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.
Microplastics found washed up on a beach. About 11 percent of microplastics in the atmosphere over the western U.S. come from the ocean. Visual: Alistair Berg/DigitalVision via Getty Images
Airborne microplastics can absorb or reflect sunlight and seed clouds. How might that change the planet’s trajectory?
Plastic has become an obvious pollutant over recent decades, choking turtles and seabirds, clogging up our landfills and waterways. But in just the past few years, a less obvious problem has emerged. Researchers are starting to get concerned about how tiny bits of plastic in the air, lofted into the skies from seafoam bubbles or spinning tires on the highway, might potentially change our future climate.
“Here’s something that people just didn’t think about — another aspect of plastic pollution,” says environmental analytical chemist Denise Mitrano of ETH Zürich University, in Switzerland, who co-wrote an article last November highlighting what researchers know — and don’t yet know — about how plastics can change clouds, potentially altering temperature and rainfall patterns.
This story was originally published by the Yale Environment 360 and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.
Clouds form when water or ice condenses on “seeds” in the air: usually tiny particles of dust, salt, sand, soot, or other material thrown up by burning fossil fuels, forest fires, cooking, or volcanoes. There are plenty of these fine particles, or aerosols, in the skies — a lot more since the Industrial Revolution — and they affect everything from the quality of the air we breathe, to the color of sunsets, to the number and type of clouds in our skies.
Until recently, when chemists thought of the gunk in our air, plastics did not leap to mind. Concentrations were low, they thought, and plastic is often designed to be water repellent for applications like bags or clothing, which presumably made them unlikely to seed cloud droplets. But in recent years, studies have confirmed not only that microscopic pieces of plastic can seed clouds — sometimes powerfully — but they also travel thousands of miles from their source. And there are a lot more particles in the air than scientists originally thought. All this has opened researchers’ eyes to their potential contribution to atmospheric murk — and, possibly, to future climate change.
“The people who invented plastics all those decades ago, who were very proud of inventions that transformed society in many ways — I doubt they envisaged that plastics were going to end up floating around in the atmosphere and potentially influencing the global climate system,” says Laura Revell, an atmospheric scientist at the University of Canterbury in New Zealand. “We are still learning what the impacts are for humans, ecosystems, and climate. But certainly, from what we know so far, it doesn’t look good.”
Global annual production of plastics has skyrocketed from 2 million tons in 1950 to more than 450 million tons today. And despite growing concerns about this waste accumulating in the environment, production is ramping up rather than slowing down — some oil companies are building up their plastic production capacity as the demand for fossil fuel declines. To date, more than 9 billion tons of plastic has been produced, and about half of it has gone to landfills or been otherwise discarded. Some project that by 2025, 11 billion tons of plastic will have accumulated in the environment.
Plastic has been found in soils, water, crops, and on the ocean floor. And in recent years, several studies have suggested that microplastics (pieces less than 5 millimeters in length) and nanoplastics (smaller than approximately 1,000 nanometers) were being transported long distances through the air. In 2019, for example, researchers found microplastics in the Pyrenees that had arrived via rain or snowfall. In 2020, Janice Brahney of Utah State University and four co-authors published a high-profile Science paper revealing high amounts of plastic in federally protected areas of the United States. Brahney had found the plastic by accident; she had been looking for phosphorus, but was surprised by all the colorful bits of gunk in her ground-based filters. Her study led to a slew of headlines warning, “It’s raining plastic.”
Brahney’s extensive U.S. dataset also opened the door for modelers to figure out where, exactly, all this plastic was coming from. “It’s a really beautiful data set,” says Cornell University’s Natalie Mahowald, who did the modeling work.
Mahowald took the plastic concentrations Brahney had cataloged and mapped them against atmospheric patterns and known sources of plastics, including roads, agricultural dust, and oceans. On roadways, tires and brakes hurl microplastics into the air. Plastic winds up in agricultural dust, notes Mahowald, in part from plastics used on farm fields and in part because people toss fleece clothing into washing machines: The wastewater flows to treatment plants that separate solids from liquids, and about half the resulting biosolids get sent to farms for use as fertilizer. As for the ocean, Mahowald says, big globs of plastic in places like the Pacific Gyre degrade into microscopic pieces, which then float to the surface and are whipped up into the air by chopping waters and bursting air bubbles.
Mahowald’s model concluded that over the western U.S., 84 percent of microplastics were coming from roads, 5 percent from agricultural dust, and 11 percent from the oceans. Plastic is so lightweight that even chunks tens of micrometers across — the width of a human hair — can be lofted and blown great distances. The model revealed that some of this plastic was found thousands of miles from its presumed source. The smaller the pieces, the longer they can stay aloft.
While individual bits of plastic may stay in the air for only hours, days, or weeks, there’s so much being kicked up so consistently that there’s always some in the air: enough that plastic bits are now also found in human lungs. “We’re definitely breathing them right now,” says Mahowald.
Working out exactly how much plastic is in our skies is extremely difficult. Most of these studies are done by painstakingly teasing bits of plastic out of filters and examining them under a microscope to get an estimate of shape and color, then using spectroscopic techniques to confirm their source material. The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to identify. Studies can also be plagued by contamination: Walking into a lab wearing a fleece sweater, for example, can skew results with shedding plastic microfibers.
Nearly a dozen studies have shown airborne microplastic concentrations ranging from between 0.01 particles per cubic meter over the western Pacific Ocean to several thousand particles per cubic meter in London and Beijing. The cities showing higher levels are probably genuinely more polluted, says Revell, but it’s also true that those studies used a more-sensitive technique that could identify smaller bits of plastic (under 10 micrometers in size). The other studies would have missed such smaller pieces, which made up about half the plastic found in the London and Beijing studies.
Plastic bits are now found in human lungs. “We’re definitely breathing them right now,” says Mahowald.
Concentrations of airborne nanoplastics are understood even less. The numbers floating around today, says atmospheric chemist Zamin Kanji, Mitrano’s colleague at ETH Zürich, are likely to be “significantly underestimated.”
For now, the proportion of plastics to total airborne aerosols is tiny, so plastics aren’t contributing much to aerosol climate impacts, says Mahowald. Even in London and Beijing, plastic may account for only a millionth of the total aerosols. But plastic production, and the accumulation of plastic in the environment, keeps going up. Says Mahowald, “It’s only going to get worse.”
That’s especially true in less polluted regions — like over the oceans of the Southern Hemisphere, Kanji says. Since plastic can likely travel farther than other, denser aerosols, it could become a dominant airborne pollutant in more pristine areas. Brahney and Mahowald’s paper concludes that plastic currently makes up less than 1 percent of anthropogenic aerosols landing on the ground but they could, “alarmingly,” make up more than 50 percent of the aerosols landing on some parts of the ocean downwind from plastic sources.
Exactly how aerosols affect climate has been a critical sticking point in climate models, and many of the details are still unknown. Different aerosols can change the climate by either reflecting or absorbing sunlight, which can depend, in part, on their color. Black soot, for example, tends to have a warming effect, while salt reflects and cools. Aerosols can land on the ground and change the albedo, or reflectivity, of ice and snow.
Aerosols also affect cloud formation: Different bits and pieces can seed more and smaller droplets of water or ice, making for different types of clouds at different elevations that last for different amounts of time. High-altitude, thin, icy clouds tend to warm the Earth’s surface like a blanket, while low-altitude, bright and fluffy clouds tend to reflect sunlight and cool the Earth.
Though tiny, aerosols have an oversized influence on climate. The murk of anthropogenic aerosols in the sky has, overall, had a dramatic cooling effect since the Industrial Revolution (without them, global warming would be 30 to 50 percent greater than it is today). And they have more sway on extreme weather than greenhouse gases do: A world warmed by removing aerosols would have more floods and droughts, for example, than a world warmed the same amount by CO2.
