional foods” and which operates across 86 countries, helping Indigenous farmers sustain traditional crops and farming practices while protecting biodiversity and species at risk of extinction. Farmers are then encouraged to scale production to sell on the national commercial market, like cities and wholesale producers.
Smallholder farmers, who are already facing drought and extreme weather events, will continue to face the biggest future impacts of climate change. Programs like Slow Foods help preserve generational farming that could inform sustainability agriculture for the future, promote nutrition security worldwide, and generate income at the community level.
3. Protecting Biodiversity
Biological diversity, or biodiversity for short, is the variety of all living things, as well as how these species interact with each other. These interactions can either lead to species extinction or the creation of new ones, a natural process that exists in harmony with the sustainable practices championed by Indigenous communities.
Of the world’s remaining biodiversity, a massive 80% is located in the lands of Indigenous Peoples, who use sustainable farming methods and land management practices that help protect this biodiversity. Preserving biodiversity and reducing the greenhouse gas emissions across the world is crucial to tackling the climate crisis.
Centuries of deforestation, the expansion of agricultural land, the hunting of wildlife, as well as the more recent additions of fossil fuels, and the impacts of climate change have put Indigenous communities and our planet at risk.
That’s why this year’s Indigenous Peoples Forum is convening under the theme “Indigenous Peoples’ climate leadership: community-based solutions to enhance resilience and biodiversity” in support of Indigenous Peoples and their role in protecting diversity, “one harvest at a time.“
In the Peruvian Amazon, employment opportunities in gas exploration have drawn many Indigenous communities to jobs in the field. But when strict COVID-19 laws in 2020 forced mining work sites to close, many Indigenous families returned to farming on their traditional lands as a means of survival, using knowledge and conservation-based agricultural practices that protected their livelihoods and the environment.
— International Fund for Agricultural Development (@IFAD) February 12, 2023
4. Safeguarding Conservation and Wildlife
While the exact amount isn’t known, it’s estimated that 50-65% of the world’s land is held by Indigenous Peoples and other communities, serving up to 2.5 billion Indigenous and non-Indigenous people who depend on that land for their livelihoods and well-being.
Almost two-thirds of that land is considered “essentially natural,” — an internationally recognized legal term to describe how Indigenous communities live in harmony with nature and the essential role they play in its conservation. In 2022, this was recognized at the UN Biodiversity Conference (COP15) in Canada when 190 countries signed onto the “30 x 30′ Agenda” calling for the protection of 30% of the world’s land and sea biodiversity while recognizing the role of Indigenous communities play as “stewards of nature.”
As one example, the Indigenous community of the Manobo people in the Philippines has protected their homeland, Pangasinan Island, through cultivation and land care practices for centuries, writes Vox. Centuries of “intuitive” cultivation have contributed to an island abundant in wildlife, allocating specific hunting seasons and dedicated areas for farming.
Within decades, millions of animals and plants will be at risk of extinction due to a decline in biodiversity worldwide at rates never witnessed in human history. Our climate is changing, and its effects are felt in all aspects of life, including food security, gender equality, political stability, and peace. Indigenous Peoples hold the key to developing future solutions, thanks in part to open forums like the The Indigenous Peoples’ Forum at IFAD, which draw on the wealth of knowledge, wisdom, and leadership their communities provide.
📸: Indigenous leaders from all over the world are at IFAD, sharing inspiring stories of resilience.
Indigenous Peoples have ancestral knowledge and unique approaches that are invaluable in battling the #ClimateCrisis. We should all learn from them. pic.twitter.com/RQjexWNEWq
— International Fund for Agricultural Development (@IFAD) February 10, 2023
Driven by the impacts of the war against Ukraine, the COVID-19 pandemic, and climate change, the world faces the largest food crisis in modern history. Indigenous knowledge will play an important role in preventing future food crises and solving the current one. Through community-based action and national and international advocacy, they’re generating practical adaptation initiatives, and solutions for our future.
OUTRO LADO: Defesa Civil diz que enviou SMS para 34 mil celulares cadastrados na região do litoral norte
Isabela Palhares
22 de fevereiro de 2023
O Cemaden (Centro Nacional de Monitoramento e Alerta para Desastres Naturais) afirma ter alertado o Governo de São Paulo cerca de 48 horas antes sobre o alto risco de desastre no litoral paulista.
