Between and alone, 43 federally recognized tribes call the desert landscape home. However, their ways of life have been challenged by centuries of colonization and resource exploitation, resulting in large cities siphoning water from reservations; extractive industries ; and construction, , and even threatening cultural sites and ancient petroglyphs. Chaco Canyon, where Pueblo Action Alliance does much of its work, is unfortunately a nexus for many of these injustices.

Chaco Canyon is a 7.5-mile stretch in the Chaco Wash of northwest New Mexico. It drains into the San Juan River, a critical upstream sandstone formation for delivering water across the San Juan Basin. Specifically, the rincons, angular recesses in rock formations, in the canyon cliff faces divert rainfall to drought-stricken regions of the high desert, a function that directly impacts precipitation levels in an arid region with short growing seasons. About 1,000 years ago, Chaco Canyon also served as an enormous cultural hub for the Chacoans, ancestral Puebloans who quarried the canyon to build great houses that would serve as the political center of the ancient culture.

The houses were so great, in fact, that their sheer size would not be surpassed in North America until 19th-century American construction. It is estimated that between 30,000 and 40,000 people dwelled within the region at its peak, harvesting beans, maize, and squash, and even engaging in a massive long-distance industry. Both practices continue in the contemporary Pueblos, which still exist in the arid Southwest desert.

The Greater Chaco region has such a historical, cultural, and even sacred significance to the Pueblos, Hopi, and Navajo that the region has been designated as the Chaco Culture National Historic Park. Not only is the site filled with sacred ceremonial kivas, partially or wholly underground chambers for performing religious rites, but also the entire region represents a fragile biodiversity and a climate prone to extreme weather from the El Ni帽o鈥揕a Ni帽a cycle.

Unfortunately, as with 85% of reservation lands in the United States, Chaco Canyon sits on resource-rich soil. Already, 91% of the public lands in the canyon are leased for oil and gas extraction. Between the sacredness of the site, its significance to the water basin and biodiversity, and water-intensive industries that intend to exploit it, there is little wonder why the anti-fossil fuel campaign found common cause with the (PAA) to oppose the issuing of more leases.

The Many Faces of Water Justice

For Indigenous peoples, water goes several steps further than just providing sustenance. Water became an issue for the Wampanoag, who have fought offshore wind turbines in Massachusetts that would hinder access to the tribe鈥檚 sacred sunrise practices. For the Winnemem Wintu of California, threatened to flood out cultural resources. Similarly, in the Pacific Northwest, salmon people, such as the Suquamish, have united to demand the removal of dams that interfere with salmon migration, critical to their traditional lifeways and beliefs. 

The safety of water-grown food and even ceremonial waters are also threatened by the existence of 532 Superfund sites in Indian Country alone, buried in layers of red tape that make cleanup more challenging than in areas not under Indian jurisdiction. The protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline at Standing Rock were a stark reminder of how water, extractive industry, and treaty rights intersect. And in my own Ojibwe community in Minnesota, traditional manoomin, a native strain of wild rice, and fish harvesting are challenged not only by non-Indians unfamiliar with Indigenous harvesting rights, but also by the . The list goes on.

Especially in the Southwest, tribes have had to desperately fight for their rights to the water systems their ancestors used for years, but which now come to them in the form of hard-earned 鈥減aper rights鈥濃�攅ssentially, promises on paper that often are not kept. The point is, water is necessary, and through a combination of red tape, contamination, lack of physical or spiritual access, scarcity due to climate change, or development on ancestral and archaeological sites, tribal communities are disproportionately affected. 

That鈥檚 why groups like the Pueblo Action Alliance have stepped up not just to protect Chaco Canyon, but also to develop a paradigm shift that integrates traditional Pueblo values into business.

Modeling a Pueblo Way of Life

Pueblo Action Alliance consists of about 10 individuals, the majority of whom are full-time and campaign with the concept of 鈥渞ematriating鈥� land, water, and general rights to the Pueblos of New Mexico. Drawing on principles that connect clear back to the Chacoan ancestors of Greater Chaco, the group鈥檚 director, Julia Fay Bernal, describes the alliance as a non-incorporated organization fiscally sponsored by a 503(c) that centers its entire structure around Pueblo values.

These values include prioritizing good stewardship of ancestral landscapes, maintaining a sliding pay scale that reflects need more than CV-based experience, and accommodating time off on a merit basis. Given that the Pueblo culture is so oriented around family, ceremony, and religious participation, Bernal says the attitude toward time off is 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have to explain to me why you can鈥檛 come to work today.鈥� It鈥檚 a model that represents trust and respect, standing in stark contrast to most standard Western attitudes of the 9鈥�5 grind, and uniting the Pueblos in ways they hadn鈥檛 been since the 1680 Pueblo Revolt against Spanish rule.

The alliance also takes a unique approach by focusing on community education around issues impacting the region. The group follows relevant state and federal legislation, but, as Bernal describes, it 鈥渦ltimately in terms of scope of work and capacity focuses on policy that impacts Pueblo lands, ancestral Pueblo territories, and what kind of strain it is having on water.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The group 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just concerned with fracking in Chaco: Various extractive industries in the region are water-intensive in a water-scarce landscape and cause destruction to sacred spaces. Bernal cites the copper mine of Oak Flat as an example affecting the Apache, as well as broader concerns about lithium mining, mercury extraction, and proposed hydrogen hubs in the region, which are all water-intensive processes.

Pueblo Action Alliance has also partnered with its Navajo counterpart, Din茅 CARE (Citizens Against Ruining the Environment), to defend common ancestral lands, such as Chaco Canyon, and to rally against a shared legacy of uranium mining and water contamination. Rebecca Tsosie, a law professor at the University of Arizona, has written that tribal sovereignty, the trust doctrine the U.S. government holds with tribes, is 鈥� 鈥� and embodies a clear duty to protect tribal lands.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;These grassroots organizations center their work around this theory, striving to hold the federal government to its obligations to work with Native tribes to protect the environment, especially water resources. They lean strongly into the legal obligations of the United States to recognize tribal sovereignty, treaty rights, and the trust responsibility that exists between the federal government and tribal nations鈥攁n obligation to care for the general welfare of tribal communities.

Construction Models in Indian Country

The NDN Companies take a different approach than the Pueblo Action Alliance. In 2015, Shawna Newman founded her small environmental consulting firm, supported by the U.S. Small Business Administration, in Jacksonville, Florida, to work within the bounds of the contracting world, providing various environmental assessments, remediation, restoration, and even mixed marine construction services.

Newman, who is of Chickasaw and Choctaw descent, grew up near the Poarch Creek Reservation in Pensacola, Florida, and has a bachelor鈥檚 degree in environmental science from the University of West Florida. She is engaged with Native youth in STEM education, the , and as a Board Member for the North Florida Land Trust. She describes her inspiration to create the NDN Companies as 鈥渁 desire to provide environmental assistance and education throughout Indian Country.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

One unique aspect about the business, however, is the focus on tribal consultation. As an Indian-founded and woman-led organization, the NDN Companies help bridge the gap between the interests of the construction industry and the impacts it has on the environment, ancestral landscapes, and cultural resources; and it also keeps agencies from doing more than, in Newman鈥檚 words, just 鈥渃hecking a box鈥� to meet regulatory requirements. Such work has led to NDN bringing cultural awareness training programs to individual companies, the Society of American Military Engineers, and even the U.S. Department of Defense. Her business incorporates elements of tribal water justice in a number of ways, including in projects that build coastal resilience and shoreline erosion protection.

Besides providing Native American sensitivity training to its clients, the company also helps businesses comply with the National Historic Preservation Act; offers ground-penetrating radar services; and helps with the identification, evaluation, and documentation of Traditional Cultural Properties (TCPs), a designation by the National Park Service of important cultural resources and places. One recent example of the company鈥檚 work is when it was hired to provide consultation to the Caddo Nation Tribal Historic Preservation Officer on the , a hydroelectric initiative along the Sabine River in Texas and Louisiana. 

鈥淭his project involves working with the tribal communities that had once traveled through or settled along this man-made water body to help identify potential areas that need protection,鈥� Newman says. 鈥淧rotection meaning medicinal plants, artifacts or archaeological finds, and/or vegetation, such as the River Cane that has been utilized in ceremonies or traditional building materials.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;The concern with such projects is to prevent damage by creating a management plan for the river authorities to follow. In Newman鈥檚 words, 鈥淲e have been fortunate to help facilitate early conversations prior to any disturbances, and formulate a plan moving forward.鈥�

Newman鈥檚 approach aligns with a growing method to include tribal representatives in the planning and management of construction projects. At Arizona State University, the annual Construction in Indian Country conference attracts students, faculty, and companies alike to recruit support from Arizona and New Mexico tribes.

The Ways Water Speaks

Whether advocating for clean drinking water on reservations contaminated by uranium extraction, or defending archaeological sites against construction that impacts local waterways, Indigenous communities are acutely aware of the need for water justice. Different models fit different approaches, depending on community values and the issue at hand. The Pueblo Action Alliance continues to focus on ancestral land issues, studying new legislation to evaluate its impact on water resources and then educating the Pueblo community to engage civically in the conversation. The NDN Companies, operating in the Southeast, where salt water intrusion is more of a concern than water scarcity, advocates for all tribes and interests across various sectors of the construction industry.

Both approaches draw attention to the unique ways in which tribes are impacted by extractive industries and infrastructure. They provide visibility to Indigenous peoples who have been stewards of ancestral landscapes, such as Chaco Canyon, since time immemorial. Most importantly, they challenge the historic norms of tribal consultation, giving voice to those who understand the sacredness of the tribes鈥� most precious resource.

This story has been supported by the , a nonprofit organization dedicated to rigorous and compelling reporting about responses to social problems.

The two of us have spent the past year protesting the Israeli military鈥檚 assault on Gaza, which is funded by the United States government. The day after the storm, as we surveyed the destruction all around us wrought by Hurricane Helene, we thought of the people of Gaza, whom the Israeli government has relentlessly bombed for the past year, destroying their homes, schools, markets, hospitals, places of worship, as well as crucial components of their water and food systems.听

We have always opposed the Israeli military鈥檚 destruction of Gaza鈥攐ne that began long before Oct. 7, 2023鈥攂ut in observing the destruction in our own backyards and neighborhoods that day, we felt more committed than ever before to ensuring that our government stops sending the bombs that destroy life, land, and infrastructure in Palestine. In our grief, we committed to working toward the restoration of life from Asheville to Gaza.听

Since Oct. 7, 2023, the U.S. government has sent , including $3.8 billion from a supplemental appropriations act in April 2024. Meanwhile, a request from FEMA for an additional $9 billion for disaster relief efforts in the U.S. , a shortfall that limits recovery efforts in Western North Carolina and other areas hit by Hurricane Helene. The numbers tell the story: The U.S. government invests in death while neglecting the lives of people and our planet.

As Western North Carolina University professor Robert Clines wrote in in Mondoweiss: 鈥淭he devastation from Hurricane Helene and Israel鈥檚 escalation in the Middle East may not seem connected. But they are linked through the United States鈥檚 commitment to mass militarization, imperial arrogance, exacerbation of climate change, and refusal to work toward a just global future.鈥�

We and other Appalachian Jews are speaking up from the depths of climate devastation, demanding collective liberation now. Anti-Zionist Jews like us live in every corner of the United States and are essential activists and organizers in Southern struggles for environmental justice and collective liberation. Promoting Jewish safety means investing in life rather than death. It looks like fighting real antisemitism in communities that we love and protect, even when we鈥檙e cast out by pro-Zionist institutions, including our own religious congregations.

And that is why, on Oct. 6, 2024, we made the decision to still hold a tashlich action that we had been planning for months. Tashlich is a ritual that is part of the Jewish high holiday season and centers on atonement and repair. Out of necessity, we shifted the location from a riverfront park鈥攁s the riverbank was washed out and much of the surrounding area was coated in toxin-laden mud鈥攖o a bridge overlooking the French Broad River, a waterway so inundated by Hurricane Helene that its currents smashed buildings; carried away people, animals, and vehicles; and spread rocks and mud and trees on its banks for many miles.听

The two of us together and talked of teshuvah鈥攔epentance鈥攃ontemplating how our country鈥檚 unwavering support for the Israeli apartheid regime makes all Americans complicit in the genocide of Palestinians. Rather than toss pebbles into the water, as is customary, we opted not to add to the debris lining the riverbed; instead, we placed them on the railing of the bridge, a choice that we later realized was reminiscent of the Jewish tradition of placing stones at gravesites to mark the occasion of visiting the deceased.听

In Asheville, we have begun the process of rebuilding from the hurricane. Gazans, on the other hand, cannot, because the Israeli military has not stopped dropping thousand-pound bombs on their land. that the Israeli military is even targeting aid workers鈥攖hose who are instrumental to the process of survival. Between October and May, the Israeli military targeted at least eight convoys of aid workers. This is a horrid violation of international law and a devastating act of inhumanity.听

In mid-October, Israeli forces killed 听who were on their way to conduct repairs to Gaza鈥檚 water infrastructure, which is itself being destroyed by Israeli air strikes. Receiving news of such killings is always heartbreaking, but after spending the past three weeks contributing to here in Western North Carolina (along with other community-led efforts being coordinated by the and networks), a story like this hits even harder, as we imagine the horror of doing this already-challenging work of delivering aid and humanitarian efforts while under constant threat of state violence.

As we continue to rebuild and heal here in Western North Carolina, we recognize that the destruction we face is a fraction of what the people of Gaza endure daily. While we recover from a single storm, Gazans endure an unrelenting succession of human-made storms being driven by a genocidal war campaign, even as the people working toward recovery and crisis response are themselves being targeted as enemies in this war. 

We will continue to demand that our government stop funding the Israeli military, and to instead spend our tax dollars on repairing harms in Gaza, Asheville, and everywhere there is human suffering. 

After the internship is over, many parents are not entirely comfortable with their child announcing that they want to pursue an environmental career, thinking: Is that good and stable enough? Can you make enough money doing that? We need to send out the word that careers in natural resource management can be added to the list of good stable jobs. For too long, federal land management agencies were focused on one demographic: middle-class White males. But now those long-time White male rangers are retiring. The National Park Service, Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, and other federal land management agencies are discovering all of this hidden talent among young people they never before considered. Of late, we have set our sights on another lily-white corner of the environmental world: the outdoor retailer industry. These companies have long been connected to federal land management agencies because they provide gear that outdoor enthusiasts and workers need when toiling outside in all kinds of conditions. If you look around at the workforce of these companies, you see the same homogeneity that plagued the federal agencies. Their demographics were a perfect mirror of each other, except one was private and one was public.

The retailers are driven by an added incentive that doesn鈥檛 enter into the federal agency picture: the profit motive. They are eager to sell their wares to large and growing demographics that they hadn鈥檛 yet connected with, namely communities of color. But it seems they hadn鈥檛 realized that if they wanted to sell to these communities, perhaps it might be helpful to employ some of their members. At least that鈥檚 me giving them the benefit of the doubt. It seems they hadn鈥檛 yet made this connection, though it鈥檚 always possible that they just weren鈥檛 interested in hiring members of these communities. I have to admit I am still stunned by how overwhelmingly White these companies are at this rather late date, closing in on 2020. We have been in discussions with their representatives about creating internships to include young people of color. Progress has been slow but steady. Some companies that are new to the scene, like Wylder Goods, inherently get it. Other more established ones, like The North Face, are starting to understand the economic and social benefits of diversity and inclusivity. It鈥檚 fascinating, because if you polled the executives from this industry, a vast majority of them would probably consider themselves to be politically liberal and aware. To use a popular term, they might consider themselves woke. But somehow they forgot to apply that liberalism to their workforce. I had an extremely unsettling experience when I attended a retreat for the Trust for Public Land out in Sonoma County, California. One early morning, a colleague and I decided to take a walk. In an attempt to get some exercise, we were briskly walking down the street from our hotel, enjoying the lovely surroundings, deep in conversation about our personal lives and our families. Out of nowhere, a white woman drove by in a Ford Element SUV (orange; I will never forget that color) and shouted, 鈥淕o home!鈥� I was stunned. Napa Valley鈥檚 beauty instantly turned ugly and sinister. When I got back to the retreat and reported what had happened, my co-workers were somewhat surprised. But I needed to get out of there. I called my husband immediately because the plan was for him to meet me in Napa Valley for a mini-vacation. However, I wanted no part of the place, so I packed my bags and within a couple of hours was headed to the airport to fly back to Atlanta. I later told my colleagues that they need to think very hard about the kinds of places we go for our retreats in the future鈥攁nd of course this area in Sonoma County should be snatched off the list immediately. Their response? Blah, blah, blah. A lot of lip service. But the point is that they now needed to start considering such issues so that someone like me could be as comfortable as they were. I know this part of the story gets really complicated. See, the trust has a great mission of conserving land for the public. In fact, I am appreciative of the trust, because I found them after working for the government, which I knew was not the answer for me. The national NGO really gave me my wings and perspective, and I will always be thankful. However, working for them and other environmental NGOs also emphasized the incredible polarity that exists in the conservation world. Particularly, I got a certain understanding of the White liberal world. Whenever things would get racially uncomfortable at the workplace, it would often be written off as an exaggerated aberration: 鈥淪urely you misunderstood his/her intention…鈥� or 鈥淟et鈥檚 not lose sight of the issue at hand.鈥�

I wanted to make sure that no young brown person in the future with an interest in an environmental field had to exist in this disconnected workplace.