Revell and her colleagues took a stab at trying to model how microplastics might affect temperature by either reflecting or absorbing sunlight, a calculation of what’s known as “radiative forcing.” For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that plastic is always clear, even though that’s not true (and darker material tends to absorb more sunlight), and that the global concentration is uniformly one particle per cubic meter, which is on the order of 1,000 times lower than concentrations measured in, say, London.
With those assumptions, Revell found that plastic’s direct impact on radiative forcing is “so small as to be insignificant.” But, importantly, if concentrations reach 100 particles per cubic meter (which they already have in many spots), plastics could have about the same magnitude of radiative forcing as some aerosols already included in Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change assessments. In other words, plastics become noteworthy. But whether they would warm, or cool, the Earth is unknown.
Though tiny, aerosols have an oversized influence on climate.
Aerosols often have a greater impact on the climate through their influence on clouds. Pristine plastic beads, Kanji notes, repel water and so are unlikely to affect clouds. But plastic can “age” in a matter of hours, says Kanji, during its transit to the sky: It can be abraded, or it can accumulate salt from the ocean and other chemicals from the atmosphere, all of which can make the particles more water-loving. Plastic pieces can also contain nooks and crannies, which aid in the formation of ice.
In the lab, Kanji’s student Omar Girlanda has run preliminary tests showing that under such battered conditions, plastic pieces can be potent cloudmakers. “Some of them are as good as mineral dust particles,” says Kanji, “which is the most well-known, effective ice nucleus out there.”
Kanji says skies heavily polluted with plastic will probably make both more high-altitude ice clouds, which tend to warm the Earth’s surface, and more low-altitude water clouds, which tend to cool the Earth. Which effect will dominate is unknown. “It doesn’t make sense to model it at the moment, given the poor estimates we have of [atmospheric] plastic,” says Kanji. Plastic could also affect precipitation patterns: In general, Kanji says, clouds that are more polluted tend to last longer before bursting into rain than do less polluted clouds, and then they rain more heavily.
Revell and her colleagues are now whittling down the assumptions in their paper, working out more detailed calculations for more realistic estimates of plastic concentrations, colors, and sizes. “All we know is that the problem is not going to go away anytime soon,” she says. “These plastics are incredibly long lived. They’re breaking down, and they’re going to be forming new microplastics for centuries. We just don’t know how big the problem is that we’ve committed ourselves to.”
Nicola Jones is a freelance journalist based in Pemberton, British Columbia. Her work can be found in Nature, Scientific American, Globe and Mail, and New Scientist.
Some things can’t be said easily in polite company. They cause offence or stir up intense anxiety. Where one might expect a conversation, what actually occurs is what the sociologist Eviator Zerubavel calls a ‘socially constructed silence.’
In his book Don’t Even Think About It,George Marshall argues that after the fiasco of COP 15 at Copenhagen and ‘Climategate’—when certain sections of the press claimed (wrongly as it turned out) that leaked emails of researchers at the University of East Anglia showed that data had been manipulated—climate change became a taboo subject among most politicians, another socially constructed silence with disastrous implications for the future of climate action.
In 2013-14 we carried out interviews with leading UK climate scientists and communicators to explore how they managed the ethical and emotional challenges of their work. While the shadow of Climategate still hung over the scientific community, our analysis drew us to the conclusion that the silence Marshall spoke about went deeper than a reaction to these specific events.
Instead, a picture emerged of a community which still identified strongly with an idealised picture of scientific rationality, in which the job of scientists is to get on with their research quietly and dispassionately. As a consequence, this community is profoundly uncomfortable with the storm of political controversy that climate research is now attracting.
The scientists we spoke to were among a minority who had become engaged with policy makers, the media and the general public about their work. A number of them described how other colleagues would bury themselves in the excitement and rewards of research, denying that they had any responsibility beyond developing models or crunching the numbers. As one researcher put it, “so many scientists just want to do their research and as soon as it has some relevance, or policy implications, or a journalist is interested in their research, they are uncomfortable.”
We began to see how for many researchers, this idealised picture of scientific practice might also offer protection at an unconscious level from the emotional turbulence aroused by the politicisation of climate change.
In her classic study of the ‘stiff upper lip’ culture of nursing in the UK in the 1950s, the psychoanalyst and social researcher Isobel Menzies Lyth developed the idea of ‘social defences against anxiety,’ and it seems very relevant here. A social defence is an organised but unconscious way of managing the anxieties that are inherent in certain occupational roles. For example, the practice of what was then called the ‘task list’ system fragmented nursing into a number of routines, each one executed by a different person—hence the ‘bed pan nurse’, the ‘catheter nurse’ and so on.
Ostensibly, this was done to generate maximum efficiency, but it also protected nurses from the emotions that were aroused by any real human involvement with patients, including anxiety, something that was deemed unprofessional by the nursing culture of the time. Like climate scientists, nurses were meant to be objective and dispassionate. But this idealised notion of the professional nurse led to the impoverishment of patient care, and meant that the most emotionally mature nurses were the least likely to complete their training.
While it’s clear that social defences such as hyper-rationality and specialisation enable climate scientists to get on with their work relatively undisturbed by public anxieties, this approach also generates important problems. There’s a danger that these defences eventually break down and anxiety re-emerges, leaving individuals not only defenceless but with the additional burden of shame and personal inadequacy for not maintaining that stiff upper lip. Stress and burnout may then follow.
Although no systematic research has been undertaken in this area, there is anecdotal evidence of such burnout in a number of magazine articles like those by Madeleine Thomas and Faith Kearns, in which climate scientists speak out about the distress that they or others have experienced, their depression at their findings, and their dismay at the lack of public and policy response.
Even if social defences are successful and anxiety is mitigated, this very success can have unintended consequences. By treating scientific findings as abstracted knowledge without any personal meaning, climate researchers have been slow to take responsibility for their own carbon footprints, thus running the risk of being exposed for hypocrisy by the denialist lobby. One research leader candidly reflected on this failure: “Oh yeah and the other thing [that’s] very, very important I think is that we ought to change the way we do research so we’re sustainable in the research environment, which we’re not now because we fly everywhere for conferences and things.”
The same defences also contribute to the resistance of most climate scientists to participation in public engagement or intervention in the policy arena, leaving these tasks to a minority who are attacked by the media and even by their own colleagues. One of our interviewees who has played a major role in such engagement recalled being criticised by colleagues for “prostituting science” by exaggerating results in order to make them “look sexy.”“You know we’re all on the same side,” she continued, “why are we shooting arrows at each other, it is ridiculous.”
The social defences of logic, reason and careful debate were of little use to the scientific community in these cases, and their failure probably contributed to internal conflicts and disagreements when anxiety could no longer be contained—so they found expression in bitter arguments instead. This in turn makes those that do engage with the public sphere excessively cautious, which encourages collusion with policy makers who are reluctant to embrace the radical changes that are needed.
As one scientist put it when discussing the goal agreed at the Paris climate conference of limiting global warming to no more than 2°C: “There is a mentality in [the] group that speaks to policy makers that there are some taboo topics that you cannot talk about. For instance the two degree target on climate change…Well the emissions are going up like this (the scientist points upwards at a 45 degree angle), so two degrees at the moment seems completely unrealistic. But you’re not allowed to say this.”
Worse still, the minority of scientists who are tempted to break the silence on climate change run the risk of being seen as whistleblowers by their colleagues. Another research leader suggested that—in private—some of the most senior figures in the field believe that the world is heading for a rise in temperature closer to six degrees than two.
“So repeatedly I’ve heard from researchers, academics, senior policy makers, government chief scientists, [that] they can’t say these things publicly,” he told us, “I’m sort of deafened, deafened by the silence of most people who work in the area that we work in, in that they will not criticise when there are often evidently very political assumptions that underpin some of the analysis that comes out.”
It seems that the idea of a ‘socially constructed silence’ may well apply to crucial aspects of the interface between climate scientists and policy makers. If this is the case then the implications are very serious. Despite the hope that COP 21 has generated, many people are still sceptical about whether the rhetoric of Paris will be translated into effective action.