Segundo o Cemaden, que é um órgão federal, a Defesa Civil estadual foi alertada sobre a ocorrência de chuvas fortes na região e o alto risco de desastres em uma reunião online na manhã de sexta (17). A vila do Sahy, o ponto em que mais pessoas morreram, foi citada como uma área de alto risco para deslizamento.
Em nota, a Defesa Civil diz que emitiu alertas preventivos à população desde que foi informada da previsão de fortes chuvas.
“Nós alertamos e avisamos a Defesa Civil na sexta, foram quase 48 horas antes de o desastre acontecer. Seguimos o protocolo que é estabelecido, alertando a Defesa Civil estadual para que ela se organizasse com os municípios”, disse Osvaldo Moraes, presidente do Cemaden.
O Cemaden é ligado ao Ministério da Ciência, Tecnologia e Inovação. O centro é responsável por monitorar índices meteorológicos e geológicos e alertar, caso necessário, os órgãos de prevenção.
Moraes diz que, ainda na quinta-feira (16), um boletim meteorológico já indicava as fortes chuvas na região. Esse boletim foi repassado para a Defesa Civil do estado.
Depois desse primeiro alerta, o Cemaden se reuniu com um representante da Defesa Civil estadual na sexta de manhã. “Nós emitimos boletins diários, o de quinta já indicava o risco. Mas o de sexta-feira aumentou o nível de alerta para essa região.”
A Defesa Civil disse que enviou 14 alertas de mensagem de texto (SMS) para mais de 34 mil celulares cadastrados na região do litoral norte. O órgão informou ainda que começou a articular ações as defesas civis municipais na quinta-feira quando recebeu a previsão de fortes chuvas na região.
“Os primeiros avisos divulgados pela Defesa Civil do Estado, que ocorreram ainda de forma preventiva, foram publicados por volta das 15 horas de quinta-feira, nas redes sociais da Defesa Civil e do Governo com informações sobre o volume de chuvas estimado para o período, bem como as medidas de segurança que poderiam ser adotadas pela população em áreas de risco”, diz a nota.
O órgão disse ainda que à 00h52 de sexta, ao acompanhar imagens de radares e satélites, enviou a primeira mensagem de SMS com o alerta.
Nas redes sociais da Defesa Civil, a primeira mensagem de alertas para chuvas fortes no sábado foi feita às 12h22. A mensagem, no entanto, não fala sobre os riscos de desmoronamento.
Durante a noite, outros alertas foram postados pelo órgão e nenhum deles faz menção ao risco de desmoronamento de terra. Foi só às 19h49 uma mensagem recomendou que as pessoas deixassem o local se precisassem.
Para os especialistas, a proporção do desastre e o elevado número de vítimas mostram que apenas a estratégia de envio de SMS aos moradores não é eficiente. Além de não ser possível saber se as pessoas viram os alertas, não havia um plano ou orientação sobre o que fazer na situação.
“Você cria um sistema de aviso, as pessoas podem até receber a mensagem, mas não sabem o que fazer com aquela informação. Não há uma orientação para onde devem ir, quando sair de casa, o que levar”, diz Eduardo Mario Mendiondo, coordenador científico do Ceped (Centro de Estudos e Pesquisas sobre Desastres) da USP.
Para ele, a estratégias devem pensar também criação de rotas de fugas em áreas de risco e na orientação aos moradores. “A população precisa saber qual o risco está correndo e como se proteger. É injusto depois dizer que eles não queriam sair de casa, eles não tinham orientação correta do que fazer.”
Segundo ele, em diversas cidades do país, como Petrópolis e Salvador, o alerta ocorre por uma sirene.
“Você garante que todo mundo vai ouvir a qualquer momento do dia. É o instrumento mais antigo, mas que funciona. Uma sirene dá o recado claro do risco iminente”, diz.