It was very frustrating navigating the workplace environment because I knew race was always something people did not want to discuss. But, how could we ever move beyond the discomfort if no one was willing to talk about it? My most hated phrase was 鈥淎ngelou, I don鈥檛 even see color鈥攚e all look the same.鈥� Really? In short, I knew I needed to leave this work world so that I could actually breathe. Most importantly, I wanted to make sure that no young Brown person in the future with an interest in an environmental field had to exist in this disconnected workplace. But I know I can鈥檛 present an angry face to the world. I鈥檝e spent too many years of my adult life observing the peril that angry Black women encounter in professional spaces. Often we encounter the same peril whether we鈥檙e angry or not. I can be literally melting inside from the angry heat I鈥檓 feeling, but I know I must keep it hidden. They don鈥檛 want to see Angry Angelou. She won鈥檛 help anybody. I know I have to present Smiling Angelou. She makes big moves. I can鈥檛 say to them, 鈥淵ou know what? It鈥檚 2017 and everyone in this room is White! You don鈥檛 see a problem with that?鈥� Even if I鈥檓 thinking that, it has to come out like this: 鈥淚 understand that you looked up and realized you weren鈥檛 being as intentional about diversity as you needed to be and about having other perspectives around the table. OK, so let me help you be more representative of the world we all live in.鈥� It reminds me of scenes from the television show Black-ish with Anthony Anderson and Tracee Ellis Ross. They do a great job of depicting the comfort that White characters have around each other at the advertising agency where Anthony鈥檚 character works鈥攁nd the unease they have talking about anything related to race. It might be comedy, but for many African-Americans who work around White people, unfortunately those scenes are all too real. That鈥檚 what drives many of us out of corporate America and turns us into entrepreneurs鈥攅xhaustion, frustration, resignation. I was proud when a group of Greening Youth Foundation interns learned very early that they didn鈥檛 necessarily need corporate America. We had trained these young adults in our Urban Youth Corps to work in urban agriculture and landscape management, but when they finished the program, they couldn鈥檛 get jobs. Although this demographic was receiving incredible training and certifications in various areas, not many sectors had actual jobs waiting for them. So, in many cases, these young adults didn鈥檛 stop there; they created their own businesses. They said, 鈥淲e have the skill set now, so why are we waiting to get hired?鈥� There are reams of data showing that entrepreneurship among African-American women is flying off the charts. This feeling of us not being included or accepted is giving birth to wonderful new businesses. This excerpt is from Engage, Connect, Protect: Empowering Diverse Youth as Environmental Leaders by Angelou Ezeilo with Nick Chiles, forthcoming from , November 2019. It appears by permission of the author and publisher.

Western agronomists would have us believe that Triqui farming practices are irrelevant today.

I tried to convince Martinez that our farms had a lot in common. “Like you, we have marginal mountain soils and steep slopes, and we’ve worked for years to build up the fertility,” I explained.

Martinez finished his simple breakfast of fresh corn tortillas with black beans. Then he rose, donned his baseball cap and undersized school backpack, and took me out to see the land he cultivates. I quickly came to understand that my idea of “marginal soils” and “steep slopes” were naive, if not laughable. It was the height of the dry season and Martinez’s land was hard, brittle, and gray. The farm was literally etched into the mountainside, with a slope so severe that plowing with tractors or animals was impossible. Yet his storage room was full of maize, beans, dried chili, squash seeds, and fresh fruit that he’d grown right here.

When I asked how this was possible, Martinez explained that he simply farmed in the manner of his ancestors, the indigenous Triqui people.

Western agronomists would have us believe that Triqui farming practices are irrelevant today, but I thought they might be part of the solution to the nascent global food crisis. I spent the first half of 2015 in southern Mexico on a Fulbright fellowship to exchange ideas with indigenous farmers like Martinez on how get long-term high yields out of difficult farmland. I was fed up with our society’s obsession with corporate, industrial agriculture, which is flooding vulnerable communities with unhealthy food, destroying natural resources, and undermining the independent family farm.

What I learned gave me hope.

According to a by my favorite think tank, the World Resources Institute, the first thing to know about the impending food crisis is that the human population is expected to reach 9.6 billion by 2050. That’s a 37 percent increase from 2012, when it reached 7 billion. Even imagining massive redistribution of food resources, the world will need to produce 69 percent more calories by 2050 to feed all those people.

But agriculture already accounts for a nearly a quarter of greenhouse gas emissions and 70 percent of freshwater use globally. So if we simply increased the scale of what we’re doing now, the ecological effects would be catastrophic. The report goes on to describe a “menu of solutions” that farmers can follow in the future to grow more food without using additional land, water, and fuel.

I had a hunch that rural farmers in Mexico were already modeling some of these practices and not being credited. While it was difficult to leave behind the daily responsibilities of tending the land, I knew that only grassroots farmer-to-farmer exchange could solve the world’s food crisis. So, with my husband and children at my side, I left behind our farm in New York and traversed the windy mountain roads of Oaxaca to trade ideas on how to feed our communities with dignity and take care of the earth at the same time.

What I learned gave me hope. Here are three items from WRI’s list of solutions that the farmers I met are already doing—and one that isn’t on their list but probably should be.

1. Farm like a forest

Not accounting for land covered by water, desert, or ice, about half of the planet is dedicated to pasture and croplands, according to WRI’s study. And the continued expansion of agricultural land is driving biodiversity loss and ecosystem degradation. According to the U.N. Food and Agriculture Organization, an increase in “cropping intensity” could avert the need to clear an additional 62 million hectares for crops by 2050. That’s an area about the size of France. In other words, farmers need to start growing different plants one after another on the same land, as well as growing them closer together at the same time, a practice known as intercropping.

Planting different crops together minimizes soil erosion.

Oswaldo Flores, a Zapotec indigenous man from the village of Yaviche, explained how his community uses intercropping and agroforestry to grow more food without expanding into new lands.

“The forest pulls clouds from the sky so that they drop rain on the fields below,” Flores said, while showing me his shade-grown coffee farm.

The farm is a cafetal, a shady, multistory system with tall, purple-podded guajinicuiles and fruit trees forming the upper layer, coffee trees at the intermediate layer, and smaller food plants and vines (chiles, chives, chayotes) near the ground. The trees protect the plants below from high winds and cold temperatures, and their fallen leaves provide a natural compost that inhibits weed growth, adds fertility, and retains soil humidity. Guajinicuiles also fix nitrogen, making it available in organic form in the soil. This system of shade-grown coffee is almost equal to the native forest in terms of biodiversity, and maintains habitat for migratory birds.

At the edge of Flores’ cafetal, the vegetation transitioned to another complex and even more ancient intercropping system. The milpa is a Mesoamerican technology that integrates maize, beans, squash and other complementary food crops. While estimates of its age differ, it is at least 3,000 years old. The intercropped milpa system is multilayered, with maize in the upper canopy, beans in the intermediate story, and squash at the bottom. Bean plants fix atmospheric nitrogen and help reduce damage caused by the corn earworm pest (Helicoverpa sea). Squash plants inhibit weed growth with their dense network of thick, broad leaves and retain soil humidity. Natural chemicals (cucurbitacins) washed from the leaf surface act as a mild herbicide and pesticide.

Planting different crops together minimizes soil erosion because their roots form a dense network that holds soil in place. This system also tends to be very efficient, squeezing the maximum value out of every drop of water, ray of sunlight, and bit of nutrients in the soil. According to studies using the Land Equivalency Ratio—a way of measuring the productivity of agricultural land—intercropped fields often yield 40 to 50 percent more than monocropped ones.

H. Garrison Wilkes, professor emeritus at the University of Massachusetts, calls milpa “one of the most successful human inventions ever created.”

2. Eat low on the food chain

Aside from the detrimental health effects of getting our protein from animal products, it’s also highly inefficient. Poultry is the most efficient conventional source of meat, and still only converts 11 percent of its feed energy into human food. Beef cows convert only 1 percent and are major contributors of greenhouse gases. Shifting toward plant and insect-based protein sources is part of the sustainable food solution.

Amaranth is making a comeback in Brisa’s town.

“You have never tried chicatanas?” challenged Brisa Ochoa, as she served our family a salsa made of mashed ants in her hometown of Ayoquezco. During the first spring rains, the chicatana ant leaves its nest, only to be captured by eager residents who prize its sweet and tangy flavor. Mexico has 300 to 550 species of edible insects, more than any other country in the world, according to the Food and Agriculture Organization. Among the most popular in Oaxaca are grasshoppers known as chapulines, served roasted and flavored with lime and chili, and maguey worms, served ground up and incorporated into a spicy salt. Insect protein takes some getting used to, but it’s healthier and more environmentally sustainable than livestock, boasting a feed conversion ratio of more than 50 percent.

While insect protein is important in rural Mexico, it mainly serves as flavoring for plant-based protein sources. Brisa served her salsa with beans on a fresh, warm corn tortilla resulting from an ancient process called nixtamalization. She used limestone and hot water to remove the hull from the maize, then ground up the kernels into the dough for tortillas.

Nixtamalization makes the protein in maize more bioavailable to the human body and increases its niacin content. When combined with beans, the nixtamalized corn offers a complete protein.

Brisa’s family also grows amaranth, a native Mesoamerican grain that has been cultivated in Mexico for at least 6,000 years. Nearly eradicated by the conquering Spaniards who feared its role in traditional religion, amaranth is making a comeback in Brisa’s town, thanks to her family’s breeding and sharing its seeds. Up until this trip to Mexico, I had only experienced amaranth as a “weed” invading my neat beds of vegetables and didn’t realize that its seeds are 13 to 15 percent protein, among the highest for any grain. Amaranth is also high in fiber, calcium, iron, potassium, phosphorus, zinc, folate, and vitamins A and C. Like beans, amaranth can be combined with maize to form a complete protein.

Brisa’s family does eat chicken, beef, and pork, but usually only on special occasions. Plant and insect protein are the basis of their healthful, affordable, and sustainable diet.

3. Restore health to damaged land

Cropland can expand at low environmental cost if the encroached lands do not have much natural potential to store carbon or support biodiversity. The arid Mixteca region of Oaxaca meets these criteria and has been termed an “ecological disaster zone” by the World Bank. Soil erosion and depletion has damaged about one million acres of cropland, and corn productivity rates have plummeted to the lowest in Mexico.

León Santos says he has seen yields increase fourfold.

Jesús León Santos, sustainable agriculture coordinator at CEDICAM, an indigenous farming organization in the Mixteca, blames Green Revolution farming technology for the environmental destruction. The Green Revolution of the 1960s was an U.S.-led international effort to push adoption of farm mechanization, hybrid seeds, and chemical fertilizers in order to increase yields.

León Santos is working to revive and enhance indigenous farming wisdom in order to restore the health of the soil and the productivity of the land.

The first step for León Santos and his farming community was to build trenches, stone walls, and terraces to stop the erosion of the remaining soils and to slow water runoff so aquifers can recharge. He stabilized these barriers with tenacious local vegetation, such as the sweet-smelling vetiver grass, which withstands drought, flooding, and mudslides.

Once stabilized, the barren hillsides were reforested with native tree species, like nitrogen-fixing alders (Alnus acumilata) and pines (Pinus oaxacana). The CEDICAM community saves its own native crop seed, using an in-the-field selection process that has persisted regionally since the pre-Columbian era. They preserve and exchange the best seeds of maize, beans, squash, chile, tomatillo, chayote, squash, sunflower, and prickly pear, as well as local specialties like cempoalxochitl, quintoniles, and huauzontle.

The farmers further improve the soil by planting and tilling in “cover crops,” which add nutrients and organic matter. Some native varieties are especially good for this, like the “frijol nescafe,” ( Mucuna deeringiana) a nitrogen-fixing bean that thrives in dry soil. Finally, farmers add compost and plant debris so that the land is finally ready to receive these carefully maintained crop seeds.

The use of erosion control barriers, intercropping, and seed saving are part of the knowledge León Santos inherited from his Zapotec ancestors. And it’s working. León Santos says he has seen yields increase fourfold after incorporating these ancient and modern sustainable growing techniques. The newly established vegetation sequesters atmospheric carbon and attracts biodiversity.

The art of transforming lands of low ecological productivity into thriving foodscapes is not unique to the Mixteca. León Santos reminded me that the Aztec Empire sustained itself on chinampas, intricate gardens built of vegetation and river muck, essentially artificial islands constructed in shallow lakes. Chinampas are widely considered the most productive form of agriculture ever invented, and are so fertile that they can yield four to seven harvests per year. Indigenous Mexicans have long-standing successes in positive ecological transformation.

4. Cultivate reverence for the planet

One essential element missing from the World Resource Institute’s otherwise thorough and brilliant “menu of solutions” for the global food crisis was the ethical perspective that co-evolved with best practices in environmental management. This ethic, known as convivencia, or “living together” with both our human and natural communities, is best summarized by Kiado Cruz, a Zapotec farmer from the Oaxacan town of Yagavila:

The ground beneath our feet is our Mother Nature, who has carried us and sustains us. As we work her, we do not profane her, rather we carry out our task as farmers in the context of the sacred. It is corn through which Mother Nature nourishes us. It is flesh of our flesh, because we are people of corn. So we have to collect it in a manner that shows the respect we owe both our soil and our brother corn.

It is with a similar sense of belonging and reverence that I placed corn seeds into our home soil upon return, establishing Soul Fire Farm’s first milpa, an ancient and intricate tangle of complementary sister crops bringing us one small step closer to a sustainable food future.

Today, the nonprofit Green America is trying to bring back victory gardens as a way to fight climate change.

That’s according to Jillian Semaan, food campaigns director at Green America, who added that the organization wants “to allow people to understand shifting garden practices towards regenerative agriculture and what it means for reversing climate change and sequestering carbon out of the atmosphere and putting it back into the soil.”

The organization is doing that through an educational video and a mapping project. Recently, more than 900 people added their gardens or farms to the Climate Victory Garden map that tracks U.S. agricultural activities that use regenerative practices.

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change —and —that carbon sequestration accounts for a large portion of global agricultural mitigation potential. Globally, , according to the Center for Climate and Energy Solutions. But a movement called regenerative agriculture is pushing for farming practices that improve, conserve, and build up soil (and soil carbon). Experts say that practices that increase soil carbon—known as carbon farming—.

Over the next two years, Green America plans to educate people on the benefits of regenerative agriculture through its Climate Victory Gardens campaign. It is producing videos that will explain regenerative practices, and staff members will attend conferences to encourage gardeners and farmers to join the movement. By 2020, it hopes to have at least 5,000 gardens and farms on its map.

In its recently released campaign video, Green America describes five ways to make “climate victory gardens” using regenerative practices—such as ditching chemicals, covering soil, and encouraging biodiversity.

In addition to helping reverse climate change, regenerative practices also produce .

“Soil health is so powerful, and we as a society, we as a people, need to understand what we’re putting in our bodies, and it all starts with the soil,” Semaan said. “It all starts with what we are about to eat, but we can’t have healthy food if we do not have healthy soil.”

This article was funded in part by a grant from the Surdna Foundation. 

Note: Green America’s president and CEO, Alisa Gravitz, is on the 大象传媒 Media board of directors.

In the case of the Tonawanda Seneca and the WNY STAMP (Western New York Science & Technology Advanced Manufacturing Park), you鈥檇 be wrong.听

WATCH: Robin Wall Kimmerer on why Indigenous communities oppose STAMP

I recently had the privilege of walking through the Big Woods with Tonawanda Seneca Nation citizens and fellow scientists, under a towering canopy of immense oaks, maples, and basswoods. On that lush summer day, thrushes, thrashers, and rare warblers sang above us as we traipsed through ferny glades, the earth soft with centuries of leaf fall and carpeted with wildflowers, more diverse than I鈥檝e seen in many years of botanizing. So rich is this territory that Chief Kevin Jonathan calls it 鈥渙ne of the most important hunting and gathering areas for the entire Haudenosaunee Confederacy.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Signs of wildlife were everywhere, and the deer eyed us warily as if to ask, 鈥淲hat kind of human are you?鈥� That鈥檚 a good question. At night, the air rings with peepers calling, toads trilling, and the soft, low hoot of endangered short-eared owls. Listen hard and you might hear the ceremonial songs from the longhouse, songs of gratitude for the land that has cared for the Seneca people since time immemorial. 