If climate change work is stuck at the level of ‘symbolic policy making’—a set of practices designed to make it look as though political elites are doing something while actually doing nothing—then it becomes all the more important for the scientific community to find ways of abandoning the social defences we’ve described and speak out as a whole, rather than leaving the task to a beleaguered and much-criticised minority.
Researchers have zeroed in on nine sites that could describe a new geological time, marked by pollution and other signs of human activity.
McKenzie Prillaman
13 December 2022
Geologists could soon decide which spot on Earth marks the first clear evidence of the Anthropocene — which many of them think is a new geological epoch that began when humans started altering the planet with various forms of industrial and radioactive materials in the 1950s. They have so far whittled their choices down to nine candidate sites worldwide (see ‘Defining the Anthropocene’), each being considered for how reliably its layers of mud, ice or other matter tell the story of people’s influence on a timeline that extends billions of years into the past.
If the nearly two dozen voting members of the Anthropocene Working Group (AWG), a committee of scientists formed by the International Commission on Stratigraphy (ICS), agree on a site, the decision could usher in the end of the roughly 12,000-year-old Holocene epoch. And it would officially acknowledge that humans have had a profound influence on Earth.
Geologists could soon decide which spot on Earth marks the first clear evidence of the Anthropocene — which many of them think is a new geological epoch that began when humans started altering the planet with various forms of industrial and radioactive materials in the 1950s. They have so far whittled their choices down to nine candidate sites worldwide (see ‘Defining the Anthropocene’), each being considered for how reliably its layers of mud, ice or other matter tell the story of people’s influence on a timeline that extends billions of years into the past.Humans versus Earth: the quest to define the Anthropocene
“We’re pointing to something in the rock record that shows we’ve changed the planet,” says Kristine DeLong, a palaeoclimatologist at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge who studies the West Flower Garden Bank, a candidate site in the Gulf of Mexico.
The Anthropocene site will join 79 others that physically define stages of Earth’s geological timescale — that is, if it’s approved. Even if the AWG agrees on a final candidate, several other committees of geologists must vote on the selection before it is made official. And not all scientists agree that it should be.
Here, Nature examines what it will take to formally define the Anthropocene epoch.
Why do some geologists want an Anthropocene marker?
Scientists coined the term Anthropocene in 2000, and researchers from several fields now use it informally to refer to the current geological time interval, in which human activity is driving Earth’s conditions and processes. Formalizing the Anthropocene would unite efforts to study people’s influence on Earth’s systems, in fields including climatology and geology, researchers say. Transitioning to a new epoch might also coax policymakers to take into account the impact of humans on the environment during decision-making.
Coral grows on an oil rig in Flower Garden Banks National Marine Sanctuary, in the Gulf of Mexico.Credit: Flip Nicklin/Minden Pictures/Alamy
“It’s a label,” says Colin Waters, who chairs the AWG and is a geologist at the University of Leicester, UK. “It’s a great way of summarizing a lot of concepts into one word.”
Mentioning the Jurassic period, for instance, helps scientists to picture plants and animals that were alive during that time, he says. “The Anthropocene represents an umbrella for all of these different changes that humans have made to the planet,” he adds.
How do scientists usually choose sites that define the geological timeline?
Typically, researchers will agree that a specific change in Earth’s geology must be captured in the official timeline. The ICS will then determine which set of rock layers, called strata, best illustrates that change, and it will choose which layer marks its lower boundary. This is called the Global Stratotype Section and Point (GSSP), and it is defined by a signal, such as the first appearance of a fossil species, trapped in the rock, mud or other material. One location is chosen to represent the boundary, and researchers mark this site physically with a golden spike, to commemorate it.
But the Anthropocene has posed problems. Geologists want to capture it in the timeline, but its beginning isn’t obvious in Earth’s strata, and signs of human activity have never before been part of the defining process. The AWG was established in 2009 to explore whether the Anthropocene should enter the geological timescale and, if so, how to define its start.
“We were starting from scratch,” says Jan Zalasiewicz, a geologist at the University of Leicester who formerly chaired the AWG and remains a voting member. “We had a vague idea about what it might be, [but] we didn’t know what kind of hard evidence would go into it.”
Years of debate among the group’s multidisciplinary members led them to identify a host of signals — radioactive isotopes from nuclear-bomb tests, ash from fossil-fuel combustion, microplastics, pesticides — that would be trapped in the strata of an Anthropocene-defining site. These began to appear in the early 1950s, when a booming human population started consuming materials and creating new ones faster than ever.
This golden spike in the Flinders Ranges of South Australia was approved by geologists in 2004, to mark strata exemplifying the Ediacaran period.Credit: James St. John (CC BY 2.0)
During a review that took place a few months ago, the AWG narrowed its list from 12 to 9 candidate sites, tossing out certain locations because their layers weren’t ideal. Among the sites remaining is Crawford Lake in Ontario, Canada, which is described as a sinkhole by Francine McCarthy, a geologist at Brock University in St Catharines, Canada, who studies the location. “The lake itself isn’t very big in area, but it’s very, very deep,” she says. Particles that fall into the lake settle at the bottom and accumulate into undisturbed layers.
Another site on the shortlist is West Flower Garden Bank. Corals here could become a living golden spike because they constantly build new exoskeletons that capture chemicals and particles from the water, DeLong says. “The skeleton has layers in it, kind of like tree rings,” she adds.
Why do some geologists oppose the Anthropocene as a new epoch?
“It misrepresents what we do” in the ICS, says Stanley Finney, a stratigrapher at California State University, Long Beach, and secretary-general for the International Union of Geological Sciences (IUGS). The AWG is working backwards, Finney says: normally, geologists identify strata that should enter the geological timescale before considering a golden spike; in this case, they’re seeking out the lower boundary of an undefined set of geological layers.Involve social scientists in defining the Anthropocene
Lucy Edwards, a palaeontologist who retired in 2008 from the Florence Bascom Geoscience Center in Reston, Virginia, agrees. For her, the strata that might define the Anthropocene do not yet exist because the proposed epoch is so young. “There is no geologic record of tomorrow,” she says.
Edwards, Finney and other researchers have instead proposed calling the Anthropocene a geological ‘event’, a flexible term that can stretch in time, depending on human impact. “It’s all-encompassing,” Edwards says.
Zalasiewicz disagrees. “The word ‘event’ has been used and stretched to mean all kinds of things,” he says. “So simply calling something an event doesn’t give it any wider meaning.”
What happens next?
In a recent Perspective article in Science, Waters and AWG secretary Simon Turner at University College London wrote that the committee would vote to choose a single site by the end of this year1. But 60% of the group’s voting members must agree on a final candidate — and, with several sites under consideration, Waters isn’t sure that a consensus can be reached anytime soon. If no clear winner emerges this month, more voting will be needed to narrow the candidate list, delaying a decision possibly until May 2023.Anthropocene now: influential panel votes to recognize Earth’s new epoch
And that’s not the end of the process. After selecting a finalist, the AWG will present its findings to the ICS’s Subcommission on Quaternary Stratigraphy. Favourable votes from this group would move the proposal to another ICS committee, and subsequent approval would push it to the final stage: ratification by the IUGS.
But the motion could fail at any of those points. And if it does, the AWG will have to revamp its proposal before it can try again — and possibly nominate a new golden-spike site.
Regardless of the outcome, Zalasiewicz thinks that the AWG’s work to define the Anthropocene has been useful. What everybody wants to know is how humans are changing the planet’s geology, he says. “That is the underlying reality that we’re trying to describe.”
by Herman Daly (posthumously) — Introduction by Brian Czech
Given the recent, tragic passing of Herman Daly, we allocate this week’s Steady State Herald to the wise words of Daly himself. From 2010-2018, Herman was a regular contributor to The Daly News, CASSE’s blog before the Herald was launched. (Herman’s modesty almost prevented us from naming the blog after him, but he was outnumbered by CASSE staff and board, and The Daly News it was!)