Para Fernando Rocha Nogueira, coordenador do LabGRIS (Laboratório Gestão de Riscos) da UFABC, as autoridade brasileiras assistem de forma inerte aos desastres que ocorrem no país. Segundo ele, o Brasil conta com bons sistemas de monitoramento, mas não desenvolve estratégias para proteger a população.
“Temos um problema grave de comunicação no país. Tinha o mapeamento de que iria chover muito, que havia um alto risco e não se deu a atenção devida. Milhares de pessoas desceram para o litoral, ignorando a previsão. Nós não temos conscientização do risco, nós vivemos um negacionismo das informações climáticas”, diz.
Como foram os avisos
Quinta-feira (16) Boletim do Cemaden alerta para a ocorrência de chuvas fortes e volumosas no litoral paulista durante o Carnaval
Sexta-feira (17) Em reunião virtual, o Cemaden faz alerta sobre a previsão de chuvas fortes e o risco de deslizamentos de terra para integrantes da Defesa Civil do estado. A vila do Sahy estava entre as áreas apontadas como de maior risco
Sábado (18)
12h22: Defesa Civil do Estado avisa nas redes sociais que a chuva estava se espalhando pela região de Ubatuba e Caraguatatuba. “Tem vento e raios. Atinge municípios vizinhos. Tenha cuidado nas próximas horas”, diz a mensagem
18h33: Uma nova mensagem da Defesa Civil é postada alertando para chuva persistente na região.
19h49: Outra mensagem é postada pela Defesa Civil diz que a “chuva está se espalhando” pelo Litoral Norte e pede para que as pessoas “tenham cuidado nas próximas horas”
23h13: A Defesa Civil alerta que a chuva persiste na região e recomenda “não enfrente alagamentos. Fique atento a inclinação de muros e a rachaduras. Se precisar saia do local”
03h15: O órgão volta a alerta sobre a chuva forte e persistente no litoral norte e diz “não enfrente alagamentos. Fique atento a inclinação de muros e a rachaduras. Se precisar saia do local.”
Especialistas apontam falta de investimento e defasagem do modelo; temporal foi agravado por ciclone extratropical, diz meteorologista
Carlos Petrocilo
22 de fevereiro de 2023
A falta de investimento em novas tecnologias, aliada à aceleração das mudanças climáticas, torna a previsão do tempo mais imprecisa no Brasil, segundo especialistas ouvidos pela Folha.
O serviço de meteorologia é essencial para que órgãos públicos, como Defesa Civil, se preparem com antecedência na tentativa de mitigar os efeitos de um temporal.
Como consequência do temporal, 48 pessoas morreram, sendo 47 em São Sebastião e uma em Ubatuba, conforme os dados desta quarta (22).
Segundo o professor Eduardo Mario Mendiondo, coordenador científico do Ceped (Centro de Educação e Pesquisa de Desastres) da USP, os modelos atuais de previsão utilizam parâmetros atmosféricos calibrados por condições históricas e precisam ser atualizados.
“O clima está mudando, com maior magnitude e com maior frequência de ocorrência de extremos. Os modelos precisam ser atualizados de forma constante, em escala global e em regiões específicas, com microclima e dinâmicas peculiares, como é o caso da Serra do Mar e da Baixada Santista”, afirma Mendiondo.
O professor chama atenção para falta de investimentos públicos. Segundo ele, o governo precisa reforçar o quadro de servidores e investir em novas ferramentas para Cemaden (Centro Nacional de Monitoramento e Alertas de Desastres Naturais), Inpe (Instituto Nacional de Pesquisas Espaciais) e Inmet (Instituto Nacional de Meteorologia).
“Falta aumentar em 20 vezes o potencial de supercomputadores atuais em território nacional, falta contratar até 20 vezes o número servidores de manutenção e operação de supercomputadores e falta contratar até em dez vezes o número atual de técnicos operadores”, afirma o professor da USP.
Para suprir tais necessidades, Mendiondo estima que é necessário investimentos de R$ 25 bilhões por ano. “Isto para converter essas novas evidências científicas, melhorando as previsões, seguindo exemplos como Japão, Europa e Estados Unidos.”
O meteorologista Mamedes Luiz Melo afirma que o volume de chuva foi agravado pela ação do ciclone extratropical associado a uma frente fria que passou pelo Sul do país e por São Paulo. “A tecnologia vinha alertando, mas estamos lidando com algo móvel na atmosfera”, afirma Melo.