鈥淭his land is our way of life,鈥� said Chief Roger Hill as we waded into a clear, bright stream. 鈥淚t is everything to our people; it鈥檚 all we have left.鈥� Today, these precious lands are threatened, and both state and federal agencies are complicit in the destruction. When we walked through this old-growth forest to the edge of the reservation, the trees ended abruptly, and we were greeted by the looming presence of enormous reactor domes for the manufacture of hydrogen fuel. 

Bulldozers鈥攕ubsidized by your tax dollars鈥攁re revving their engines and spewing stink into the flower-fragrant air to construct a proposed industrial park that could destroy it all. New York state has thousands of acres of industrial wastelands and abandoned developments that would be highly suitable for such a project. But instead the WNY STAMP project in Genesee County is being sited right on the border of the Tonawanda鈥檚 pristine Big Woods. While there is just one fully confirmed tenant so far, others may include distribution warehouses and industrial manufacturers. 

STAMP has been referred to as 鈥渓and development,鈥� but the more accurate term is 鈥渉abitat destruction鈥濃�攊n one of the last unbroken landscapes in western New York. Yet STAMP is proposed in the heart of one of New York state鈥檚 most important conservation landscapes, surrounded by species-rich, federally and state-protected wildlife areas, including the Iroquois National Wildlife Refuge, as well as the Big Woods. Biological surveys, in addition to Indigenous knowledge, have revealed that the Big Woods is home to threatened species as well as a threatened culture. 

What kind of human thinks building a mega-industrial site here is a good idea? Many citizens of the Tonawanda Seneca Nation rely on the Big Woods for subsistence hunting, fishing, and gathering of traditional medicines. It is a place where traditional lifeways are passed from generation to generation. The Seneca have been caring for this place in an unbroken line from before written history, in the face of uncountable threats from settler society. Today, families are fed from this beloved landscape, which keeps an ancient culture thriving. It is heart-wrenching to consider the irreparable cultural harm of building an industrial park on the Big Woods border. 

Chief Jonathan stated that if this project goes forward 鈥渨e鈥檒l have irreversible damage to our way of life.鈥� Habitat destruction and environmental degradation related to industrial development at STAMP proceed step-by-step with the issuance of required government permits. This spring, United States Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) officials courageously admitted they had failed to consult with the Tonawanda, as required by law, before granting a permit for a pipeline through the Refuge for STAMP鈥檚 industrial wastewater. The agency ordered consultation with the Nation and an assessment of the environmental and cultural impacts of the STAMP pipeline project. 

This seeming victory for land and people was, however, short-lived. Days later, in a stunning reversal, USFWS overturned their own ruling, and in mid-July, heavy equipment rolled through ancestral Seneca territory to the edge of the Refuge and gouged into the earth as drilling for the wastewater pipeline began. 

Now, the Nation has learned that pipeline drilling caused a spill of hydraulic fracking fluid within the Refuge in mid-August, just days into construction. Incredibly, while this spill was reported to the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation (NYSDEC), construction activities were allowed to continue. Another spill occurred in early September, at the same time that sinkholes began to appear along the pipeline route. The Nation was not notified of either spill until the local media reported on them. 

鈥淚f this construction continues, it would be an immense injustice to Mother Earth,鈥� says Subchief Scott Logan, one of many Nation leaders and citizens who have spoken out in opposition to STAMP as a violation of their sovereign rights and their cultural covenant to care for the land. Construction activities have been temporarily halted within the Refuge and Orleans County, due not only to the spills and sinkholes but also to a temporary restraining order issued by a state court in a lawsuit filed by Orleans County, where the STAMP developer hopes to discharge the wastewater. 

This temporary pause is not enough. The Tonawanda Seneca Nation has demanded that the USFWS withdraw the right-of-way permit and conduct consultation and a full environmental review. To date, the USFWS has refused to do so. State and federal programs trumpet their commitment to 鈥渆nvironmental justice鈥� but fail to protect these traditional Haudenosaunee people and the remnants of their precious homelands. Officials with the power to temper this assault on the Tonawanda鈥檚 territory, culture, and environment instead fall in line to promote the steady march of industrialization and environmental destruction. 

What kind of leaders are they, and what kind of citizens are we? Will we perpetuate the shameful practices of the colonialist past鈥攐r take a stand for justice at last? Interior Secretary Deb Haaland and NYSDEC Commissioner Basil Seggos: Will you use your courage to reshape this age-old narrative of unjust taking from Indigenous nations? If the state and federal governments truly stand behind their commitments to environmental justice, then we should 鈥攆or the Big Woods, and for Indigenous land justice.

鈥淚鈥檓 really surprised so many people had reports today,鈥� says the National Weather Service meteorologist based in Boulder, Colorado. 鈥淭his is their most important observation鈥攎aybe of their whole time volunteering鈥攁nd so they want to get it right.鈥�

At 7 a.m. on Oct. 10, in the chaotic hours after the swept ashore, one citizen scientist in Daytona Beach Shores reported 15.8 inches of rain. Another near Lake Helen clocked 15.37 inches for a similar 24-hour period, and added in the notes section: 鈥淟ots of tree limbs down. Some roads are flooded due to lakes overflowing their banks.鈥�

Observations like these are added to an internet database at 7 a.m. each day by volunteers with the nationwide Community Collaborative Rain, Hail & Snow Network, or CoCoRaHS. The observations from 26,500 stations across the country contribute to National Weather Service flood warnings that may save lives by accounting for the variability of how much rain fell and where. Radar and satellites are not sophisticated enough to provide such down-to-the-backyard estimates.

In one such alert, for the St. Johns River in Florida鈥檚 Seminole County, forecasters more than an hour鈥檚 drive away, in the city of Melbourne, added CoCoRaHS rainfall totals to other on-the-ground observations, radar data, and river models. They estimated that runoff from Milton could cause the river to rise to 10.2 feet by the night of Oct. 14.

鈥淭he river is forecast to reach Minor Flood Stage later tonight, and will continue to climb through Moderate Flood, reaching Major Flood Stage later this weekend,鈥� reads the alert Gimmestad pulls up on his screen. It cautioned many roads were 鈥渋mpassable, limiting access to homes.鈥�

CoCoRaHS reports also help forecasters provide tornado, hail, fire, and other weather-related warnings in real time by allowing participants to log storm notes in the network鈥檚 computer system any time of day.

These observations鈥攚hich provide input in up to half of such warnings鈥攇et routed to the nearest National Weather Service station, where they ring alarm bells. Meteorologists use them to caution people to take shelter or evacuate. Scientists also use CoCoRaHS data after storms have passed to refine computer models to better reflect precipitation variability.

Such life-saving weather data are vital as the United States suffered 28 climate and weather disasters each鈥攖he most such events ever recorded in a year. Storm warnings will become all the more important as a warmer atmosphere traps more moisture鈥攍eading to more recurrent and intense rainfall.

The Heritage Foundation鈥檚 Project 2025 calls for a breakup of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which houses the National Weather Service, saying that these federal agencies push climate propaganda. But shutting down these essential services could stymie the ability of forecasters to issue comprehensive weather warnings and protect people at risk during climate disasters. 

As the presidential election looms and global warming intensifies, CoCoRaHS precipitation records, which account for two-thirds of the observational data collected by federal agencies on how much it rained or snowed, are becoming even more indispensable. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 a huge value,鈥� he adds. 鈥淩adar is really good at capturing the pattern, and CoCoRaHS observations give us the amounts, and so we put those together and it gives us a really nice map of how much it rained, hailed, or snowed.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The Critical Role of Data Collection

Altogether, CoCoRaHS鈥檚 stations span all 50 states, Canada, the Bahamas, and several U.S. territories. The network comprises about 75 million measurements and growing. 

The effort emerged in the wake of a deadly 1998 flash flood in Fort Collins, Colorado, that caught many people by surprise. The network is now one among hundreds of citizen science projects nationwide whose data are helping researchers, identify, and catalog.

鈥淐oCoRaHS changed the way we do weather forecasting,鈥� says Ellen McCallie, program director in the Directorate for STEM Education at the U.S. National Science Foundation. The consistency and reliability of the data are helping improve National Weather Service precipitation predictions, she adds.

After CoCoRaHS volunteers watch a training video, they are assigned a station number. They install a National Weather Service鈥揳pproved cylindrical plastic rain gauge, from which they measure precipitation and record the data online.

Network coordinators, who often work for state climate offices, urge volunteers to collect readings each morning, even if there鈥檚 no precipitation. These data are immediately visible on weather service maps. Each station is represented by a dot whose color reflects the amount of precipitation鈥攔ed for more, blue for less. 

In addition to the vast public benefit CoCoRaHS provides, the citizen scientists who are the backbone of the network say they benefit personally from the work, too.

鈥淚t鈥檚 something to do every day at 7 a.m.,鈥� says Noah Newman, the program鈥檚 education and outreach coordinator. 鈥淥ne volunteer working their way through Alcoholics Anonymous got their five-year [sobriety] chip thanks to CoCoRaHS, because they said no to going to the bars so they could get up to read their rain gauge.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;        

Retired Montana State University scientist and faculty member Bill Locke recounted in an email how recording daily precipitation in the CoCoRaHS database has helped him cope with his depression in the 11 years since he signed on to be a part of the network. 

鈥淔rom now until March I need to pull on Bean boots, a headlamp, and appropriate attire to trek to my gauge,鈥� he wrote, adding that the plastic cylinder is about 82 feet away from his Montana home. In the winter, these duties often involve measuring and collecting snow from a board on the ground and swapping cylinders if the existing one is full. 鈥淚t鈥檚 tough to go back to bed after all that!鈥�

A People鈥檚 Climate Record

The CoCoRaHS network 颈蝉苍鈥檛 the only example of how citizen scientists contribute to the nation鈥檚 climate record. Federal agencies also rely on about 8,700 people who volunteer with the 134-year-old , or COOP.

These citizens collect temperature and precipitation data daily from National Weather Service equipment, and then report it electronically to the service. This on-the-ground grassroots system is smaller and not as geographically diverse as CoCoRaHS, says meteorologist Gimmestad.

鈥淚nstead of having official weather reporting stations that are 30 or 40 miles apart鈥攕o we might have one per county鈥攚ith CoCoRaHS, we might have 10 or 50 stations in the county,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his way, we don鈥檛 have to use one point to represent a huge area, and so we know how rainfall was distributed around that county.鈥�

Data from CoCoRaHS and COOP鈥攖ogether with observations from at the nation鈥檚 airports鈥攁ccount for about 80% of the precipitation numbers that federal scientists use to compile what鈥檚 known as the鈥攁 catalog of temperature and precipitation averages from 1991 to 2020. The 30-year retrospective is vital for the health of the nation鈥檚 economy because it鈥檚 a go-to resource for businesses. 

鈥淭he construction industry wants to know how many rainy days there will be at a location in which they are putting in a bid鈥攁nd to learn how to design air conditioning and heating for buildings,鈥� says Michael Palecki, the lead scientist on the project at the National Centers for Environmental Information. 鈥淧eople want to know what the weather is going to be like where they are looking to move, and, of course, agriculture is one of our biggest users.鈥�

Tracking Hurricane Helene

Some 11 CoCoRaHS volunteers work in Palecki鈥檚 office in Asheville, North Carolina. The physical scientist, who had to remove a few trees from his property following Hurricane Helene, recounts how the region spent two weeks without power and remains without drinkable tap water.

When the air conditioning went down in the National Centers for Environmental Information鈥檚 computer room鈥攁 vast repository of weather data鈥攖emperatures soared to 120 degrees, requiring officials to shut down the system and delaying the publication of weather-related information nationwide.

The life-saving value of volunteer precipitation data was also evident in North Carolina as hardy CoCoRaHS participants tugged on rain gear to collect rainfall totals from their plastic gauges in the face of Helene鈥檚 鈥�.鈥�

One wrote in observation notes from Flat Springs on Sept. 28: 鈥淎bsolutely catastrophic impacts from flooding, landslides, and high winds. Major roads impassable. Neighboring fire department 鈥� completely carried away by Elk River.鈥�

The North Carolina State Climate Office relied in part on CoCoRaHS observations to determine where, and how much, rain fell. Four network volunteers in the western part of the state recorded totals from : 24.12 inches in Spruce Pine, 22.36 inches in Foscoe, and about 22 inches each at stations south of Black Mountain and Hendersonville.

Using a federal weather that categorizes the likelihood of extreme storm events, state weather officials rainfall produced by Helene likely qualifies it as a one-in-1,000-year storm.

鈥淵et another event of this magnitude within the state offers even more evidence that our climate is changing, and in extreme ways,鈥� wrote Corey Davis, an assistant state climatologist, in an online summary of Helene鈥檚 formation and impacts.

Davis continued: 鈥淭he rapid intensification of Helene over the Gulf, the amount of moisture available in its surrounding environment, and its manifestation as locally heavy鈥攁nd in some cases, historically unheard of鈥攔ainfall amounts are all known side effects of a warmer atmosphere.鈥�

The National Weather Service is currently updating this atlas, and in doing so, is relying 鈥渧ery extensively鈥� on extreme precipitation data recorded by CoCoRaHS volunteers to determine where heavy rainfall was distributed over time, Palecki says.  

Understanding Science in Daily Life

One volunteer whose data will likely be reflected in this record is Matt Kelsch, a hydrometeorologist in Colorado who is also the Boulder County coordinator for CoCoRaHS. Kelsch has collected precipitation data for the network鈥攐r asked a house sitter to do it鈥攚ithout missing a day since June 2001.

His plastic rain gauge sits in his expansive backyard near his garden, which, on Oct. 10, is bone dry.

But it鈥檚 not always this way. Kelsch, who has an encyclopedic memory for notable water-related weather events, says the wettest year he recorded was 2013, when about 34 inches fell. And one of the 鈥渕ost impressive spells of snow鈥� occurred in 2006, with 26 inches around Dec. 21, then 14 inches a week later, and 11 more inches seven days after that. 

For Kelsch, the value of CoCoRaHS lies in its ability to teach people of all ages to tune into the variability of precipitation in their own neighborhoods. Volunteering helps participants 鈥渋mprove their skills at estimating how much rain is falling,鈥� he says.

鈥淭hey can see when the storm is analyzed how much rain fell鈥攖heir report was one of the dots that was used,鈥� he adds. 鈥淐oCoRaHS, even though it鈥檚 simple, connects people with the science.鈥�

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 more to community resilience than the physical protection of properties,鈥� Owens, who works with Louisiana鈥檚 state folklife program, told Grist.听

Radical change is already occurring. Louisiana鈥檚 coast is slowly being swallowed by the sea; the Southwest is drying out; Appalachia鈥檚 transition from coal has been no less disruptive than a recent battery of floods and storms. These crises, which are unfolding nationwide, interrupt not only infrastructure, but the rituals and remembrances that make up daily life.

The study of those rituals and remembrances may seem like an esoteric discipline, one relegated to exploring quaint superstitions of the past, or documenting old men in overalls playing homemade instruments. It鈥檚 true that those who study and preserve folklore don鈥檛 concern themselves with high art鈥攖hat is, the sort of thing supported by networks of patronage and philanthropy and gallery exhibitions. Their mission is to record the culture of ordinary people: us. Our jokes, our songs, our spiritual practices, our celebrations, our recipes. Such things are the glue that holds society together, and as the climate changes our ways of life, Owens and her peers say, it鈥檚 important to pay attention to how culture adjusts.听

Doing that goes beyond the practical question of how people will carry their heritage into a world reshaped by climate change. It requires looking to tradition-bearers鈥攖he people within a community who are preserving its customs, songs, and stories and passing them on鈥攆or clues to how best to navigate this tumultuous time without losing generations of knowledge. In that way, folklorists across the country increasingly strive to help communities adapt to a new reality, understand how tradition shifts in times of crisis, and even inform climate policy. Folklore doesn鈥檛 seem like it would teach us how to adapt to a warming world, but even as it looks over our collective shoulder at the past, it can prepare us for a future that is in many ways already here.

In the coal towns of eastern Kentucky and West Virginia, Emily Hilliard has written extensively on this idea, which she calls visionary folklore. She looks for ways to sustain culture as those who practice it experience incredible change so that they might 鈥渟end traditions on to the future.鈥� As climate disaster threatens to wipe away entire towns and ways of life鈥攂oth literally, in the case of the communities lost to the floods that ravaged Kentucky in 2022, and figuratively through the loss of archives and museums to those inundations鈥攕he considers this continuity an essential part of retaining a sense of place and identity, two intangible feelings that help give life meaning.听

鈥淔olklorists can help communities pass on these traditions,鈥� she said.