Best of The Daly News was the first book published by the Steady State Press, CASSE’s nascent imprint. Herman Daly was happy with the production, which also became the first membership gift. We’re sure you’ll be happy with the distillation below. After all, we might arguably call these articles “the best of the Best of The Daly News.”
Well-being should be counted in net terms, that is to say we should consider not only the accumulated stock of wealth but also that of “illth;” and not only the annual flow of goods but also that of “bads.” The fact that we have to stretch English usage to find words like illth and bads to name the negative consequences of production that should be subtracted from the positive consequences is indicative of our having ignored the realities for which these words are the necessary names. Bads and illth consist of things like nuclear wastes, the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico, biodiversity loss, climate change from excess greenhouse gas emissions, depleted mines, eroded topsoil, dry wells, exhausting and dangerous labor, congestion, etc. We are indebted to John Ruskin for the word “illth,” and to an anonymous economist, perhaps Kenneth Boulding, for the word “bads.”
In the empty world of the past, these concepts and the names for them were not needed because the economy was so small relative to the containing natural world that our production did not incur any significant opportunity cost of displaced nature. We now live in a full world, full of us and our stuff, and such costs must be counted and netted out against the benefits of growth. Otherwise we might end up with extra bads outweighing extra goods and increases in illth greater than the increases in wealth. What used to be economic growth could become uneconomic growth—that is, growth in production for which marginal costs are greater than marginal benefits, growth that in reality makes us poorer, not richer. No one is against being richer. The question is, does more growth really make us richer, or has it started to make us poorer?
I suspect it is now making us poorer, at least in some high-GDP countries, and we have not recognized it. Indeed, how could we when our national accounting measures only “economic activity”? Activity is not separated into costs and benefits. Everything is added in GDP, nothing subtracted. The reason that bads and illth, inevitable joint products with goods and wealth, are not counted, even when no longer negligible in the full world, is that obviously no one wants to buy them, so there is no market for them, hence no price by which to value them. But it is worse: These bads are real and people are very willing to buy the anti-bads that protect them from the bads. For example, pollution is an unpriced, uncounted bad, but pollution cleanup is an anti-bad which is accounted as a good. Pollution cleanup has a price, and we willingly pay it up to a point and add it to GDP—but without having subtracted the negative value of the pollution itself that made the cleanup necessary. Such asymmetric accounting hides more than it reveals.
In addition to asymmetric accounting of anti-bads, we count natural capital depletion as if it were income, further misleading ourselves. If we cut down all the trees this year, catch all the fish, burn all the oil and coal, etc., then GDP counts all that as this year’s income. But true income is defined (after the British economist Sir John Hicks) as the maximum that a community can consume this year and still produce and consume the same amount next year. In other words, it entails maximizing production while maintaining intact future capacity to produce. Nor is it only depletion of natural capital that is falsely counted as income; failure to maintain and replace depreciation of man-made capital, such as roads and bridges, has the same effect. Much of what we count in GDP is capital consumption and anti-bads.
As argued above, one reason that growth may be uneconomic is that we discover that its neglected costs are greater than we thought. Another reason is that we discover that the extra benefits of growth are less than we thought. This second reason has been emphasized in the studies of self-evaluated happiness, which show that beyond a threshold annual income of some $20-25,000, further growth does not increase happiness. Happiness, beyond this threshold, is overwhelmingly a function of the quality of our relationships in community by which our very identity is constituted, rather than the quantity of goods consumed. A relative increase in one’s income still yields extra individual happiness, but aggregate growth is powerless to increase everyone’s relative income. Growth in pursuit of relative income is like an arms race in which one party’s advance cancels that of the other. It’s like everyone standing and craning their neck in a football stadium while having no better view than if everyone had remained comfortably seated.
As aggregate growth beyond sufficiency loses its power to increase welfare, it increases its power to produce illth. This is because to maintain the same rate of growth, ever more matter and energy has to be mined and processed through the economy, resulting in more depletion, more waste, and requiring the use of ever more powerful and violent technologies to mine the ever leaner and less accessible deposits. Petroleum from an easily accessible well in East Texas costs less labor and capital to extract, and, therefore, directly adds less to GDP, than petroleum from an inaccessible well a mile under the Gulf of Mexico. The extra labor and capital spent to extract a barrel in the Gulf of Mexico is not a good or an addition to wealth—it is more like an anti-bad made necessary by the bad of depletion, the loss of a natural subsidy to the economy. In a full-employment economy, the extra labor and capital going to petroleum extraction would be taken from other sectors, so aggregate real GDP would likely fall. But the petroleum sector would increase its contribution to GDP as nature’s subsidy to it diminished. We would be tempted to regard it as more, rather than less, productive.
The next time some economist or politician tells you we must do everything we can to grow (in order to fight poverty, win wars, colonize space, cure cancer, whatever…), remind him or her that when something grows it gets bigger! Ask him how big he thinks the economy is now, relative to the ecosphere, and how big he thinks it should be. And what makes him think that growth is still causing wealth to increase faster than illth? How does he know that we have not already entered the era of uneconomic growth? And if we have, then is not the solution to poverty to be found in sharing now, rather than in the empty promise of growth in the future?
There may well be a better name than “steady state economy,” but both the classical economists (especially John Stuart Mill) and the past few decades of discussion, not to mention CASSE’s good work, have given considerable currency to “steady state economy” both as concept and name. Also, both the name and concept of a “steady state” are independently familiar to demographers, population biologists, and physicists. The classical economists used the term “stationary state” but meant by it exactly what we mean by steady state economy; briefly, a constant population and stock of physical wealth. We have added the condition that these stocks should be maintained constant by a low rate of throughput (of matter and energy), one that is well within the regenerative and assimilative capacities of the ecosystem. Any new name for this idea should be sufficiently better to compensate for losing the advantages of historical continuity and interdisciplinary familiarity. Also, “steady state economy” conveys the recognition of biophysical constraints and the intention to live within them economically, which is exactly why it can’t help evoking some initial negative reaction in a growth-dominated world. There is an honesty and forthright clarity about the term “steady state economy” that should not be sacrificed to the short-term political appeal of vagueness.
Fitting the name (and a logo) to the named.
A confusion arises with neoclassical growth economists’ use of the term “steady-state growth” to refer to the case where labor and capital grow at the same rate, thus maintaining a constant ratio of labor to capital, even though both absolute magnitudes are growing. This should have been called “proportional growth,” or perhaps “steady growth.” The term “steady-state growth” is inept because growth is a process, not a state, not even a state of dynamic equilibrium.
Having made my terminological preference clear, I should add that there is nothing wrong with other people using various preferred synonyms, as long as we all mean basically the same thing. Steady state, stationary state, dynamic equilibrium, microdynamic-macrostatic economy, development without growth, degrowth, post-growth economy, economy of permanence, “new” economy, “mature” economy…these are all in use already, including by me at times. I have learned that English usage evolves quite independently of me, although like others I keep trying to “improve” it for both clarity and rhetorical advantage. If some other term catches on and becomes dominant then so be it, as long as it denotes the reality we agree on. Let a thousand synonyms bloom and linguistic natural selection will go to work. Also, it is good to remind sister organizations that their favorite term, when actually defined, is usually a close synonym to steady state economy. If it is not, then we have a difference of substance rather than of terminology.
Out of France now comes the “degrowth” (décroissance) movement. This arises from the recognition that the present scale of the economy is too large to be maintained in a steady state—its required throughput exceeds the regenerative and assimilative capacities of the ecosystem of which it is a part. This is almost certainly true. Nevertheless “degrowth,” just like growth, is a temporary process for reaching an optimal or at least sustainable scale that we then should strive to maintain in a steady state.
Some say it is senseless to advocate a steady state unless we first have attained, or can at least specify, the optimal level at which to remain stationary. On the contrary, it is useless to know the optimum unless we first know how to live in a steady state. Otherwise knowing the optimum level will just allow us to wave goodbye to it as we grow beyond it, or as we “degrow” below it.