A Defesa Civil diz, em nota, que os boletins especiais e de aviso de risco meteorológicos são emitidos com base em simulações numéricas de previsão do tempo. “Tais limiares baseiam-se no histórico da chuva da região em que a chuva acumulada representa risco para transtornos, como deslizamentos, desabamentos, alagamentos, enchentes e ocorrências relacionadas a raios e ventos”, disse a Defesa Civil.
As projeções do Inmet, que emite alertas sobre riscos de deslizamentos para órgãos públicos, previram volumes de chuva menores do que um modelo usado pela empresa de meteorologia MetSul.
O modelo da empresa, chamado WRF, apontou que algumas áreas poderiam ter chuva acima de 600 mm em alguns pontos do terreno, o que acabou se confirmando. As previsões mais graves do instituto federal falavam em chuvas no patamar de 400 mm.
A previsão do Inmet para a chuva no litoral norte utilizou seis modelos numéricos diferentes. O instituto também usa o WRF, mas com uma resolução menor do que a da MetSul. Ou seja, a empresa conseguiu fazer os cálculos a partir de detalhes mais precisos do relevo do que o órgão público.
“O WRF tem se mostrado uma ferramenta muito importante na identificação de eventos extremos de chuva”, diz a meteorologista Estael Sias, da MetSul. “É importante assinalar que o modelo WRF é meramente uma ferramenta de trabalho, um produto, e não a previsão, e que o prognóstico final divulgado ao público e clientes leva em conta outros modelos e também a experiência do meteorologista para eventos extremos.”
Segundo o meteorologista Franco Nadal Villela, da equipe do Inmet em São Paulo, a resolução não é o fator mais decisivo na previsão de chuvas. Ele diz que os modelos usados pelo instituto deram conta de prever que o temporal em São Sebastião seria muito grave, embora não tenham chegado ao valor de 600 mm.
“Há modelos de menor resolução que pontualmente previram menos precipitação”, diz Villela. “As previsões modeladas estavam prevendo bem este evento e as variações na quantificação de precipitação [volume de chuva por hora] são mais uma das varáveis que ponderamos para emitir alertas.”
A Folha enviou perguntas através de email ao Inpe, que coordena o Centro de Previsão de Tempo e Estudos Climáticos (Cptec), mas não obteve resposta até a publicação deste texto.
Para José Marengo, climatologista e coordenador do Cemaden, defende mudanças [sic]. Ele explica que o modelo de previsão do tempo divide a região em áreas de até 200 quilômetros quadrados. Com isso, não é possível prever a quantidade de chuva aproximada em toda a região.
“O Brasil não está preparado tecnologicamente. É como se dividisse o Brasil em caixas grandes de 200 quilômetros quadrados, por isso há distorções dentro da mesma região. Pode ter áreas em que chove menos e outras que superaram os 600 milímetros, a modelagem não é perfeita”, afirma Marengo.
Ele também alerta para a falta de novas tecnologias. “O supercomputador do Inpe, o Tupã, que resolve as equações matemáticas em alta velocidade, é de 2010 e considerado obsoleto”, afirma o climatologista.
O professor Pedro Côrtes, do Instituto de Energia e Ambiente da USP, concorda que é área precise de mais recursos, mas pondera que as previsões dos órgãos do governo foram suficientes para apontar que uma tempestade grave se aproximava.
“A espera pelo investimento não pode postergar a solução do problema, as previsões já funcionam.”
A Folha publicou, no dia 28 de dezembro de 2010, a inauguração do supercomputador. Na ocasião, o Tupã custou R$ 31 milhões e era utilizado em países como Estados Unidos, China, Alemanha e Rússia. Para operá-lo, o Inpe precisou construir uma nova central elétrica, de mil quilowatts —antes tinha só 280 quilowatts disponíveis no instituto.
Até hoje os especialistas apontam o Tupã como o melhor equipamento que o Brasil possui para prever, além de enchentes, ondas de calor e frio e os períodos de seca.
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Uma (in)certa antropologia 
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