Hilliard is a former West Virginia state folklorist who has, among other things, collected oral histories, songs, artwork, and legends for the West Virginia Folklife Program. It鈥檚 impossible to talk about climate in Appalachia without talking about coal, and the communities she has documented have a gnarled and thorny relationship with that industry, which has both sustained them and helped create the climate impacts they鈥檙e left to grapple with. 

People, Hilliard said, face a grave risk in 鈥渢he way that climate disaster breaks up communities, so that communities may no longer be able to share food and music traditions.鈥� Visionary folklore is, in part, about trying to restore, replace, and sustain these things, while finding ways to bulwark and adapt traditions for an uncertain future.

Climate change, like the coal industry that fostered it, threatens to rewrite some of the region鈥檚 cultural memory. Hilliard recalls members of the Scotts Run Museum in Osage, West Virginia, a place where town elders regularly play music, tell stories, and share meals, talking of rising floodwaters threatening their community gathering spaces. She sees collaboration with communities to preserve these important community resources as part of her life鈥檚 work.

As she strives to help communities sustain old traditions, Hilliard sees new ones emerging as coping strategies for a world in which foundations are shifting. As floods have repeatedly swept through Appalachia, she has seen communities come together to repair and replace family quilts, musical instruments, and other heirlooms and keepsakes, some of which were painstakingly crafted by hand and many of which have been handed down through generations. Community members in Scotts Run established 鈥渞epair cafes鈥� where people with various skills helped neighbors recover. Coal company towns鈥� often hardscrabble existence made such expertise necessary, and in an era of looming environmental destruction, those knowledge pathways allow people to simultaneously come together to grieve and to begin to rebuild their community. Such things are not limited to Appalachia, of course.

鈥淭丑别谤别 may exist beneficial practices and adaptations to crises within our historical and current practices,鈥� said Kimi Eisele, a folklorist with the Southwest Folklife Alliance in Tucson, Arizona. Eisele, who is beginning a folklife project focused on climate change, manages Borderlore, a journal operated by the Southwest Folklife Alliance. It recently received a $150,000 grant to collect oral histories that amplify the environmental history and future of the Southwest through the eyes of Indigenous peoples, immigrants, and other historically excluded people.

In southern Arizona, where Eisele lives and works, triple-digit temperatures, aridity, and groundwater depletion present a dire threat to agriculture and even long-term human settlement. Many of the interviews Eisele and others have collected focus on the impacts of climate change on Indigenous traditions and how those traditions are changing. The Tohono O鈥檕dham, whose ancestral land is divided by the border with Mexico, have, for example, long relied on willow for basket-weaving, but as farms and groundwater diversion have lowered the water table, willows have dried up and died. Basket-weavers now use the hardier yucca plant. Climate change is also causing traditional adobe homes to crack and decay; Native architects are working to shore them up and explore how modern technology can preserve them, even as the structures provide a model for building cooler, more energy-efficient homes.听

The interviews describe adaptations made over millennia that still work鈥攎ind-boggling, perhaps, to a society that has managed to nearly deplete its resources in just a few hundred years. The Hopi, Tohono O鈥檕dham, Din茅, and other peoples have weathered climate fluctuations, droughts, floods, and famine in the tens of thousands of years they鈥檝e lived in the Southwest. Hopi farmer Michael Kotutwa Johnson, who raises corn, believes that heritage provides essential tools for adapting to the climate crisis. He is working to ensure others learn to use them.

鈥淎s Hopis, we adjust to these environmental fluctuations,鈥� Johnson told Eisele in an interview for the Climate Lore oral history series. 鈥淚t鈥檚 part of our faith.鈥� Even if this period of climate crisis is unprecedented and unpredictable, Johnson says, he feels prepared to bear it out.

Johnson is a dryland farmer, meaning he uses traditional farming methods that don鈥檛 require听irrigation. He relies on the annual monsoon to water his fields, and on what he knows of the land to prepare for the season ahead. In 2018, for example, he realized early on that a drought was intensifying because 鈥渂iological indicators that usually appear in April weren鈥檛 there,鈥� he told Eisele. 鈥淧lants weren鈥檛 greening up, so we knew the soil moisture wasn鈥檛 going to be there.鈥� In response, he and other Hopi farmers planted only a quarter of their usual crop to avoid depleting the soil. What he describes as 鈥渂umper鈥� years can take communities through leaner times鈥攊f everyone is careful and pays attention.听

鈥淲e鈥檝e had a system in place to handle a lot of it. We plant enough to last three to five years,鈥� Johnson told Eisele. 鈥淲hen you have everybody doing that, then you have to have a good supply to get through climatic changes.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

He hopes other farmers, particularly Native farmers, collaborate in practicing regenerative agriculture rather than relying on destructive groundwater withdrawal to maintain crops the desert simply can鈥檛 support. Eisele finds stories like Johnson鈥檚 invaluable in helping people everywhere adapt. 鈥淲e are really looking at folklife as a tool for liberation,鈥� she said.

Along the Gulf Coast of Louisiana, Maida Owens takes such work a step farther, trying to use folklore to shape public policy and make the world more welcoming toward those displaced by the climate crisis.

The Bayou State has been losing up to 35 square miles of coastland each year for the better part of a century. As erosion and rising seas have remade the state, entire communities have had to move. Climate migration, new to some parts of the world, is as much a fact of life for Louisianans as the changing of the tides.

Even as Louisiana has focused on reclaiming lost land and restoring coastal wetland, Owens has urged special attention to adaptation, teaching people in harm鈥檚 way how to adjust their ways of life without losing what鈥檚 most important to them. She works with the Bayou Culture Collaborative, which brings together tradition-bearers from impacted communities to talk 鈥渁bout the human dimension of coastal land loss鈥� so residents, and their elected leaders, can better plan for the migration already afoot. Research has shown that when people make the difficult decision to pack up and leave, most of them go only a few miles.听

鈥淧eople from all over the coast are starting to leave and move inland,鈥� Owens said. In the parlance of her field, the places they leave behind are 鈥渟ending communities鈥�; where they鈥檙e headed, 鈥渞eceiving communities鈥� await them. Owens has begun to convene meetings online and in receiving communities to discuss cultural sensitivity to help people prepare for their new neighbors, knowing that migration can exacerbate class and racial tension. 

In the Louisiana folklife program鈥檚 ongoing 鈥淪ense of Place鈥擜nd Loss鈥� workshop series, Owens hosts discussions about the future of bayou traditions to collectively imagine what the near future might look like as the Gulf Coast changes. Artists, other tradition-bearers, and community leaders are invited to envision how they might make their towns and counties more welcoming for climate migrants, and Owens assists them in developing concrete action plans. Such an effort includes having receiving communities inventory their cultural and economic resources to see what they can offer newcomers, invest in trauma-informed care for disaster survivors, and consider what they might need to make themselves ready to integrate newcomers.听听听

The Louisiana state coastal protection and restoration authority has identified some towns that might have the capacity, and need, for more people; many of these places have the space but lack the social infrastructure to support the continuation of rural peoples鈥� foodways and artistic traditions. Though receiving communities may not be far away, those most vulnerable to displacement are often Indigenous, French-speaking, or otherwise culturally distinct, and moving even a short distance can expose them to unfamiliar circumstances. In her workshops, Owens is proposing ideas lifted in part from the adaptation strategies immigrants often rely upon, like cultural festivals and an emphasis on cultural exchange and language education. In a recent project, several coastal parishes (what Louisianans call counties) near Terrebonne created a collaborative quilt at a regional community festival as a way to draw attention to the beauty and ancestral importance of their wetlands and deepen their connections with one another.

That鈥檚 where Owens hopes folklorists can affect policy change, too. Owens is keeping a close eye on the state鈥檚 Coastal Master Plan, providing feedback with an eye towards supporting the culturally rich, and vanishing, coastal parishes. The Louisiana Folklore Society has urged the state to conduct its planning with respect to the desires and needs of the people who live on the coast, prioritizing engagement before any major mitigation project, and saving habitat not merely for its inherent value but also for its importance to the coastal tribes it sustains.

Though climate disasters have already thrown towns along the Louisiana coast and beyond into disarray and prompted seismic changes in how residents live, this is just the beginning. As floods and fires, droughts and erosion, and the myriad other impacts of a warming world wreak greater havoc, some of the answers to the crisis won鈥檛 be found in engineering or science, but in the cultural fabric that binds us together.

This article originally appeared in Grist at . Grist is a nonprofit, independent media organization dedicated to telling stories of climate solutions and a just future. Learn more at 

Yet, in stark contrast to this thriving collection of lives, quiet, depleted areas of the forest and old logging trails tell a different, darker story. The wild beauty of this place used to expand to every horizon before it met a violent history of colonialism. I was raised in the woods of western Massachusetts, not far from here, but my feelings of innate connection to the environment were profoundly altered when I learned the history of this stolen land. My sense of belonging was replaced by questions about my place in the world as someone whose ancestral roots stretch to Scotland and the Middle East, among other lands shaped by colonization and dispossession. 

If you鈥檙e not on the land and part of the land, then who ultimately speaks for the land?鈥� 鈥斆�dhamh 脫 Broin

When my partner and I purchased Mount Owen two years ago, the idea felt like a grotesque misnomer: a false claim of ownership over life impossible to possess, since plants, fungi, and more-than-human animals inherently belong to themselves. Trying to figure out the right word to describe the uncomfortable transfer of 鈥渙wnership鈥� we were negotiating, my partner and I landed on the word 鈥渟tewardship.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

While the word expresses our intent to nurture the local ecosystem, it doesn鈥檛 acknowledge the land鈥檚 original guardians. Today, we hold a land title rooted in a legal system that views land as property, not as a living entity with inherent rights. It is a title linked to historical theft, genocide, and dispossession. Mount Owen rises 1,500 feet above the traditional homeland of the Nipmuc Tribal Nation, stewards of this land for more than 12,000 years. We are working hard to move forward locally and culturally to dismantle colonial land laws and embrace a more respectful understanding of the living Earth. 

脌dhamh 脫 Broin, a friend and colleague dedicated to helping to decolonize the Gaelic people of Scotland through reconnection with Indigenous culture and language, highlights the importance of direct communion with the land. Without an intimate relationship, he argues, authentic advocacy for the land鈥檚 well-being is impossible: 鈥淚f you鈥檙e not on the land and part of the land, then who ultimately speaks for the land?鈥� 

On Mount Owen, we are moving slowly, learning from the land and its original stewards, and building community rooted in respect for Indigenous people and their knowledge. We are working toward a future where the land has been restored its rights and agency鈥攁s well as deep love.

Countering Settler Ecologies

How can we transition from exclusionary, extractive practices to a system that honors Traditional Ecological Knowledge and prioritizes the well-being of Earth? This is one of the questions I posed to Irus Braverman, author of . Her book explains how 鈥渄ispossession of Palestinians in the hands of the Zionist settler state occurs, centrally, in the ecological realm.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; She coined the term 鈥渟ettler ecologies鈥� to describe the oppressive situation, arguing that the territorial reach of Israel鈥檚 nature protection advances the Zionist project of Jewish settlement and the corresponding dispossession of non-Jews from this place.

Just as olive trees embody Palestinian identity and deep connection to place, pine trees represent Jewish claims and settlement expansion.

The environmental damage and confusing arguments surrounding 鈥渘ative鈥� and 鈥渘on-native鈥� species add another layer of devastation. Non-native species are ; some like plantago major provide ecosystem services like improved soil quality, erosion control, habitat, and food sources for wildlife. Plus, a fixation on their potential negative impacts can overshadow other, perhaps greater threats facing native species, like habitat destruction and pollution. Braverman describes how these arguments, mirroring the human struggle for land and belonging, position various creatures鈥攆allow deer, gazelles, wild asses, griffon vultures, pine trees, and cows鈥攁s Israeli 鈥渟oldiers鈥� against their Palestinian counterparts鈥攇oats, camels, olive trees, hybrid goldfinches, and akkoub. 

Just as olive trees embody Palestinian identity and deep connection to place, pine trees represent Jewish claims and settlement expansion. 

The Aleppo pine has become a tool of erasure, obscuring the ruins of Palestinian villages beneath a green veneer. Braverman describes pine forests as being central to the earlier Zionist mission and 鈥渢he imaginary of the European forest.鈥� While the Aleppo pine is native to the Mediterranean region, widespread planting in areas where it was not historically present has led to ecological concerns. The trees鈥� aggressive growth and dominance in certain ecosystems has raised questions about whether it should be classified as . 

To complicate and confuse matters, olive trees are sometimes labeled 鈥渘on-wild,鈥� which in turn legitimizes ecological violence toward them, such as their uprooting from nature reserves, even with evidence that olive tree cultivation dates to the Chalcolithic period (3600鈥�3300 BCE). Where exactly does the timeline for 鈥渨ild鈥� and for 鈥渘ative鈥� begin? More than just crops in Palestine, olive trees are woven into the fabric of the culture. Yet hundreds of thousands of trees have been destroyed in recent decades to make way for Israeli settlements and for the separation wall, threatening livelihoods and the environment. 

When people are distanced from land, they lose the intimate knowledge necessary to be effective stewards.

Throughout the world, this pitting of native and non-native organisms and species harms not only plants and other animals, but also displaced humans seeking refuge in new lands. In a , Charles R. Warren, a professor of environmental management at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, argues such labels are outdated and misleading and that they ignore the dynamic reality of ecosystems while promoting a view of nature as static and unchanging. The focus, as the article suggests, should be on how species interact within the environment, not their origin. He writes, 鈥淭he native/alien paradigm purports to be about flora and fauna, but actually it is all about us鈥攐ur perceptions and preferences about where other species belong and our ethical judgments about how to treat them.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

To Forage Is to Connect

Foraging is one of the many ways people have interacted with their environment for generations. Beyond a means of sustenance, foraging for specific herbs and ingredients represents a cultural connection to the land. Layla K. Feghali, author of , emphasizes this point, stating that ancestral landscapes of the SWANA region in Southwest Asia and North Africa have 鈥渋nspired every aspect of our relationships, rituals, beliefs, and identities.鈥�

But throughout the world, fines and arrests for trespassing sever this vital connection. In the United States, the right to forage began to erode in the mid-19th century, leading to the dispossession of Indigenous peoples and those who lived close to the land. In 1977, Israel enacted laws that criminalized foraging on designated nature reserves. Criminalizing foraging divorces people from local flora, weakening ecosystems and unraveling cultural traditions. And of course, when people are prevented from foraging, they must often buy plants that the earth gives freely; leading to unnecessary economic burdens.

When people are distanced from land, they lose the intimate knowledge necessary to be effective stewards. So how can we navigate this? In spaces we inhabit, how can we protect plants, fungi, and other animals we don鈥檛 know or understand? How will we recognize their absence if we don鈥檛 notice their presence?  

鈥淩ecentering our relationship with the earth can begin to transform the traumatic wounding of colonial ruptures,鈥� Layla K. Feghali writes. 

On Mount Owen we鈥檙e exploring ways to develop a reciprocal stewardship framework that honors the land鈥檚 rights as well as those of humans, who are also part of the ecosystem. Effective stewards know, love, and understand their local ecosystems. That is why my partner and I are working to foster an emotional connection to the land so we don鈥檛 lose sight of whom and what we鈥檙e protecting.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 10:02 a.m. PT on Oct. 1, 2024, to correct the spelling of 脌dhamh 脫 Broin鈥檚 name. Read our corrections policy here.

Though a world away from my daily life as a climate communicator in Boston, I found myself returning to a pressing question: 鈥淚s it too late to address climate change?鈥�

It鈥檚 a question that marine biologist and self-proclaimed 鈥減olicy nerd鈥� Ayana Elizabeth Johnson, with her own family connections to Jamaica, is intimately familiar with. In her latest book, (One World Press, September 2024), Johnson offers an evocative exploration of possibility and transformation in the face of climate change. The collection of essays, interviews, poems, and art began as an attempt to spark conversation about climate solutions in popular culture, but it evolved into something much bigger: 鈥淭his book is my response to anyone still wondering whether all of our climate efforts are worth it,鈥� Johnson told me when we spoke on the phone in September as she was traveling for her book tour. 

Johnson, who co-edited the bestselling 2021 anthology All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solution for the Climate Crisis, builds on her previous work to deliver a timely and urgent guide for envisioning and implementing climate solutions. The book is not just about understanding the problem (though Johnson and climate scientist Kate Marvel make clear 鈥渢he atmosphere is fundamentally different now鈥� due to human activities); it鈥檚 about contemplating鈥攁nd in a way, manifesting鈥攖he various paths we as a society can take toward a livable future.