Optimal level is one thing; optimal growth rate is something else. Once we have reached the optimal level then the optimal growth rate is zero. If we are below the optimal level the temporary optimal growth rate is at least known to be positive; if we are above the optimal level we at least know that the temporary growth rate should be negative. But the first order of business is to recognize the long-run necessity of the steady state and to stop positive growth. Once we have done that, then we can worry about how to “degrow” to a more sustainable level, and how fast.
There is really no conflict between the steady state economy and “degrowth” because no one advocates negative growth as a permanent process; and no one advocates trying to maintain a steady state at the unsustainable present scale of population and consumption. But many people do advocate continuing positive growth beyond the present excessive scale, and they are the ones in control and who need to be confronted by a united opposition!
My parents were children during World War I, the so-called “war to end all wars.” I was a child during WWII, an adolescent during the Korean War, and except for a physical disability would likely have been drafted to fight in the Vietnam War. Then came Afghanistan, Iraq, the continuous Arab-Israeli conflict, ISIS, Ukraine, Syria, etc. Now as a senior citizen, I see that war has metastasized into terrorism. It is hard to conceive of a country at war, or threatened by terrorism, moving to a steady state economy.
Peace is necessary for real progress, including progress toward a steady state economy. While peace should be our priority, might it nevertheless be the case that working toward a steady state economy would further the goal of peace? Might growth be a major cause of war, and the steady state a necessity for eliminating that cause? I think this is so.
Growth goals beyond the optimum march inevitably toward death and destruction. (CC BY 2.0,manhhai)
More people require more space (lebensraum) and more resources. More things per person also require more space and more resources. Recently I learned that the word “rival” derives from the same root as “river.” People who get their water from the same river are rivals, at least when there are too many of them, each drawing too much.
For a while, the resource demands of growth can be met from within national borders. Then there is pressure to exploit or appropriate the global commons. Then comes the peaceful penetration of other nations’ ecological space by trade. The uneven geographic distribution of resources (petroleum, fertile soil, water) causes specialization among nations and interdependence along with trade. Are interdependent nations more or less likely to go to war? That has been argued both ways, but when one growing nation has what another thinks it absolutely needs for its growth, conflict easily displaces trade. As interdependence becomes more acute, then trade becomes less voluntary and more like an offer you can’t refuse. Unless trade is voluntary, it is not likely to be mutually beneficial. Top-down global economic integration replaces trade among interdependent national economies. We have been told on highest authority that because the American way of life requires foreign oil, we will have it one way or another.
International “free trade pacts” (NAFTA, TPP, TAFTA) are supposed to increase global GDP, thereby making us all richer and effectively expanding the size of the earth and easing conflict. These secretly negotiated agreements among the elites are designed to benefit private global corporations, often at the expense of the public good of nations. Some think that strengthening global corporations by erasing national boundaries will reduce the likelihood of war. More likely we will just shift to feudal corporate wars in a post-national global commons, with corporate fiefdoms effectively buying national governments and their armies, supplemented by already existing private mercenaries.
It is hard to imagine a steady state economy without peace; it is hard to imagine peace in a full world without a steady state economy. Those who work for peace are promoting the steady state, and those who work for a steady state are promoting peace. This implicit alliance needs to be made explicit. Contrary to popular belief, growth in a finite and full world is not the path to peace, but to further conflict. It is an illusion to think that we can buy peace with growth. The growth economy and warfare are now natural allies. It is time for peacemakers and steady staters to recognize their natural alliance.
It would be naïve, however, to think that growth in the face of environmental limits is the only cause of war. Evil ideologies, religious conflict, and “clash of civilizations” also cause wars. National defense is necessary, but uneconomic growth does not make our country stronger. The secular West has a hard time understanding that religious conviction can motivate people to kill and die for their beliefs. Modern devotion to the Secular God of Growth, who promises heaven on earth, has itself become a fanatical religion that inspires violence as much as any ancient Moloch. The Second Commandment, forbidding the worship of false gods (idolatry) is not outdated. Our modern idols are new versions of Mammon and Mars.
Brian Czech is CASSE’s executive director. Herman Daly (1938-2022) was a long-time CASSE board member and economist emeritus.
Em entrevista exclusiva a SUMAÚMA, o líder político Davi Kopenawa conta de sua esperança de que Lula tenha se tornado mais sábio para ser capaz de proteger a Amazônia: “Antes, ele errou. Não quero que nos engane novamente”
O nome de Davi Kopenawa foi anunciado para compor a equipe de transição que discutirá a criação do Ministério dos Povos Originários, promessa de campanha do presidente eleito Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. Grande liderança política dos Yanomami, que ocupam há milênios a floresta amazônica entre o Brasil e a Venezuela, Davi é uma referências dos povos originários no planeta. Em sua trajetória de enfrentamento dos invasores de suas terras, não há notícia de que tenha jamais se corrompido. Nem por riqueza material nem por vaidade, mal que acomete alguns líderes ao penetrar no insidioso mundo dos brancos – ou napëpë, na língua Yanomam, palavra traduzida também como “inimigo”. Davi se manteve fiel a sua ancestralidade, aos seus mais velhos, à cosmopolítica xamânica, o que faz dele uma árvore muito sólida no complexo mundo que une numa palavra impingida pelos colonizadores – “indígenas” – mais de 300 povos no Brasil com culturas muito diversas. O xamã chega à equipe de transição com esperanças, mas também com memória: “Antes, Lula errou. Ele está mais velho, talvez tenha ficado mais sábio. Talvez Lula tenha aberto o seu pensamento, mas ninguém sabe o que ele esconde em seu coração. Não quero que nos engane novamente”.
Radical no seu compromisso com a palavra, que na política que aprendeu não pode ser sacrificada em nome de interesses, a verdade para Davi Kopenawa é inegociável. Dessa retidão que não admite uma “boca que fala mentiras” vêm as respostas do intelectual da Amazônia nesta entrevista feita na língua Yanomam pela indigenista e antropóloga Ana Maria Machado (e traduzida por ela) a pedido de SUMAÚMA. Autor, com o antropólogo francês Bruce Albert, de A queda do céu (Companhia das Letras, 2015), livro que representa uma inflexão na antropologia, Davi sabe que fala para aqueles que chama de “povo da mercadoria”. Observador atento dos debates climáticos que frequenta pelos palcos do mundo, ele acredita que Lula só irá se mover se houver forte pressão e financiamento da proteção da Amazônia pelos países monetariamente mais ricos, em especial os europeus.
Davi Kopenawa é também um competente tradutor de mundos. Consegue traduzir o universo dos brancos para os Yanomami e também traz até nós, nesta entrevista, recados que lhes são passados pelos xapiripë [espíritos auxiliares dos xamãs]. Traduz ainda o pedido de socorro de uma velha liderança, que não conhece o mundo dos brancos para além do horror da destruição do garimpo que devora toda vida em sua aldeia. Com o território invadido por milhares de garimpeiros, hoje o contexto é pior do que qualquer outro na trajetória de brutalidades vivida pelos Yanomami desde o primeiro contato com os brancos, na primeira metade do século 20: há envolvimento do crime organizado, com armas pesadas, e aliciamento dos indígenas mais jovens.
O líder Yanomami espera que a expulsão dos invasores do território de seu povo seja o primeiro ato do presidente após a posse, em 1º de janeiro. Para que a vitória de Lula se tornasse possível em uma disputa tão apertada com o extremista de direita Jair Bolsonaro, ele conta ter sido necessário um esforço conjunto dos xamãs em 30 de outubro, data do segundo turno da eleição. Faz ainda um apelo aos leitores, para que deixem de comprar ouro, esse ouro com sangue Yanomami e também de outros povos originários, esse ouro que destrói a verdadeira riqueza, a floresta, para colocar valor no metal convertido em mercadoria ordinária.
A seguir, a palavra de Davi Kopenawa.
ANA MARIA MACHADO: Agora que Lula venceu a eleição, o que você espera do novo presidente?