Find your people, whoever that might be, or bring your people. Don鈥檛 feel like you鈥檙e supposed to go it alone. This requires community.鈥� 鈥擝rian Donahue

One of those paths must inevitably involve looking to nature for solutions. In a section of the book entitled 鈥淩eplenish and Re-Green,鈥� Johnson and others imagine a world where food systems are regional and regenerative, biodiversity is valued, and human stewardship of other species is the norm. Brian Donahue, a professor, farmer, and New Englander like myself, proposes a novel plan to revitalize rural America by growing more food closer to home and repopulating small towns. 

As a Black woman with dreams of leaving urban life for a country homestead, I鈥檝e often felt afraid of the conservative values that typically come with living in rural communities. But Donahue offers sage advice: 鈥淔ind your people, whoever that might be, or bring your people. Don鈥檛 feel like you鈥檙e supposed to go it alone. This requires community.鈥�

Community is a throughline of the book, and not just the human variety. Animals and insects, ecosystems, and various natural cycles are incredibly important for planetary health. But they remain enigmatic for most of us. Take, for example, the fact that even documenting the number of species on Earth is a never-ending effort. Yet Johnson writes that 鈥渢he climate solutions that nature offers can comprise more than one-third of the CO₂ mitigation needed to hold global warming to below 2 degrees C.鈥� A crucial part of unlocking this potential for change is having greater respect for鈥攁nd ceding decision-making power to鈥攖he naturalists, conservation scientists, and Indigenous communities already stewarding the natural world.

What if we had systems that loved us and, by extension, the planet?鈥�

Just as the book homes in on specific solutions, it also zooms out, taking aim at the cultural values undergirding many of our modern systems. In an interview with author and activist Bill McKibben, Johnson draws connections between the capitalistic values of short-term growth and the funding of new fossil fuel development. The book lays bare the fact that money that companies and consumers have sitting in major banks produces more carbon than the average American does in a year. 

According to McKibben, a reimagined financial ecosystem might rely more on credit unions and locally owned banks that keep money in a given community: 鈥淭hat should be happening as we start to rely more on renewable energy, because oil and gas are in Texas and Saudi Arabia and Russia, but happily, sun and wind are everywhere.鈥�

Through the exploration of subjects from media and labor to transit and legal systems, Johnson and co-conspirators answer a deeper question about the climate crisis: What if we had systems that loved us and, by extension, the planet? In the section she calls 鈥淎way From the Brink,鈥� Johnson sees these ideas to their rightful conclusion: Advertisements for fossil fuels and gas-powered cars would be an aberration. Climate change would be embedded in all local journalism, not viewed as a niche topic. We would evolve beyond the climate-apocalypse box office flick, and climate realities would become the backdrop of every genre of television and film. The influence of fossil fuels in politics would be reigned in, and our democratic system would become more representative. Exploitative labor practices would be abolished, and a livable wage would be commonplace. Seeing this vision laid out with striking specificity, it feels to me like it鈥檚 within our grasp.

Johnson admits that on the role of electoral politics in climate action, and the climate impacts of mega industries like fast fashion, the book is a bit light. These are two topics Johnson plans to cover in her new podcast debuting on her in the fall of 2024. 鈥淭his is such a useful question鈥攚hat if we get it right?鈥攖hat this book can鈥檛 fully answer,鈥� she tells me frankly. 鈥淪o I want to keep the conversation going.鈥�

Whether you鈥檙e an activist, a parent, or simply curious about climate, you are likely to find pieces in this collection that appeal to you鈥攁nd that鈥檚 intentional. The book does not argue for one-size-fits-all solutions. 鈥淭oo often, the climate movement and the media tell everyone to do the same things: Vote, protest, donate, spread the word, and lower your carbon footprint,鈥� Johnson writes. 鈥淏ut all too rarely are we asked to contribute our specific talents, our superpowers.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For my part, I saw myself in the book鈥檚 Afrofuturist agricultural artwork by Olalekan Jeyifous. And reflecting on Marge Piercy鈥檚 poem 鈥淭o Be of Use鈥� inspired me to view my climate work, with its many ups and downs, as an exercise in perseverance. It encouraged me to recommit to incremental change and stay invested for the long haul. 

We need to live as though we understand this crisis is real.鈥� 鈥擜yana Elizabeth Johnson

The variety of pieces in the book and the many forms they take serve as a reminder that everyone has a place in these climate futures and a hand in bringing them to life. Johnson鈥檚 climate action Venn diagram aims to pinpoint the intersection of what brings you joy, what you鈥檙e good at, and what work needs doing. That, she says, can be your place in the climate movement. For me, it鈥檚 probably something involving but the book overflows with inspiration and starting points for anyone struggling to picture a replenished world.

That鈥檚 not to say that this world is without sacrifice, though. In a concluding entry, Johnson and ocean farmer Bren Smith are clear-eyed about the necessary work and change ahead. 鈥淲e鈥檙e going to have to say goodbye to some things we hold close to our heart,鈥� Smith says, remarking on the many natural wonders we鈥檝e already lost. Johnson adds, 鈥淲e need to live as though we understand this crisis is real,鈥� which means trying out a range of solutions and having a healthy relationship with failure. 

A book of this kind, with its cautiously optimistic view on climate, might read as wishful thinking. To me, it is a prayer for the modern era: where practicality meets possibility.

Fever: An Old-fashioned Tale About Modern Problems

In that town, the people know all kinds of spells. There are spells for protection, spells for assistance, spells for small wonders.

Those who tend the sick know the magic words which will keep you safe from fever. The traveling merchants know the incantation to shield you from the poxes that swirl in other towns. One spell lightens the load in your cart so your horse trots along as if he were pulling nothing at all. Here, a little cantrip that conjures a basket to carry home your bread. There, a charm to preserve the herbs you carry to market; when you arrive they鈥檙e as crisp and fresh as when you picked them that morning. And simply murmur the right words, and the water in your cup will flow to your lips, bubbling upward like a waterfall being reeled in. The children giggle as they drink, and others find relief in being able to drink so effortlessly. What a world it is: magic to salve, to ease your path through life, to dazzle and delight.

No one in the town remembers asking for such marvels, and none of them can explain quite how they came to have all this ordinary magic. It鈥檚 been around so long, handed down and shared around, that it鈥檚 woven into their lives now. They only know that the witch who lives on the hill, or some other witch, once gave them these spells and charms, drawing her power from wherever witches find it. (And no one could quite tell you where that is. Although some do say that the witches鈥� magic comes from deep in the earth, that it鈥檚 the breath of the first living things. That if you were to see the magic, it would be dark like peat. Black with uncountable years.)

Everyone knows, of course, that there鈥檚 a price to pay for these small wonders. The witches have always been clear about this. Nothing comes for free in this world. Just like life, magic is a balance, and the universe needs to settle its ledger. Meet a need today, savor a small luxury, and you might encounter some little misfortune tomorrow. It sounds unpleasant, but it鈥檚 not hard to understand how the people accept it. Oftentimes, the price comes due so long afterward that it doesn鈥檛 seem related at all. Or perhaps it pops up elsewhere, far away, causing some other person to stumble or trip instead. True, it鈥檚 a haphazard sort of accounting, but people will accept almost anything if it鈥檚 just the way things have always been.

In this way life proceeds unquestioned, until who knows what it is that finally cracks and starts the dam bursting. Because, lately, the discomforts have begun to trouble the people. The small misfortunes seem to mount; they feel bothersome and close by.

Take the stream, for instance: Once it flowed cleanly, but now it overflows its banks, and foul water floods the paths. Sometimes, the people find their own animals have been swept away by the currents and drowned. The people always knew the magic came with a price, but the small misfortunes don鈥檛 seem so small anymore. And what else are they to conclude but that it鈥檚 the fault of the witch and the silly magic she gave them?

When the people meet in the marketplace, they mutter about the spells of convenience: those devilishly crisp herbs, the bewitched bread baskets, the sorcery of that up-tumbling water. Why, they grumble, did the witch ever offer them such absurdities? They curse her wicked, sticky magic. It should have stayed where it belonged, they say, deep in the earth鈥檚 hot belly.

The witch knows what is brewing. When she passes the townspeople in the woods or in the market, she hears them muttering and seething. She鈥檚 seen their eyes flash with fiery resentment. And she knows it won鈥檛 be long before they confront her, fueled with righteousness, ready with their hot words.

They鈥檙e angry about the spells that seem so frivolous, so extravagant. They forget, for now, all the others that heal and ease. Even so, she knows that something has to change. The people could use fewer spells, but there鈥檚 more to it than that. Perhaps, after all, the old magic has run its course. Perhaps it鈥檚 time to craft new spells that don鈥檛 carry so steep a price.

She鈥檚 heard of one incantation that could protect 40 people from fever before any harms would be incurred. And she might be able to make a charm to shield not just one person but the whole town from poxes. The healing spells have always come with a cost, but it doesn鈥檛 have to be that way. She knows that bargains can sometimes be struck with the cosmic ledger, that nothing is set in stone.

From her window, she can see the people鈥檚 faces flickering in the torchlight as they climb the hill to her little house. Soon they will hammer on her door, feverish with indignation, demanding she account for herself. But who knows if they will want to hear what she has to say. In the white heat of rage, people don鈥檛 always want to sit and talk. It can seem like the only answer is to burn things down. 

Although, sometimes, it鈥檚 also right there in the heat of the crucible that the world might be reimagined. Where we can dismantle the old ways and forge something brand new. 

We know that when it comes to the wicked problems of climate change, biodiversity loss, and pollution we need to shift worldviews. 鈥�And the most advanced tool we have to change worldviews鈥攖o transform people鈥檚 attitudes, values, and structures of perception鈥攊s called the story,鈥� writes Marek Oziewicz, professor of children鈥檚 and young adult literature.

As Will Storr, author of The Science of Storytelling, reminds us, folktales have been used to communicate social codes and since humans first formed societies. Whoever tells the stories defines the agenda: the framing of our common issues and enemies.

鈥淔ever,鈥� the story that opens this piece, is about the magic of plastics, which we take for granted today. IV bags, tubes, and personal protective equipment (PPE) have revolutionized medical procedures and saved lives through reduced contamination risks. Plastic packaging has also transformed our ability to keep and thereby wasting the resources involved in planting, fertilizing, harvesting, and transporting those goods.

Yet we can no longer look away from the accumulated impacts of plastic pollution. And as a result, we often blame consumers for choosing plastic bags or plastic straws. Instead of individualizing responsibility, in 鈥淔ever鈥� we articulate a tale that gets us wondering about broader systemic changes required of manufacturers and petrochemical companies.

There is no singular, standardized account of plastic鈥檚 history. Some point to the seeking of alternatives to ivory and elephants鈥� tusks for billiard balls, others to a repurposing of military materials fueling a postwar boom. Either way, plastics were not initially designed for single use. Yet, as a result of their explosion onto the scene in the 1960s, plastics have become a and a market for expanded growth by fossil fuel companies.

One of the major issues with plastics is that there is inadequate research on their health impacts, and a lack of labeling on the more than used in plastic production. We know as well as waste pickers, sorters, and recyclers is cause for concern. And, thankfully, these chemicals鈥� toxic bearing on human health remains part of the currently being negotiated.

This sort of collective, upstream regulation is what is actually required to balance the cosmic ledger. Recent shows that even with a massive expansion of waste infrastructure, we cannot keep pace with the of plastic production. We have to look at how to stem the flow upstream. As such, another key systemic intervention we , is making the polluter pay through .

For example, in the U.K., . That鈥檚 U.K. residents paying so that businesses can save money by delivering their products in inexpensive, disposable containers. If businesses were paying the additional 90% through Extended Producer Responsibility, it鈥檚 not hard to imagine that companies would be motivated to innovate different products and services with less waste.

Because, as Max Liboiron, author of , eloquently argues, the concept of disposability鈥攊ncluding recycling鈥�is dependent on the idea that we can send unwanted materials away. Indeed, there is continued violent enactment of this colonialist approach when one considers landfills and dumps being sited in or near Indigenous communities and communities of color.

It鈥檚 time the polluters pay for the creation of systems that maximize the value of this magical family of materials. We don鈥檛 need to burn all plastics at the stake to make meaningful change; instead we need to look at the broader systems around how we manufacture, use, and dispose of plastics. In this way we can find ways to live with them (perhaps happily ever after).

Stories can help us create universal climate literacy and find united agendas. We need tales of collective action and of finding well-being in doing less. We need tales that inspire activism and mobilize visions of joyful, low-impact lifestyles. It鈥檚 time to rewrite some traditional tales in service of the people and the planet.

Note: The fairy tale, Fever, was written by Becky Tipper based on the academic research by Katherine Ellsworth-Krebs and her colleagues.

鈥淥ur farm is queer because it鈥檚 really different from the normal farm,鈥� says Hannah Breckbill, one of the farm鈥檚 three worker-owners. For one, the farm prioritizes sustainable perennial crops, which regrow year after year, in contrast to the , which require planting each year. She says that her farm鈥檚 emphasis on community also stands in stark contrast to out-of-town commodity crop growers. As a vegetable farmer on small acreage, Breckbill isn’t considered a “real” farmer by many other farmers in the area.

鈥淒ay in and day out we鈥檙e growing food for people,鈥� she says of herself and her fellow worker-owners. 鈥淲e鈥檙e bringing people out onto the land and into connection with what鈥檚 going on.鈥�

That access to land is a critical component of this work. It鈥檚 an effort to overcome the centuries of systemic discrimination that have prevented marginalized groups from owning farms or homes, as well as the economic freedom and mobility they can provide. 

To this same end, is tackling the Seattle housing crisis head-on by setting up a land trust to support those left behind by rampant gentrification and displacement. The group centers BIPOC leadership and just purchased a 12-bedroom house after a in the Beacon Hill neighborhood. Housing manager for Queer the Land鈥檚 Beacon House, Nya Shahir, knows the housing crisis firsthand, having lived in a tent in an unfinished basement for a time. They say that their project is more than just helping people find secure housing.

鈥淲e want our BIPOC queer community to be well,鈥� says Shahir, who is Black-Latinx and uses fae or they pronouns. 鈥淭he key is to survive, thrive, all the things.鈥�

Though different in their focus and approach, both Queer the Land and Humble Hands Harvest are working to defeat the extractive capitalist economy that fuels the climate crisis. In its place, they aim to create a regenerative economy of care. Key to this is taking back the land.

Addressing History to Thrive

As it stands, systems of oppression make it difficult for QT2S BIPOC (Queer Trans Two-Spirit Black Indigenous people of color) to thrive. After centuries of Native genocide, the U.S. passed a series of federal laws in the 1950s and selling their land to non-Natives. By design, people of color, particularly Black folks, have also been denied the opportunity to accrue wealth. in the year 2000 could trace their land ownership or the wealth it created to white ancestors who were beneficiaries of the Homestead Acts passed during the Civil War.

On top of that, cities have long used , a practice of color-coding maps to segregate and deny mortgages for Black people and . In Seattle, , those same redlined neighborhoods are now pushing out people of color. In light of the almost nonexistent social safety net in the U.S., between of houseless youth identify as LGBTQ, despite only comprising .    

This systemic discrimination matters in accessing land for housing as well as for farming. People of color and women also face a USDA that has denied them lending for decades Today ; only of U.S. farms have at least one Black farmer. of U.S. farmers identify as women. As Breckbill, who is white, explains: With heteronormative family structures where women have to either marry a man or inherit land from family in order to farm, the barriers to land ownership compound as white farmers pass down their land.

鈥淭his original theft enshrines this white supremacy and white wealth accumulation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The Connection Between Land Access and Climate

Why does this matter for the climate crisis? Corporate interests that directly exacerbate climate change can purchase land. For example, was set to be purchased for a concentrated animal feeding operation (CAFO) until neighbors banded together and convinced the landowner to sell to them instead of putting it up for auction.

Addressing the white supremacy embedded in land and housing inequalities also addresses the climate crisis. Housing, land, and food justice cannot be separated from climate justice.

Queer the Land suggests that the existing system has long contributed to the climate crisis by operating on a logic of scarcity: the idea that there鈥檚 only so much to go around and therefore marginalized people must simply endure crisis after crisis. Instead, the group wants to move to a logic of abundance. While their house is still under repair, members have big visions for what鈥檚 to come: a microfarm that provides free or low-cost organic food for the community; a facilitation space for folks to teach or create art; a bike share program; and a community apothecary stocked with herbs.

Jayce Marrakesh, a Two-Spirit Black and Indigenous program facilitator for Queer the Land, says they will do their part to minimize climate impacts through permaculture, which is all about regeneration. Marrakesh sees the elements of their work as connected by a common thread of healing generational trauma and reclaiming wellness for marginalized people: 鈥淚f you鈥檙e well in body and spirit, you can dream and create.鈥�

The project鈥檚 decision-making and structure reflects a queer mode of relating to each other, too. Marrakesh explains that with about 80 members, four paid staff, and an advisory board, Queer the Land is creating a model different from 鈥渃olonizing, white oppressive spaces鈥� where bosses surveil and micromanage workers. Moving by consensus, the Project wants to establish a space with grace, generosity, and trust so that everyone has a say over their land and labor.   

Humble Hands Harvest likewise uses a worker co-op structure to make decisions. Instead of those with more equity having more power in decision-making, all workers have equal say. 鈥淲e needed a way to have clear agreements,鈥� Breckbill says, 鈥渢o match what our values were and the world we wanted to live in.鈥�

One of those values is to open opportunities for future generations of farmers through a project called 鈥�.鈥� When Breckbill and other worker-owners want to retire from farming, new farmers will be able to enter without debt, thanks to long-standing investments from the local community. As she puts it, 鈥淚 think of the Commons as a resource held by the community that uses it and manages it for sustainability.鈥�

Creating the World We Want

Both projects acknowledge the massive scale of the climate crisis and consider their work to be a model that other communities can follow. 鈥淲e want Queer the Land houses everywhere. It鈥檚 not just a Seattle thing,鈥� Shahir says. 鈥淲e do this to inspire people to build their own land trusts in their own cities.鈥�

Luckily, Queer the Land and Humble Hands Harvest are in good company with their efforts. Humble Hands Harvest organizes a Queer Farmer Convergence, which annually gathers queer farmers to connect with one another. like the are using a Commons model to advance Indigenous land sovereignty and reparations. Across the U.S. since fall 2017, has forged bonds among QT BIPOC farmers. The and build solidarity. For a year starting in 2017, the envisioned land justice in West Virginia. And in 2018 in California, worked with the Oakland Community Land Trust to purchase the 23^rd Avenue Community Building, which continues to be used as a space for affordable housing, a community garden, and the home for a queer and trans arts organization.

Breckbill suggests that her work at Humble Hands Harvest provides the foundation for a social transition as much as a technological one: 鈥淲hen I think about transforming the entire economy, I don鈥檛 just think about fossil fuels. I think about how do we change ownership? How do we distribute wealth?鈥� These changes, even at a small scale, present a model for how to ultimately address the climate crisis.

This story is part of听, a global journalism collaboration strengthening coverage of the climate story.

According to the history books, these horses don鈥檛 exist. In the official narrative, America鈥檚 original horses 鈥渨ent extinct鈥� thousands of years ago, killed off by . Horses that live in the Americas today, claim historians, are descendants of those first brought by European explorers and settlers in the early 16th century.

But according to Indigenous oral histories and spiritual beliefs from Saskatchewan to Oklahoma, America鈥檚 Native horses never went extinct. They survived the Ice Age and lived among Native people before, and after, the arrival of European colonizers, and a mountain of historical and archaeological evidence proves it鈥攆rom to .

Now, with only a few thousand Native horses believed to be left in the Americas, Native people are beginning to share the knowledge they have quietly protected for centuries. For many Indigenous people, these Native horses aren鈥檛 beasts of burden but relatives and sacred 鈥渕edicine.鈥� And in recent years, reserves such as the Sacred Way Sanctuary and South Dakota鈥檚 have stepped up their work to rescue Indigenous horse lineages from extinction as part of the. An alliance of Indigenous and non-Indigenous caretakers, the sanctuaries on the trail are dedicated not just to preserving Native horses but to promoting their history and protecting related sacred sites and ceremonies.

鈥淭丑别谤别 were certain relatives that Creator sent that specifically are designed to help us in our journey spiritually, to help strengthen us. One is the horse,鈥� explains Dr. Yvette Running Horse Collin, co-founder of the Sacred Way Sanctuary. 鈥淭hey literally share our experience,鈥� With only a relative few Native horses remaining, she says, 鈥渨e have decided that we will now speak and we鈥檙e not going to stop.鈥�

Native horses and the medicine they provide

The Sacred Way Sanctuary is set off a semirural road in the bucolic hinterlands of northwestern Alabama. Bound by 2 miles of freshwater streams, it lies within the original borders of one of the first federal Indian Reservations in the United States, a place meant to contain and civilize members of the Cherokee Nation.

About 100 horses live on the land, each a descendent of Native North American horse lines named for the nations associated with them, including the Choctaw, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Lakota, Cheyenne, Apache, Ojibwe, and Pueblo. The horses at the Sacred Way Sanctuary and the others along the Native American Horse Trail are different from those of European lineages. They鈥檙e smaller, for starters, rarely more than 14 hands high (4.7 feet high at the withers). They stand differently, consume foods that European horses can鈥檛 digest, and their coats have distinct patterns and markings. There are speckled appaloosas and patchwork paints. There are horses with webbing on their faces.

Above all, the horses at these sanctuaries are sacred beings that can help to heal the wounds that cause the mind, body, and soul to shift out of alignment, says Running Horse Collin. The horses, or parts of the horse, are incorporated into ceremonies. An Oglala Lakota rite of passage ceremony, for example, involves piercing the ears of young boys and girls with earrings made of horsehair, says Loretta Afraid of Bear-Cook, an Oglala Lakota elder, faith keeper, cultural specialist, and a at the Sacred Way Sanctuary.

Another form of horse medicine was used by Oglala Lakota leaders in the 19th century, including famed chief Crazy Horse. 鈥淥nce the horse dies, there鈥檚 a part on the leg that looks like a little circle, and that鈥檚 where the power comes from,鈥� Afraid of Bear-Cook explains. 鈥淭he chiefs of that time period, they [took] that horse medicine off the leg and they dried it and put it back behind the ear. Whenever they were going to ask for anything, whether it was spiritual or physical, they had the mindset that they would include the horse.鈥�

Just being around a horse is healing medicine, too. 鈥淔rom watching the horses, watching what they do, you learn responsibility. You can talk to that horse, which we still do today. If you look directly into its eyes, [it] will look to you, it鈥檒l put its nose to you and it will open up,鈥� Afraid of Bear-Cook says.

Indeed, in recent years Western science has begun to confirm what Indigenous communities have always known. Riding and caring for horses can and . Equine therapy is becoming increasingly popular for and . 鈥淗orses are incredibly sacred, they鈥檙e more than sacred,鈥� Running Horse Collin says. 鈥淥ur people didn鈥檛 need those kind of studies, we just knew it worked.鈥�

A shared history

Horses and the Native people of North America are not just spiritually intertwined; their histories echo each other. After the conquistadors arrived, both were slaughtered, forced into subservience, and pushed onto inferior lands. Both have survived. 鈥淪ide by side, they are with us, and they鈥檝e experienced everything we鈥檝e been through,鈥� Running Horse Collin says.

The memory of those injustices still live on in the stories of Native people. Afraid of Bear-Cook was just a girl when the Bureau of Indian Affairs stormed the Pine Ridge Reservation with a fleet of empty trailers. They came for the horses and cattle of her people, the right to which the U.S. government claimed because the Lakota had 鈥渇ailed鈥� to pay taxes on their livestock.

The bureau rounded them up one by one, loaded them on the trailers and drove away. Afterwards, remembers Afraid of Bear-Cook, the women cut their hair in mourning. The BIA hadn鈥檛 just taken their animals, they had 鈥渟evered鈥� the tribe鈥檚 relationship to their sacred relatives. They were never seen again.

Removing horses from their Indigenous caretakers (or slaughtering them outright) was a common tactic used by the U.S. government to force Native people to assimilate. 鈥淕oing through our lives, we became aware that to further invalidate our existence in our communities, the bureau, the first thing that they did was come to [take] the cattle and horses,鈥� says Afraid of Bear-Cook.

But denying Native claims to horses didn鈥檛 start with the U.S. government. chronicled the presence of horses throughout North America. In 1521, herds were seen grazing the lands that would become Georgia and the Carolinas. Sixty years later, found herds of horses living among Native people in coastal areas of California and Oregon. In 1598, described New Mexico as being 鈥渇ull of wild mares.鈥�

Yet, the official story that was written into the history books, and which persists today, is that the New World had no horses before the arrival of the Spanish. According to the narrative, the first horses to arrive in the New World in 1519 were the progenitors of every horse found on the continent in later years. That it would have been biologically impossible for a small group of horses in Mexico to populate regions thousands of miles away in as little as two years is never discussed.

That鈥檚 by design, says Running Horse Collin who, after being asked by elders from different Native nations to set the record straight, conducted more than a decade of research and . In the Spain of the late 15th and 16th centuries, horses were associated with nobility, power, and cultural refinement. 鈥淚f indeed there were horses here and the Native people had a relationship with them, with Europe鈥檚 standards at that time, we were civilized. And, in order for them to 鈥渃onquer鈥� and do what they wanted to do, we had to be uncivilized,鈥� she says. Covering up the accounts of those who bore witness to horses in the New World and denying that horses existed in the New World at all, helped to sell the myth of on which the conquest of the Americas was built.

Crossbreeding with European horses and their slaughter in the name of 鈥渉erd management鈥� have reduced the Native horse population to just a few thousand. Still, Running Horse Collin believes it鈥檚 not too late to bring their story to light. In addition to her work with Sacred Way, this past fall she began talks with a team of French geneticists to analyze the DNA of the sanctuary鈥檚 native horses. She expects that their results will provide undeniable scientific proof not just that American horses persevered through the Ice Age, but that they, like Native people, have survived through the centuries.

Protecting Native horses and their spiritual relationship to Native people as well as educating the public about their existence drive not just the Sacred Way Sanctuary but other horse sanctuaries along the Native American Horse Trail. A handful of reserves participate in the partnership, established in 2014, each with its own area of focus. The Red Pony Stands Ojibwe Horse Sanctuary, for example, is dedicated to the preservation of the endangered Ojibwe pony, while the Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary is dedicated to caring for and preserving the wild 鈥淎merican mustang,鈥� sacred sites, and the range.

鈥淭丑别谤别 is no doubt in my mind that wild horses are native to North America,鈥� says Rob Pliskin, a 30-year volunteer of the Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary and former board member of , an organization dedicated to protecting wild horses and burros. 鈥淭he sanctuary is for the benefit of the horses and their opportunity to live as they were intended to live. It also offers firsthand on-the-ground education about the nature of the wild horse and its presence in the ecology of the American West.鈥�

Ultimately, raising awareness about Native horses does more than just assure their continued survival. It makes Native experiences, as a whole, more visible. 鈥淚t鈥檚 many times hard to talk about [the Indigenous experience] directly because the world doesn鈥檛 want to hear it. But you can talk about the horses,鈥� concludes Running Horse Collins. 鈥淲e鈥檙e still alive. Are we battered? Sure. Are the horses battered? Sure. But is it over? No.鈥�

A forget-me-not wildflower bloomed in the clearing. This is where the Cow Creek Band of Umpqua Tribe of Indians have been restoring their oak savanna meadows, after decades of fire suppression and the removal of large, fire-adapted trees under federal management.

In addition to land they bought from private owners, in 2018, the Tribe received 17,519 acres of land from the U.S. government for the Tribe to manage under its own authority. This came as part of the ; this bipartisan legislation in trust in order to return the restoration of these lands鈥攁nd the related economic activity and job development they created鈥攖o the Cow Creek Umpqua and the Confederated Tribes of Coos, Lower Umpqua, and Siuslaw Indians.

The Cow Creek Umpqua government hired foresters to study the landscape, which was dotted with decades-old Douglas fir stumps from clearcuts. They discovered that before the area had been overtaken by conifers, it was historically an oak savanna meadow, a pocket in the Willamette Valley that stretches the length of the Cascade Mountains and the Oregon Coast Range. This finding matched Tribal elders鈥� stories about a time when game was abundant, and grasses thrived as the tribe practiced cultural burning.

鈥淲e are not living the way that we want to live,鈥� says Jackson, Cow Creek Umpqua member and education coordinator for the tribe. His ancestors, the Nah谩nk拾uotana, moved seasonally between homes in the foothills and in the valley. When leaving their summer camps in the foothills of the Cascades, or Umpqua mountains, they would burn the land before moving down to their winter camps at lower elevations. They did the same when coming back up as the weather warmed. The Nah谩nk拾uotana would return to each place to find healthy soils enriched by the charcoal left from the fire, which came from burned wood and plant debris that acted as a natural fertilizer.

鈥淲e are a burn culture,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淲e would say that we burned here since time immemorial. Anthropologists or archaeologists would say that we burned here 20,000 to 40,000 years.鈥� In any case, Jackson says, the feds have 鈥渕essed up鈥� that legacy in the past 200 years by not continuing these age-old land practices.

The U.S. Forest Service鈥檚 fire suppression policies began in the early 1900s and to the tribe鈥檚 current struggle with wildfires that burn larger, hotter, and out of control. To reduce this risk鈥攖o both the Tribe and the nearby city of Roseburg, Oregon鈥攁nd to revitalize their cultural resources, Cow Creek Umpqua is blending Western science with traditional ecological knowledge to manage the landscape and safely reintroduce fire. Despite the challenges posed by climate change in finding suitable conditions for burning, outcomes from the managed areas so far are promising.

But to bring fire back, they first needed their land back. 

The Knowledge to Thrive

Despite the historic theft of the Tribe鈥檚 land, many members, like Jackson鈥檚 ancestors, never left. 

When the Treaty of 1853 was signed, the Cow Creek Umpqua viewed it as a government-to-government agreement between two sovereign nations. In exchange for land 鈥渙wnership,鈥� the U.S. government would provide the Tribe with health care, housing, and education. However, the U.S. government didn鈥檛 follow through on its promises. Rather, it claimed more than 500,000 acres of Cow Creek Umpqua鈥檚 land, and while the agreement was to pay the Tribe just $0.02 per acre鈥攁 fraction of the $1.25 per acre the government charged settlers who quickly moved in鈥� they never received even this low sum.

Many people of Cow Creek Umpqua resisted the U.S. government鈥檚 efforts to relocate them to reservations, and instead lived in seclusion. They held onto their culture and continued to hold council meetings as they had for countless generations. 

In 1954, the Cow Creek Umpqua pursued justice with the U.S. government. After being forcibly terminated under the , the Tribe filed a land claims case, resulting in its recognition as a sovereign tribal government and a $1.5 million settlement in the 1980s.

In the following decades, the Tribe started buying its land back. In 2018, the Bureau of Land Management returned around 3% of the Cow Creek Umpqua鈥檚 ancestral lands under the Western Oregon Tribal Fairness Act. It was returned in trust, meaning the federal government holds legal title, but the beneficial interest remains with the Tribe. Elected leaders who supported the passage of the law called it an in righting the injustices toward Indigenous peoples.  

Then, in 2019, a wildfire came through. 

The Milepost 97 wildfire destroyed nearly a fourth of what was returned to the tribe: 3,634 of their 17,519 acres. The fire raged when it reached the burn scar of the 1987 Canyon Mountain wildfire. Years鈥� worth accumulated snags and thick brush prevented firefighters from quickly accessing the area and added dangerous fuel to the flames.

鈥淲hen I first went up there, it was like an atomic bomb had gone off,鈥� Cow Creek Umpqua Chairman Carla Keene this year. 鈥淭he trees were gone. It was just black, and it was just the most depressing sight I鈥檇 ever seen.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The Cow Creek Umpqua Tribal Board of Directors resolved to restore the forest, initiating efforts to salvage and repurpose the charred logs. Today, that lumber is showcased in the construction of the Portland International Airport and the Tribe鈥檚 remodeled government office. These structures display the tribe鈥檚 principle that forests and people are meant to have a hands-on connection. 

鈥淔or people that have not had their voices heard at many tables for a long time, our [Tribal] voice is starting to be heard and starting to be cherished,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e starting to see Western scientific knowledge and traditional ecological knowledge start to do this, like they should.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

After the fire, the Tribe hired Wade Christensen, an enrolled member of Choctaw Nation, as a forester. He was trained in silviculture鈥攁 practice focused on managing forest health and growth to meet specific land management objectives, such as ecosystem restoration through thinning and burning. He creates detailed maps and work plans focused on cultivating the oak savanna and reducing the conifer monocultures that had been introduced for timber.

To make this happen, Christensen coordinates closely with the Forest Service and neighboring landowners for prescribed burns. Foresters like Christensen refer to it as a 鈥減rescription鈥� because, much like a doctor treating a sick patient, they are writing a plan to restore the land to health. 

Early in his time working for the Tribe, Christensen was following a prescription on land the Tribe had purchased from a timber company. As he began marking trees for removal, he quickly realized the plan didn鈥檛 account for the meadow ecoregion. Within it were Oregon white oak trees, a species with thick bark that can survive fire. Moving forward, he knew he had to adapt. He worked to gain a deeper understanding of the landscape, not only to reduce wildfire risk, but also to promote cultural resources like berries, native grasses, and 鈥媘edicinal plants that flourish in recently burned soil and under an open canopy.