DAVI KOPENAWA: Eu vou explicar para os napëpë [napë = branco, inimigo, estrangeiro + pë = plural] o que nós, da comunidade do Watorikɨ, estamos pensando. Nós ficamos sabendo que aquele que já foi presidente voltará ao poder, então dissemos assim: “Dessa vez, ele talvez tenha se tornado mais sábio. Antes, ele errou, mas agora talvez esteja pensando corretamente, e por isso quero que ele se torne um presidente de verdade. Não quero que nos engane novamente. Ele vai voltar a ser o presidente e ficará de fato atento às nossas terras. Ele irá olhar para nós e pensar sobre nós. Se ele nos defender, ficaremos contentes com ele”.
O que está acontecendo hoje na Terra Indígena Yanomami que Lula precisa resolver com mais urgência?
Hoje, a fala dos velhos, dos líderes Yanomami, é cheia de sofrimento. Apenas eu frequento a cidade, e por isso consigo espalhar essas palavras. Tudo está muito ruim em nossas terras, os garimpeiros levam o horror. Agora que Lula virou presidente, em primeiro lugar precisa expulsá-los, retirá-los de verdade. Eu não estou dizendo isso sem razão, mas sim porque estamos vivendo o caos. E por quê? Porque eles assorearam os rios, porque poluem as águas e porque as águas se tornaram muito turvas nos lugares onde só tem um rio correndo. Eles estragaram as cabeceiras dos rios que nascem em nossas serras. Aqueles de nós que vivem perto do garimpo estão sofrendo, passando fome. Os garimpeiros não param de chegar. Nós [Yanomami] conversamos entre os diferentes lugares da nossa terra, temos a radiofonia para nos comunicar. Um parente mais velho da região do Xitei, que me trata como filho, disse que a situação ali está calamitosa. Ele disse que as pessoas mais velhas como ele estão cansadas de ver os garimpeiros sempre chegando, sempre trabalhando nas águas, sempre sujando as águas. E não é só isso: estão muito bravos por causa das armas. Aqueles Yanomami mais ignorantes disseram que os garimpeiros poderiam chegar lá levando armas. Porém, aquelas pessoas que destroem a floresta têm armas pesadas. Essas armas não são como as flechas, os garimpeiros distribuem revólveres. Eles tratam os mais novos como se fossem lideranças, iludem os Yanomami mais jovens dizendo: “Pegue uma arma! Se você tiver uma arma, será nosso amigo. Se você ficar contra nós, não irá receber uma arma”. Ao falarem assim com os jovens, aumentaram a quantidade de armas entre os Yanomami, e os garimpeiros fazem que nos matemos entre nós. Esse meu pai lá do Xitei explicou: “Se não estivéssemos nos matando entre nós, eu não precisaria estar aqui explicando. Meu filho, vá e diga isso para aquele que se tornou o líder [presidente]. Que afaste os garimpeiros que trabalham em nossa terra. Diga isso a ele. Você conhece os líderes dos napëpë, cobre que façam isso, que acabem com essas pessoas que estão em nossas terras, que as levem para longe”. Foi isso que meu pai me disse, e estou passando para a frente. É por tudo isso que eu estou reivindicando: Lula, não comece trabalhando nas terras dos brancos primeiro. Antes, retire os garimpeiros da nossa terra. Agora, Lula, você se tornou o presidente e, no mês de janeiro, vai se sentar no Palácio do Planalto. Nesse dia, comece a mandar os garimpeiros embora.
Era isso que eu queria dizer para vocês, brancos. E não estou dizendo isso à toa. Não quero ficar aqui sofrendo enquanto tiram minha imagem [filmam], o que estou reivindicando é verdadeiro, a terra adoecida está se espalhando por todos os cantos. É porque tem malária demais e porque o descontrole da malária chegou com o garimpo, é porque as nossas mulheres estão sofrendo demais, é porque nos lugares das terras altas onde não tem mais caça o espírito da fome, Ohinari, se aproximou. Já que eu conheço o novo presidente, vou cobrar, dizendo: “Quando você discursou, eu o escutei. Todos nós guardamos suas palavras em nossos ouvidos. Nós indígenas e também os napëpë, todos ouvimos suas palavras pelo celular. Não queremos ficar com nosso pensamento em sofrimento caso você esteja mentindo. Que seja verdade o que você disse em reunião, que caso se tornasse presidente novamente iria proteger os povos indígenas, que estão sofrendo no Brasil. Eu não quero que continuem destruindo a floresta que vocês brancos chamam de Amazônia. Portanto, Lula, é isso que estou te cobrando, que você faça isso primeiro”.
É verdade. Lula disse que não irá aceitar garimpo em terra indígena. Mas, nos anos 1990, quando seus parentes mais velhos morreram na primeira invasão garimpeira [1986-1993], quando aconteceu a operação Selva Livre, que tirou 40 mil garimpeiros, naquele tempo não havia crime organizado e milícias envolvidos nem os jovens Yanomami eram aliciados como agora. Hoje em dia o tráfico de drogas está misturado ali, assim como pessoas que fugiram da prisão. Eles têm armas pesadas e bombas. Será que não vai ser mais difícil tirar os garimpeiros hoje? Será que os jovens Yanomami que estão envolvidos vão opor alguma resistência? Apesar de termos Lula agora no governo, será possível acabar com o garimpo?
É verdade que hoje em dia a situação está muito ruim, tem muitas coisas misturadas. Os napëpë têm trazido drogas, cachaça e até cocaína. Com tudo isso misturado, os garimpeiros ficam alterados. Eles trabalham drogados. Os homens cheiram cocaína e ficam sentindo tesão pelas nossas mulheres. Como eles não vêm acompanhados de suas mulheres, eles cheiram cocaína e o pensamento deles fica alterado, eles ficam destemidos e pensam assim: “Já que eu estou drogado, estou sem medo. Já que estou sem medo, eu chamo as mulheres Yanomami, como suas vaginas e faço filhos nelas”. Hoje em dia essas pessoas também têm metralhadoras, bombas, e os garimpeiros dizem: “Se quiserem nos expulsar, mesmo sendo a Polícia Federal, nós vamos matá-los”. Além disso, tem também o mercúrio usado para separar o ouro, que está no meio de tudo. Tudo isso é terrível. O presidente Lula vai mandá-los sair, mas talvez não o escutem. Eu também fico pensando sobre isso. Se o escutarem, todas as pessoas do Brasil e da Europa, aqueles outros que querem que ele mantenha a floresta amazônica em pé e saudável, para mim está certo se eles o mandarem cuidar da floresta e lhe derem dinheiro para que retire os garimpeiros. Se for criada uma frente mundial em que todos nós conversemos juntos, unindo as autoridades dos napëpë e nós, indígenas, então conseguiremos nos defender, pois nós, indígenas, já sabemos lutar. Essa não é a terra dos garimpeiros, e já que eles têm causado o horror em nossas terras, levando muita desgraça misturada, já que eles têm feito as crianças sofrerem, magras e desnutridas, já que o garimpo mata os Yanomami pelo mal das epidemias, pelo mal da fome nos rios Uraricoera, Mucajaí, nas cabeceiras do rio Catrimani, e também em Homoxi, Xitei, Parafuri e Parima, nós temos que lutar.
Mas, para curar a Terra-floresta, vocês precisam também baixar o preço do ouro, precisam cortar isso. Vocês, napëpë, que pedem ouro, que compram ouro, precisam parar. Vocês das lojas de ouro, precisam baixar o preço. Como o ouro é muito caro, os garimpeiros estão sempre invadindo minha terra. Você, mulher que entende nossa língua Yanomam, vai escrever e traduzir, e para aqueles que captam minha imagem, quando eu aparecer, quando vocês ouvirem minhas palavras, me levem a sério, concordem comigo, e digam: “Sim, é verdade! Nós erramos. Nós não sabemos respeitar. Até falamos em respeito, mas estamos enganando, nossas bocas não dizem a verdade”. Era isso que eu queria dizer a vocês.