鈥淚鈥檝e got this understanding of the benefits of burning in the forest, and I鈥檓 all in on prescribed burning,鈥� says Christensen, who has a degree from Oregon State University in sustainable forest management, 鈥渁nd I work for a Tribe, so I鈥檓 learning why it is important to the Tribe.鈥澨�

That learning is ongoing. Christensen recalls hearing a speaker at a conference say that he knows to light the trees when the acorns drop: 鈥淚 was like, I am not at that man鈥檚 level.鈥�

Christensen was listening to Frank Lake, a Karuk Tribal descendant and leading research ecologist with the Forest Service鈥檚 Southwest Station, who explores social-ecological frameworks to understand the impact of colonization鈥攍ike fire suppression policies鈥�. Lake鈥檚 research underscores that between federal agencies and tribal nations is essential, something Christensen understands well.

鈥淵ou really got to dig deep with these guys and spend a lot of time with them,鈥� Christensen says. 鈥淚鈥檓 using [fire] for fuels reduction, and hopefully I do things right, and we have other benefits. I am trying to get to where I understand where we can apply it to help a plant that we gather off of, but that takes time, and that takes a lot of conversation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Healing Cultures and Landscapes

In an era of climate change, government agencies across the U.S. are increasingly recognizing the need to actively apply traditional ecological knowledge to mainstream land management practices鈥攂alancing these institutions鈥� often short-term, extractive values with an intergenerational perspective. 

To mobilize, the National Science Foundation to launch its Center for Braiding Indigenous Knowledge and Sciences last year. The center has set up hubs from the Pacific Islands to the Northeastern United States. 

Leaders in the Land Back Movement have relied on a limited set of policy tools. For example, the Department of the Interior for the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, a similar trust structure that returned land management to Cow Creek Umpqua. There鈥檚 also co-management agreements鈥攍ike Forest Service with tribes in the Midwest and Western states鈥攁nd conservation easements鈥攍ike the one Oakland used to in the hands of the Ohlone people. 

Critics argue that while these actions may return land to tribes, they often do so under federal, state, and municipal terms that in managing their lands.

That鈥檚 where purchasing lands outright comes in鈥攁 strategy the Penobscot Nation used in 2022 when nearly 30,000 acres of private forest lands went up for sale in Maine. The Nation worked with Trust for Public Land, . Trust for Public Land, a nonprofit organization focused on expanding outdoor access, has collaborated with more than 70 tribes and Indigenous groups to help them acquire and preserve their homelands and culturally significant sites. The organization tries to facilitate a tribe or nation鈥檚 right to self-governance. To do so, it has adopted internal policies that don鈥檛 require legal agreements that limit land use to conservation. 

鈥淲hen you impose restrictions or conservation easements or those types of things on the property, then you鈥檙e really not supporting the tribal sovereignty,鈥� says Ken Lucero, director of tribal and indigenous lands at Trust for Public Land. Lucero is a member of the Pueblo of Zia, who historically practiced dry farming and waffle gardening, which harnesses the little bit of rain that falls in the Southwest desert. 

鈥淏y having Indigenous knowledge and land back be at the center of the new definition of conservation, then we have a lot of good things that can come of that,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f we can put land back, land return, and Indigenous knowledge at the center of conservation 鈥� we really can support a global solution to climate warming.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Indigenous peoples are considered by dangerous weather brought on by climate change, though they have contributed the least to the greenhouse gas emissions driving it, according to the United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. Public health researchers stress that climate justice, as exemplified by the Land Back movement, requires addressing the harms of settler-colonialism past and present. 

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a lot of healing that has to happen,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淚鈥檓 one of the few that was never ripped off these lands. That鈥檚 why I live here, and why it鈥檚 very special to me.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In May, Jackson visited an 800-year-old Douglas fir called the Grandmother Tree for the first time since the U.S. government gave the Cow Creek Umpqua back some of their land. The tree is a few miles away from where Christensen and the Tribe鈥檚 forestry team have been restoring the meadows. 

So far, finding a time to burn has been tough. Challenges like climate variability from season to season limit how much they can burn each year. But near the grandmother tree that day, there was a glimpse of what鈥檚 to come. 

Jackson turned to a patch of wild strawberries and pulled out a leafy green that smelled like a mix of eucalyptus and mint. The plant in his hands is native to the Pacific Northwest and commonly known by its Spanish name, yerba buena, which means 鈥済ood herb.鈥� Jackson, whose grandmother Dolla was one of the last medicine women and healers in the Tribe, called it a perfect example of a medicinal plant that returns with fire, growing abundantly in sunlight. 

As Jackson鈥檚 traditional ecological knowledge tells him, this is the kind of growth the landscape will see again as the Cow Creek Umpqua manage fire for open and clear savannas, benefiting the land and people there for generations to come. 

This story was produced in collaboration with . Reporting for this story was made possible with a fellowship from the nonprofit Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 11:24a.m. PT on Sept. 24, 2024, to clarify that Christensen attended Oregon State University, not University of Oregon. Read our corrections policy here. 

This horrific practice was as uniquely American in the 1940s as mass shootings are today. The consistency with which they occurred in natural spaces, especially in the South, maintains lasting effects on how African Americans engage with the outdoors. Systematic barriers, such as socioeconomic status, access to transportation, and Jim Crow laws, further compounded to exclude African Americans from natural spaces.

鈥淎t some point, we got kind of pushed out of these spaces,鈥� says National Park Service ranger Rebekah Smith, age 31, who is Black and grew up enjoying the outdoors in Georgia. She now works as a ranger at the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina. Smith is driven to uncover untold stories to reinvigorate Black Americans鈥� love for the outdoors.

It鈥檚 part of a larger effort for current generations to reclaim their rightful place and sense of belonging in natural spaces.

鈥淚t鈥檚 time for us to go back and reconnect,鈥� Smith says.

That鈥檚 鈥淲hite People Stuff鈥�

My maternal grandmother, Delores (known in my family as 鈥淕ima鈥�), was born in Louisiana in 1944 and moved to Los Angeles, California, around the age of 3 as part of the Great Migration. She grew up in the Jim Crow era, and while Gima didn鈥檛 allow her relationship with the natural world to be broken, she knew where outdoor recreation was safest.

Gima was able to enjoy horseback riding, boating, and visiting Lincoln Park and beaches during summer vacation, in part because of how her elders protected her from the harshness of the social climate. 

鈥淚f you went around certain places, like in Marina del Rey, not all white people, but some of 鈥檈m 鈥� you can tell how they was snobby and prejudiced,鈥� Gima recounts. 鈥淚t didn鈥檛 phase us. It didn鈥檛 phase me none.鈥�

Still, she doesn鈥檛 venture out into 鈥渨ild spaces,鈥� claiming that Black people realize that these areas are far too dangerous, and implying a sort of naivete that white counterparts display when visiting them.

鈥淲e鈥檙e not fools,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 go out there in the wilderness and lay on the ground in a tent.鈥�

Unlike Gima, many Black people opted to protect themselves from the vulnerability of wild places by settling for life indoors or close to home. Some culturally evolved to accept the norm that outdoor recreation is 鈥渨丑颈迟别 people stuff.鈥�

Today, though threats certainly persist, there is a thriving community of Black recreationists enjoying every aspect of the outdoors. Take, for example, the National Park System (an institution built on a foundation of dispossession and genocide of Indigenous peoples as well as Jim Crow segregation). African Americans make up only despite comprising 13% of the U.S. population. But many people are working to grow our presence in nature-based recreation through historical education.

In August of 2022, Smith led a program titled 鈥淏lack People Don鈥檛 Do That.鈥� In it, she explained the ways racism shaped so many of our outdoor spaces. The talk was part of an event hosted by Outdoor Afro, an organization that 鈥渃elebrates and inspires Black connections and leadership in nature.鈥�

Smith described how Doughton Park, a 6,000-acre recreation area along the Blue Ridge Parkway鈥攖he scenic road through Shenandoah National Park鈥攚as named in 1961 after Robert Lee Doughton, a U.S. House Representative, segregationist, and son of a Confederate soldier. The origins of the parkway can be partly traced to Josephus Daniels, who published racist cartoons in the Raleigh News & Observer and was one of the perpetrators of the 1898 Wilmington Massacre, a coup that burned down the offices of a local African American newspaper, banished democratic lawmakers, and murdered up to 60 people in order to pass Jim Crow laws. In later years, other white supremacists to Shenandoah National Park, according to the Equal Justice Initiative.

If Black people weren鈥檛 kept away from outdoor spaces by racial terror, they were shut out by socioeconomic status. According to records from the U.S. Department of Commerce, non-white men earned about 41% of the average white man鈥檚 salary in 1939, while non-white women brought in 36% of a typical white woman鈥檚 income.

Further challenging access, few Black people owned vehicles. Those who took public transportation endured a unique humiliation. They were relegated to 鈥淛im Crow cars鈥� and mistreatment, only to arrive at Negro-only facilities that were subpar to those reserved for whites, such as Shenandoah National Park鈥檚 Lewis Mountain.

White people and leaders chalked it up to disinterest. In a 1940 memo, then-director of the National Park Service Arno Berthold Cammerer wrote of the Lewis Mountain cabins, 鈥淚 myself have felt right along that there was not sufficient demand by negroes for this particular type of accommodations to make it pay.鈥�

Yet, despite it all, 10,217 African Americans visited Shenandoah National Park that year.

An Enduring Tradition of Outdoorsmanship

Outdoorsmanship is a longstanding tradition in the Black American community. York, an African man enslaved by Lewis and Clark alongside Sacagawea, ensured the duo鈥檚 survival with his frontier skills, especially hunting. He and others like him worked as 鈥済o-betweens鈥� for communication and trade with the Indigenous people of North America. George Bonga, born to an enslaved person in 1802 and later free, was a renowned fur trapper who worked for the American Fur Company and helped negotiate a treaty with the Ojibwe people in 1820. Before them, maroons, a name for escaped slaves, like the African inhabitants of Virginia and North Carolina鈥檚 Dismal Swamp in the late 1700s, saw the land as a key to freedom.

In the centuries since, Black people have continued to help mold the culture of American outdoorsmanship. The land has retained its significance as a place of resistance and reclamation, continuing the maroons鈥� tradition.

In addition to Outdoor Afro, organizations like Hunters of Color, Diversify Outdoors, and Black Girls Hike RVA lead the charge in inviting African diasporic people into outdoors-based recreation across the United States.

Black Girls Hike RVA鈥檚 co-founders, Narshara Tucker and Nicole Boyd, said in an email that in the past, they were often the only people of color (POC) on hiking trips. This repeated experience inspired them to create 鈥渟pace to offer a safe and supportive environment for women of color while on the trails.鈥� Since the organization鈥檚 founding in 2020, they鈥檝e organized monthly hikes near Richmond, Virginia, and the Blue Ridge Mountains, leading groups of around 20 people on excursions.

鈥淔rom slavery to lynchings, the outdoors have historically been a painful place for POC,鈥� they said. 鈥淪eeing, and more importantly, welcoming black people in the outdoor recreation is vital to changing that narrative.鈥�

When other hikers see Black Girls Hike RVA on the trail, they assume it鈥檚 a church group, 鈥渁s if a group of black women cannot be intentionally on the trail and in the outdoors like everyone else,鈥� Tucker and Boyd said. As if Black women鈥檚 love for natural spaces is abnormal or must be qualified by other, more stereotypical social structures.

On the contrary, the outdoors has long been a place of healing, where many Black people go to convene with the spiritual world.

Reclaiming Connections With the Land

鈥淭his is God鈥檚 country,鈥� says my paternal grandmother, Marilynn (known to me as 鈥淢a-Ma鈥�), 68, as she explained to me the significance of her time in the outdoors. 鈥淕od invented all of this 鈥� and we should be enjoying it.鈥�

Her reverence for the outdoors is palpable as she describes what she feels when spending time in nature: 鈥淎ny and everything that I had in my mind that was negative is gone. I don鈥檛 even think about it. My mind is just on what I鈥檓 seeing, enjoying the breeze, looking at the ducks, hearing the birds,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very relaxing.鈥�

Ma-Ma鈥檚 relationship with the outdoors has evolved with each generation and member of our family. As a child in Galveston, Texas, and then Los Angeles, California, she would garden, visit local parks, and even observe nature at the junkyard and airports with her dad. When she met my grandpa, she learned to fish. As a teacher, she鈥檚 now determined to share the wider world with her students.

鈥淚 want the kids to know 鈥� it鈥檚 other things out there,鈥� she says, explaining her motivations for taking her kindergarteners on school trips. 鈥淚f you鈥檝e never been shown or introduced to nothing, how are you supposed to know it? White folks, they鈥檙e forever traveling, taking their kids here and there and showing them things. 鈥� And Black folks, it鈥檚 like we鈥檙e scared to get out and know.鈥�

I鈥檝e inherited Ma-Ma鈥檚 love for the natural world, including her adoration of gardening, animals, and awesome landscapes. These passions have given me and my family outdoor opportunities beyond those afforded to my grandmother in her youth. I enjoy backpacking and scuba diving. My dad and I go off-roading, something we鈥檝e been able to introduce Ma-Ma to as well. Our relatives admire our adventurous dispositions鈥攁nd have even joined us on a few excursions鈥攂ut we鈥檝e also heard our fair share of accusations, such as, 鈥淵ou tryna act white.鈥�

Smith鈥檚 mom was similarly determined to instill in her a love of nature, and Smith then helped normalize wilderness-based recreation for her father. 鈥淗e didn鈥檛 really go to parks or do any outdoor things until I got older and I started bringing him with me to these places,鈥� Smith says, 鈥渢o introduce him and connect with him about my work and what I鈥檓 doing.鈥�

With such a rich history of outdoor experiences and skills, the idea that 鈥淏lack people don鈥檛 go outside鈥� is a relatively new concept鈥攐ne that contradicts our lived experiences and aspirations. It is the result of extreme systemic exclusion and decades of victim-blaming. We maintain our historical love for the natural world today, though for some, it may be buried under racial stereotypes imposed upon us.

By remembering these histories鈥攂oth painful and proud鈥攁nd consciously welcoming loved ones into natural spaces, we can reignite a sense of belonging on this land and overcome generational exclusion in the outdoors.

Smith is hopeful that by sharing stories of Black history in the outdoors, she can help Black people overcome statements like 鈥淭his stuff 颈蝉苍鈥檛 for us鈥� and 鈥淲e don鈥檛 do that.鈥� Black people did and continue to do these things, Smith says. 鈥淩eally, we鈥檙e just embracing our ancestry.鈥�

This is key to the future envisioned by Tucker and Boyd: 鈥淲e want black people to be outdoors and viewed as a constant and not an exception.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Among the greenery, he has spotted an orchid: Dracula morleyi. Blotted in black with a flash of white at the center, it鈥檚 barely bigger than a fingernail. 鈥淭his place is full of so much biodiversity,鈥� he grins. 鈥淪cientists don鈥檛 even know about most of it.鈥�

Ovando is a guide at Los Cedros Protective Forest, a of cloud forest in the northwest Ecuadorian Andes, one of the world鈥檚 most biodiverse areas.

This tropical haven鈥攈ome to a , including the critically endangered black-and-chestnut eagle and brown-headed spider monkey, jaguars, endemic frogs, more than 300 species of birds, 600 kinds of moths, and 200 varieties of orchids鈥攊s at the forefront of a global movement to recognize the legal rights of the natural world.

The movement is rooted in the common Indigenous belief that nature鈥攆rom the Andean mountains to Amazonian rivers right down to a single soldier ant鈥攊s a system to which human beings belong and with which they must harmoniously coexist. The legal theory argues that these ecosystems and species have intrinsic rights that should be protected in the same way as those of humans.

鈥淭he idea that rocks, rivers, and animals are alive and so should be granted a legal status is a core aspect of Indigenous worldviews,鈥� says C茅sar Rodr铆guez-Garavito, professor of clinical law and director of NYU School of Law鈥檚 , an initiative attempting to further nonhuman rights and the larger web of life. 鈥淚ndigenous peoples have turned that belief into practices of reciprocity with nature, through ceremonies, use of medicinal plants, and more.鈥�

The planet faces a human-led that has already wiped out entire species and risks destroying whole ecosystems. This destruction would accelerate under authoritarian regimes and right-wing agendas around the globe, including Project 2025 in the United States. Los Cedros is the world鈥檚 leading example of how non-anthropocentric laws can be used to effectively defend the planet.