Quando Lula se tornou presidente pela primeira vez, em 2003, ele mudou a regulação das ONGs, o que levou ao fim da Urihi-Saúde Yanomami. A Urihi fez um excelente trabalho de atendimento de saúde para os Yanomami [entre 1999 e 2004] e conseguiu erradicar a malária em sua terra. Hoje, estamos vendo a malária fora de controle. O que o governo deve fazer com relação à saúde indígena?
Foi o seguinte: no início, Lula errou. Ele não sabia pensar direito. E, por ter errado no início, aconteceu isso. Ele também fez [a Usina Hidrelétrica de] Belo Monte, e esse foi um grande erro. Estragou um grande rio sem razão. Também errou com a saúde indígena. Lula errou na saúde, no assunto de viver bem e saudável, e tudo enfraqueceu. Os remédios pararam de chegar, os funcionários napëpë que trabalham em nossas terras, como técnico de enfermagem, médico e dentista, passaram a trabalhar de forma precária, já que não enviavam material. Então eu sei um pouco sobre isso, mas escondo essas palavras. Quando Lula se tornar mesmo o presidente, eu quero falar de perto com ele. “Lula, você me conhece, você precisa melhorar a saúde indígena. Precisa limpar novamente a saúde indígena, fazer os técnicos e profissionais de saúde trabalharem de verdade”. No governo de Bolsonaro, são os políticos que escolhem os coordenadores de saúde; [com Lula] eu e os conselheiros locais [representantes de toda a Terra Indígena Yanomami] vamos sentar para indicar alguém que a gente conheça, que seja nosso amigo e que trabalhe bem com a gente, só assim a saúde vai melhorar. É isso que quero dizer a Lula. Já que a saúde é prioridade para podermos viver bem, para nossos filhos crescerem bem, e considerando que estamos em uma situação lastimável, vou reivindicar isso. O presidente Jair Bolsonaro acabou com a nossa saúde. Ele nos matou como se fôssemos peixes.
Lula disse que vai criar o Ministério dos Povos Originários. O que você pensa disso?
É verdade. Ele disse que faria isso caso se tornasse presidente. E, já que ele disse, agora temos mulheres indígenas jovens que possuem o conhecimento dos napëpë, sabem agir como napëpë. Existem também jovens que sabem agir como os napëpë, sabem usar as máquinas, os celulares. E, já que temos essas pessoas que sabem trabalhar assim, eu penso o seguinte: “Awei, presidente Lula, já que você disse com clareza, eu deixei isso fixado no meu pensamento”. Acho que a dra. Joenia [Wapichana] já tem experiência, pois ela trabalhou como deputada federal por 4 anos, ela já sabe lutar. Como ela é advogada, já sabe escutar os políticos, e por isso eu gostaria que Lula a indicasse para ministra. Se Joenia disser que deseja se tornar ministra dos Povos Originários, nós vamos apoiá-la, faremos ela assentar naquela cadeira. Ter uma mulher indígena assentada ali nos trará mais sabedoria. Temos outras, como Sônia Guajajara e Célia Xakriabá, que acabaram de se eleger deputadas. A dra. Joenia não foi eleita, por isso estou pensando nela, que é muito inteligente e já sabe lutar. Então, foi isso que os meus sonhos disseram, e por isso fiz aparecer essa ideia.
Nós, napëpë, somos o povo da mercadoria e estamos acabando com as florestas e com o planeta. Por isso o mundo está preocupado com a crise climática, e para contê-la é preciso conservar as florestas. Sabemos que vocês têm sabedoria para isso. Que recado você teria a dar sobre esse assunto?
Todos os napëpë ficam falando de proteger as florestas. Falam de mudanças climáticas, desmatamento, poluição dos rios, mercúrio, doenças, mineração. Assim, Lula atentou para essas questões. Outras pessoas, os europeus, falam sobre as mudanças climáticas, fazem reuniões. Mas as pessoas não resolvem isso, não resolveram nada. Esse termo, “mudanças climáticas”, para mim é outra coisa. Eu chamo mesmo de “vingança da Terra”, de “vingança do mundo”, é assim que eu digo. Os napëpë chamam de “mudanças climáticas”, mas nós, Yanomami, quando fazemos xamanismo, chamamos de “transformação do mundo, tornar o mundo ruim já que os napëpë causam a revolta da Terra”. Os napëpë incendeiam as árvores; a Terra-floresta está com raiva, está se vingando, está fazendo chover muito, ter grandes ondas de calor, em alguns lugares está faltando água e em outros está chovendo demais, e outros ainda estão frios. Foi pelo fato de as pessoas dizerem isso, por termos ficado falando sobre isso, que Lula abriu seu pensamento. Ou melhor: talvez tenha aberto seu pensamento. Nós não sabemos o que ele esconde em seu coração. O que eu escondo em meu coração e em meu pensamento, o que nós escondemos das pessoas, é um segredo. Por isso talvez Lula esteja ainda nos enganando. Se o pensamento dele estiver nos enganando, ele vai resolver os pequenos problemas, mas não os grandes. Mas se outros napëpë, aqueles que vivem na outra margem do oceano [Europa], se eles forem ajudar e oferecerem um grande financiamento, talvez o pensamento de Lula mude. É assim que eu penso. Lula não cresceu sozinho. O povo levantou as palavras de Lula, vocês fizeram ele assentar naquela cadeira [da presidência]. Hoje em dia ele está mais velho, talvez tenha se tornado mais sábio.
Davi, você me disse que vocês, xamãs, ajudaram Lula a se eleger. Conte como foi isso, por favor.
Nós, xamãs que vivemos no Watorikɨ e também os outros xamãs de outras casas, como o Maxokapi, eu os mandei fazer isso [xamanismo para apoiar Lula]. Nós ajudamos Lula, nós o levantamos: eu, Carlos, os xamãs mais jovens, Tenose, Valmir, Dinarte, Geremias, Pernaldo, Manoel. Lula ficou apoiado na hutukara [céu]. Então os xamãs pediram para eu dizer a Lula: “Awei! Você quase perdeu. Se os espíritos xapiripë [xapiri = espírito auxiliar dos xamãs + pë = plural] não tivessem chegado ali, você não teria se tornado presidente outra vez. Você não os viu, eles estavam no Watorikɨ, e no dia 30 chegaram [até você]. Já que eles conhecem Brasília, já que Davi conhece aquela terra, nós, xapiripë, também conhecemos, nós olhamos no mapa e, pelo fato de termos chegado lá, nós tivemos vitória”.
Nós, xamãs de duas comunidades, trabalhamos por isso. Nós inalamos yakoana [pó da árvore virola sp, usado pelos xamãs para ver os xapiripë]. Chegamos até o grande xapiri, Omama, e dissemos a ele: “Awei! Você que é grande xapiri, que conhece o mundo inteiro, conhece todas as terras, já que seus olhos enxergam essas coisas por dentro e também pela superfície, já que seus olhos estão atentos a tudo o que ocorre no mundo, nós queremos elevar Lula para que ele se torne presidente outra vez, nós iremos apoiar o pensamento dele. Vamos manter nosso pensamento primeiro no céu, na hutukara, e assim ele vai se levantar [ter chances de ganhar a eleição]. O outro, Bolsonaro, aquele que tem a boca cheia de ignorância, se o povo dele o apoiar e o levantar, iremos sofrer muito. O presidente Jair Bolsonaro é terrível, e, se ele ganhar as eleições, aí sim ficaremos sofrendo. Ele é um apoiador da ditadura militar, portanto não faz amizade com a floresta. Não cuida dos rios e não sente tristeza por nós, povos da floresta”. Então, como Omama fez a nossa terra nos primeiros tempos, ele escreveu em um papel a expressão “defensor da floresta”, e foi isso que nós, xamãs, decidimos e dissemos: “Vamos escolher aquele que quer nos manter vivendo com saúde, vamos negar o papel onde está escrito o nome daquele que não quer o nosso bem-viver”.
Por causa disso, nós, do Watorikɨ, chegamos até Lula, chegamos a Brasília. Ao chegarmos lá, os napëpë não nos viram, pois chegamos bem suavemente. Com calma e devagar, chegamos até o pensamento dele. “Awei! Você, Lula, já que quer se tornar presidente outra vez, se apoie aqui onde Omama apoiou o nosso pensamento. Se você se apoiar aqui, vai se tornar o presidente. E, caso você se torne o presidente, queremos que você pense em nós em primeiro lugar. Diminua aqueles que estão sempre fazendo coisas ruins, torne-os pequenos. Feche esse buraco da maldade.”
Brad Plumer, Max Bearak, Lisa Friedman, Jenny Gross
Nov. 20, 2022
Nations reached a landmark deal to compensate developing nations for climate harm. But some leaders said the summit didn’t go far enough in addressing the root causes of global warming.
Sameh Shoukry, the Egyptian foreign minister, seated, reading a statement at the closing session of climate talks in Sharm el Sheikh. Credit: Mohamed Abd El Ghany/Reuters
Nov. 20, 2022, 3:33 a.m. ET
SHARM EL SHEIKH, Egypt — Diplomats from nearly 200 countries concluded two weeks of climate talks on Sunday by agreeing to establish a fund that would help poor, vulnerable countries cope with climate disasters made worse by the greenhouse gases from wealthy nations.
The decision on payments for loss and damage caused by global warming represented a breakthrough on one of the most contentious issues at United Nations climate negotiations. For more than three decades, developing nations have pressed rich, industrialized countries to provide compensation for the costs of destructive storms, heat waves and droughts linked to rising temperatures.
But the United States and other wealthy countries had long blocked the idea, for fear that they could face unlimited liability for the greenhouse gas emissions that are driving climate change.
The loss and damage agreement hammered out in this Red Sea resort town makes clear that payments are not to be seen as an admission of liability. The deal calls for a committee with representatives from 24 countries to work over the next year to figure out exactly what form the fund should take, which countries and financial institutions should contribute, and where the money should go. Many of the other details are still to be determined.
Developing countries hailed the deal as a landmark victory.
“The announcement offers hope to vulnerable communities all over the world who are fighting for their survival from climate stress,” said Sherry Rehman, the climate minister of Pakistan, which suffered catastrophic flooding this summer that left one-third of the country underwater and caused $30 billion in damages. Scientists later found that global warming had worsened the deluges.
While the new climate agreement dealt with the damages from global warming, it did far less to address the greenhouse gas emissions that are the root cause of the crisis. Experts say it is crucial for all nations to slash their emissions much more rapidly in order to keep warming at relatively safe levels. But the deal did not go much beyond what countries agreed to last year at U.N. climate talks in Glasgow.
“The loss and damage deal agreed is a positive step, but it risks becoming a ‘fund for the end of the world’ if countries don’t move faster to slash emissions,” said Manuel Pulgar-Vidal, who presided over the United Nations summit in 2014 and is now the climate lead for the World Wide Fund for Nature. “We cannot afford to have another climate summit like this one.”
The new agreement emphasizes that countries should strive to limit global warming to 1.5 degrees Celsius, or 2.7 degrees Fahrenheit, above preindustrial levels. Beyond that threshold, scientists say, the risk of climate catastrophes increases significantly. Early in the summit, some negotiators feared that the talks would abandon a focus on that target, which many vulnerable nations, such as low-lying islands in the Pacific, see as essential to their survival.
Current policies by national governments would put the world on track for a much hotter 2.1 to 2.9 degrees Celsius of warming this century, compared with preindustrial levels. Staying at 1.5 degrees would require countries to slash their fossil-fuel emissions roughly in half this decade, a daunting task.
India and more than 80 other countries wanted language that would have called for a “phase-down” of all fossil fuels, not just coal, but also oil and gas. That would have gone beyond the deal at Glasgow, which called for a “phase-down” of coal only. But that effort was blocked by major oil producers like Canada and Saudi Arabia, as well as by China, according to people close to the negotiations.
“It is more than frustrating to see overdue steps on mitigation and the phaseout of fossil energies being stonewalled by a number of large emitters and oil producers,” said Annalena Baerbock, the German foreign minister, in a statement.
Xie Zhenhua, China’s special envoy for climate, and Sherry Rehman, Pakistan’s climate minister, at the COP27 closing session on Sunday. Credit: Peter Dejong/Associated Press
Frans Timmermans, the European Union’s top climate official, said the deal fell far short of what was needed and was a sign of the growing gap between climate science and national climate policies. Too many countries blocked measures needed to address global warming, he said.
“Friends are only friends if they also tell you things you might not want to hear,” Mr. Timmermans said. “This is the make-or-break decade, but what we have in front of us is not enough of a step forward for people and planet.”
The two-week summit, which had been scheduled to end on Friday, stretched until dawn on Sunday as exhausted negotiators from nearly 200 nations clashed over fine print. The talks came at a time of multiple crises. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has roiled global food supply and energy markets, stoked inflation and spurred some countries to burn more coal and other alternatives to Russian gas, threatening to undermine climate goals.
At the same time, rising global temperatures have intensified deadly floods in places like Pakistan and Nigeria, as well as fueled record heat across Europe and Asia. In the Horn of Africa, a third year of severe drought has brought millions to the brink of famine.
Much of the focus over the past two weeks was on loss and damage.
Developing nations — largely from Asia, Africa, Latin America, the Caribbean and South Pacific — fought first to place the debate over a loss and damage fund on the formal agenda of the two-week summit. And then they were relentless in their pressure campaign, arguing that it was a matter of justice, noting they did little to contribute to a crisis that threatens their existence. They made it clear that a summit held on the African continent that ended without addressing loss and damage would be seen as a moral failure.
As the summit neared its end, the European Union consented to the idea of a loss and damage fund, though it insisted that any aid should be primarily focused on the most vulnerable nations, and that aid might include a wide variety of options such as new insurance programs in addition to direct payments.
That left the United States, which has pumped more greenhouse gases into the atmosphere than any nation in history, as the last big holdout. By Saturday, as talks stretched into overtime, American officials said that they would accept a loss and damage fund, breaking the logjam.
Still, major hurdles remain.
There is no guarantee that wealthy countries will deposit money into the fund. A decade ago, the United States, the European Union and other wealthy emitters pledged to mobilize $100 billion per year in climate finance by 2020 to help poorer countries shift to clean energy and adapt to future climate risks through measures like building sea walls. They are still falling short by tens of billions of dollars annually.
And while American diplomats agreed to a fund, money must be appropriated by Congress. Last year, the Biden administration sought $2.5 billion in climate finance but secured just $1 billion, and that was when Democrats controlled both chambers. With Republicans set to take over the House in January, the prospects of Congress approving an entirely new pot of money for loss and damage appear dim.
“Sending U.S. taxpayer dollars to a U.N. sponsored green slush fund is completely misguided,” said Senator John Barrasso, Republican of Wyoming. “The Biden administration should focus on lowering spending at home, not shipping money to the U.N. for new climate deals. Innovation, not reparations, is key to fighting climate change.”
The United States and the European Union secured language in the deal that could expand the donor base to include major emerging economies like China and Saudi Arabia. The United Nations currently classifies China as a developing country, which has traditionally exempted it from obligations to provide climate aid, even though it is now the world’s biggest emitter of greenhouse gases as well as the second-largest economy. The new changes are likely to spark fights in the future, since China has fiercely resisted being treated as a developed nation in global climate talks.
For their part, a variety of European nations have voluntarily pledged more than $300 million to address loss and damage so far, with most of that money going toward a new insurance program to help countries recover from disasters like flooding. Poorer countries have praised those early efforts while noting that they may ultimately face hundreds of billions of dollars per year in unavoidable, irreversible climate damages.
“We have the fund, but we need money to make it worthwhile,” said Mohamed Adow, executive director of Power Shift Africa, a group that aims to mobilize climate action across the continent. “What we have is an empty bucket. Now we need to fill it so that support can flow to the most impacted people who are suffering right now at the hands of the climate crisis.”
Uma (in)certa antropologia 
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