鈥淏y putting ourselves [humans] outside of nature, we鈥檙e hurting ourselves,鈥� says , an ecologist at the University of Oregon who first visited Los Cedros in 1998 and has since returned many times. 鈥淲e live within the system of nature, we rely on it, and it鈥檚 part of us. The rights of nature recognizes this in a way that old laws haven鈥檛.鈥�

WATCH: Does a Forest Have Rights? In Ecuador, It Does.

So-called 鈥渞ights of nature鈥� arguments, a novel conservation strategy dating back to the 1990s, have been lodged in 397 cases across 34 countries and even the United Nations, according to the . These cases have been brought from Bolivia to Brazil to Uganda, as well as Canada, Mexico, and the U.S. 

Some cases have broadly recognized the rights of , , , and even the entirety of , whereas others have focused on species like in the North Sea, in Panama, or a specific animal, such as , who was living in a cage in New York. In one particularly creative case this year, campaigners succeeded in getting music streaming platforms to .

In Ecuador, the groundwork was set in 2008 when, thanks to lobbying from Indigenous groups, the country that included the rights of Pacha Mama, in essence stating that Mother Nature has the same rights as people.

But Los Cedros鈥� story began much earlier. Today, the reserve is owned by the state, but in 1988, the land was purchased by Josef DeCoux, an American environmentalist who managed a scientific station at the heart of the reserve until his death in May 2024. Photo by Bitty Roy

Bit by bit, with the help of friends and nonprofits including Friends of the Earth Sweden and Australia鈥檚 , DeCoux bought land in the area in order to preserve it. For many years, he lived in a shack deep in the forest.

鈥淚 fell in love with the unique beauty of the place,鈥� said DeCoux, during a visit to the monitoring station in Los Cedros shortly before his death following a years-long battle with cancer. 鈥淚 immediately knew that I wanted to dedicate my life to this forest. And that鈥檚 what I鈥檝e done.鈥�

DeCoux worked with Indigenous communities in the surrounding Manduriacos Valley to build local support for the effort, resulting in Los Cedros securing state conservation status in 1994. 鈥淧eople stopped shooting all the monkeys,鈥� he added.

鈥淭hey appreciated the reserve and its value, and how it protects the watershed.鈥�

As a result, Los Cedros鈥攚hich ranges from 3,000 to 9,000 feet in altitude and is crossed by four rivers鈥攖hrived, in contrast to the suffered by the surrounding, highly endangered Andean cloud forest. Under an open-door policy aimed at raising the profile of the reserve, scientists came from across the world to study its wealth of biodiversity, with more than now published.

鈥淚 could spend time studying a single square meter of Los Cedros and still not understand everything there,鈥� Roy says. 鈥淲estern Ecuador is head and shoulders above the rest of the world in terms of amphibian, bird, and plant biodiversity.鈥�

However, conservation efforts hit a major stumbling block in 2017 when the government granted the state-owned mining company ENAMI EP rights to mining concessions for copper and gold in more than two-thirds of Los Cedros鈥� landmass.

This is where the rights of nature legislation came into play. Before extraction could begin, a legal challenge was tabled at the Provincial Court by the local government of Cotacachi, a region home to 43 Indigenous communities. After an appeal, the case was then taken to Ecuador鈥檚 Constitutional Court. The claimants argued that if mining was to proceed in Los Cedros, it would violate the forest鈥檚 constitutional rights, and they demanded the protection of its 鈥渞ight to exist, survive, and regenerate.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

After a years-long legal battle, in December 2021, judges at the Constitutional Court finally annulled the concession that had been granted to the mining company, in effect turning a theoretical constitutional text into a tangible, real-world policy.

The unprecedented was one of the first times that any court in the world had ever recognized the rights of nonhuman organisms鈥攁nd the judges went as far as to state that the law not only applied to Los Cedros and to other protected areas, but, under the terms of the constitution, to any kind of nature within the country of Ecuador.

鈥淭丑别谤别 was no case before this, there was no precedent,鈥� added DeCoux. 鈥淚t was a case of science winning over extractive industries.鈥�

In Los Cedros, the miners were forced to remove their machinery immediately and the court banned all future mining and other extractive activities.

Now, 24 hours a day, the reserve thrums with activity, from the early-morning roars of howler monkeys among the dense canopy to the afternoon squawks of toucans and the buzzes of nocturnal bats swooping after the many critters that fill the night sky.

鈥淚t is a great pleasure to observe the greatness of the animal kingdom here every day,鈥� says Ovando, as he watches a pair of yellow-beaked toucans in the distance. 鈥淟ife is calmer here now. The wildlife is more at ease.鈥�

Follow-up monitoring has also confirmed the early impact of the ruling. As part of a published by the More Than Human Rights Project in June 2024, Rodr铆guez-Garavito visited Los Cedros twice and found that mining equipment and staff had been removed from the reserve, which remained a 鈥渟anctuary鈥� for biodiversity thanks to the ruling. The report concluded that the enforcement of the rights of nature and rulings like Los Cedros 鈥渃an be effective tools to protect endangered ecosystems.鈥�

鈥淚 was positively surprised,鈥� Rodr铆guez-Garavito says. 鈥淓specially because Los Cedros is in the midst of the region with many active mining projects. It should not be taken for granted that these rulings will be properly implemented.鈥�

Proponents argue that the successful use of those rights to defend an ecosystem like Los Cedros has set a powerful precedent, and it is already influencing rulings in Ecuador and beyond. In July, the Indigenous Kitu Kara people won a claiming pollution violated the rights of the Mach谩ngara River, which runs through Ecuador鈥檚 capital, Quito. In March, Peru the rights of the Mara帽贸n River to be free of pollution after a lawsuit was brought by the Kukama Indigenous Women鈥檚 organization against the oil company Petroper煤. A recent claim relating to Ecuador鈥檚 Fierro Urco wetlands even .

鈥淚t鈥檚 a phenomenon that鈥檚 catching fire and that鈥檚 spreading very rapidly around the world,鈥� Rodr铆guez-Garavito says. 鈥淏ecause the Los Cedros case is a sophisticated and detailed judicial decision, it鈥檚 being referenced by other courts.鈥�

Nicola Peel, an who first visited Los Cedros in 1999 and testified during the Constitutional Court case, argues that the ruling marks a turning point in global conservation. 鈥淚 absolutely believe that the time has come for the rights of nature,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his feels like the natural progression for a new era.鈥�

However, plenty of concerns remain over the long-term success of the ruling in Los Cedros, and rights of nature cases more generally, in the face of powerful extractive industries and limited resources to monitor and enforce legal protections.

鈥淭he courts move on to new cases,鈥� Rodr铆guez-Garavito says. 鈥淏ut the argument behind my study is that researchers, policymakers, and advocates must continue paying attention to implementation. We need to follow what happens after.鈥�

The Ganges River, for example, which is considered sacred by more than a billion Indians, was by the highest court in the Indian state of Uttarakhand, which is home to part of the river, as a 鈥渓iving entity鈥� in 2017, but sewage and industrial waste has continued to pollute the river since then and it mostly .

Rodr铆guez-Garavito鈥檚 findings also highlighted other threats to Los Cedros: mining activities in nearby areas that risk a 鈥渟pillover effect,鈥� a growing problem with organized crime in Ecuador that could hinder efforts, 鈥済rossly insufficient鈥� resources for park rangers, and the passing of DeCoux, who led the movement.

An ongoing challenge is also maintaining the support of locals, some of whom鈥攊n situations of poverty, without alternative sources of income, and barely any support from the state鈥攈ave been tempted by the pay offered by mining. 鈥淐ompanies always offer them good jobs,鈥� Ovando says.

Others are concerned that the ruling could simply boost illegal hunting, logging, and mining outside of the reserve鈥檚 borders, which could result in mass biodiversity loss.

鈥淢y worry is that Los Cedros will become an island surrounded by private lands that get degraded,鈥� Peel says. 鈥淗ow can we ensure the protection of other areas too?鈥�

But few disagree that the case of Los Cedros, with its beguiling, mist-covered forest, has provided a vision of a future where the rights of the natural world are actively and effectively protected.

鈥淢ining 颈蝉苍鈥檛 going to happen here again,鈥� said DeCoux, in a typically direct tone that has driven the conservation success in Los Cedros. 鈥淧eople need to get that into their heads.鈥�

Around this time, my grandmother was poisoned in an inter-clan conflict. On her deathbed, she had a vision and told the family that if they followed the voices from the planes they would weaken, get sick, and die. My grandfather, devastated after her death and trying to avoid an inter-clan war, decided to heed the voices. 

My father was a small child then. He and some of my aunts and uncles have told me these stories since I was a little girl. They walked for a month, from the old lands, now Yasun铆, to the river where the bocachico fish run, now Pastaza. On the walk my great-grandfather, Nenkemo, had a dream. In the dream he abandoned his daughter-in-law, my grandmother who had died. The next morning he woke up, ate breakfast, and refused to continue on with the rest. He said that his knee hurt, but everyone knew that he wanted to remain in the forest he loved. The others kept going, and Nenkemo turned back with his spear and blowgun. 

My grandfather and his family had seen the metal machetes, knives, and pots left by previous invaders and thrown from the planes. My grandfather thought of the power of the metal blades that were so resistant and did not rot. Perhaps they will have more of these upstream. They walked to the missionary communities in Pastaza. There they heard the talk of the devil and God and salvation. And within six months, they began to die. 

My grandfather and his brothers, themselves sick and dying, were terrified and irate. They wanted war. The lead missionary, a white woman named Rachel Saint, convinced the Waorani women to break all the men鈥檚 spears. She offered them clothes and processed food like sugar and flour, and she preached. The men and women who got close to her got sick. They became racked with fever, many became paralyzed, and many died, including a number of my aunts and uncles. My father, only still a small boy, crossed the river and hid, surviving on raw shrimp. Rachel preached salvation. My father saw slow torture and death. Our resistance was born there. My father later said: We will pretend to go to her church, but we will not believe in her god. She killed our family.

I grew up in the missionary village of To帽ampare. My father told me these stories and taught me the beauty and bounty of the forest. At the same time, Rachel seemed to be everywhere, always scolding us, calling us savages, and trying to prohibit our songs and dances and sharing of dreams. Sometimes she would receive visitors from her world. My little brother and I would compete to see who could hear the approaching planes first. And we would sneak to the dirt landing strip to watch the people who seemed to descend from the sky. Once a young white girl visited and I thought she looked so pretty. I harmed myself terribly in a deluded attempt to look more like her. 

I became enchanted with the white people鈥檚 things and their promises of salvation. I wanted to learn to speak Spanish, to wear light cotton dresses, to have blue eyes and straight, white teeth. I wanted to know this god who offers eternal life and see what was beyond the horizon, the place that the planes came from. My worried mother tried to dissuade me, a tactic that rarely works with teenagers anywhere in the world. My gentle father did not approve, but did not stand in my way. My desire to learn led me into the arms of the missionaries, led me to face, survive, and escape from forms of abuse I had never imagined, led me to glimpse into the savior鈥檚 world and then, like my great grandfather, to turn back to my own.

And my world, the Amazon rainforest of Ecuador, was at that moment facing an existential threat. The government had auctioned off Waorani territory to multinational oil companies behind our backs. I joined other Waorani and people from distinct Indigenous nations, some of which had a long and disastrous history of oil exploitation in their territories, to fight the government and oil companies. I realized that they too promised salvation. Oil, they said, would save us and the entire country from the very poverty they created. 

My relatives had sickened and died from polio upon contact with the missionaries. I soon met men and women from Indigenous Kofan territories whose relatives died from cancer and whose children died from bathing and drinking water in rivers contaminated by the oil companies.

And then it hit me: The authors of our destruction are the very ones who preach our salvation. Salvation from what? From being Waorani? From living healthy and rich lives in the forest? From discussing our dreams in the morning? From being irreverently funny and laughing all the time? From dancing naked in our palm-thatched longhouses? From living in harmony with the very place they want to destroy? 

If you would like to invade our territory and destroy our home, our people, our language, and culture, have the courage at least to say so. Stop offering salvation to the people you want to eliminate. And allow me to be clear as well: We will resist. We will fight to continue to make our lives in the forest, to speak Wao Tededo, to share our dreams in the mornings, to laugh at you and each other. We will fight to keep your oil companies from poisoning our land and rivers. We will fight, it turns out, even for you, by stopping the global devastation brought on by climate injustice. We will fight to continue to be Waorani. And we will not be saved. 

This essay is inspired by Nemonte Nenquimo鈥檚 forthcoming memoir,

The leak came as no surprise to activists, environmental groups, and government officials who have been fighting against the facility for nearly a decade. Red Hill contains 20 tanks that are each 250 feet tall and can hold a total of 250 million gallons of fuel鈥攁nd all this has been located just 100 feet above the island鈥檚 sole source aquifer. 

Built during World War II and classified until the 1990s, the Red Hill facility has since been exposed as a source of multiple leaks . The November 2021 leak happened weeks after the Hawai驶i Department of Health fined the Navy for a host of operations and maintenance violations, and provided false testimony and withheld information about corrosion at the facility.  

In the wake of the 2021 leak, hundreds of water protectors and their allies descended onto the state Capitol to demand the immediate shutdown of the facility in Red Hill, a site originally known to K膩naka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) as Kap奴kak墨. They called out elected officials and the military for putting U.S. imperialism over human lives. 

Demonstrators stood in front of a statue of Queen Liliuokalani, the last monarch of Hawai驶i. She ruled until 1893, when the U.S. Navy aided sugar barons in the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom. The prevailing rallying cry was and has been: 鈥淥la i ka wai鈥� (鈥渨ater is life鈥�).

鈥淭hey鈥檝e done so much damage that it will take years, decades to heal from what they鈥檝e done to us,鈥� says Healani Sonoda-Pale, an organizer with the O驶补hu Water Protectors, a coalition working toward environmental justice, sovereignty, decolonization, and demilitarization. 鈥淎nd when I say 鈥榰s,鈥� I鈥檓 talking about the Indigenous peoples of this land who have been under U.S. rule since 1893. As the first peoples of Hawai驶i, we are the voice of the land, the voice of our water, and our nonhuman relatives. What happens to them happens to us and vice versa.鈥�

Sonoda-Pale鈥檚 genealogy on O驶补hu can be traced back hundreds of years. She says she dealt with the trauma of growing up in poverty and watching her family struggle to survive under the grip of U.S. rule. 鈥淭his gives me the fire and strength to continue on with all of the issues we see in Hawai驶i,鈥� Sonoda-Pale says. 鈥淭he fact that my people recovered from the brink of an apocalypse and is still here after 131 years of occupation gives me a lot of hope.鈥�

An Ongoing History of Contamination

This most recent spill was just the K膩naka Maoli鈥檚 latest chapter in a century-long fight against the U.S. military and its continued displacement of people and destruction of Native land and natural resources. 

鈥淭he story of Indigenous people on O驶补hu is a David and Goliath story,鈥� says Sonoda-Pale. 鈥淜膩naka Maoli are up against the most powerful military in the world, which also happens to be the biggest polluter in the world. With climate change and global warming looming, our struggle for liberation has become about ensuring a livable future, not just for us but for everyone and all life.鈥�

The U.S. military has come to occupy more than 250,000 acres of land across the island chain, taking up more than 20% of the land on the island of O驶补hu alone. Nearly half of the military鈥檚 combined acreage is also on so-called ceded lands, which were annexed of K膩naka Maoli or their sovereign government.

The Red Hill fuel facility is just a few miles from Pu驶uloa, also called Pearl Harbor. Prior to contact, Pu驶uloa was one of the most abundant food sources in the islands, rich with marine resources, and numerous loko i驶补 (traditional fishponds) and lo驶i kalo (taro patches). It was fed by the water of 12 different watersheds and served as the seat of political power for Hawaiian royalty.

This was destroyed by the dredging of the Pearl Harbor Naval Station in the late 1870s. Today it is one the most contaminated military installations in the nation, with six Superfund sites.  

According to a , in the waters surrounding O驶补hu, the U.S. military has dumped thousands of bombs, tons of unspecified toxins, hydrogen cyanide, and 4 million gallons of radioactive waste liquid. In 2019, the military was also found to have dumped 500,000 pounds of nitrate compounds鈥�. 

As recently as January 8, 2024, the Navy released of partially treated wastewater into Pu驶uloa鈥檚 waters after heavy rains knocked out a power transformer. This came a year after the Department of Health ordered the Navy to pay $9 million in fines for hundreds of at the water treatment plant.

The location of the Pearl Harbor Memorial鈥攖he popular tourist destination for the sunken battleship the USS Arizona鈥攊s also home to an active oil leak that has been spewing fuel since World War II. Its iridescent toxins float visibly on the water鈥檚 surface at all times. Despite having the equipment and knowledge to clean up the spill, the military has chosen not to so as not to disturb the bodies of the 900 service members who lost their lives and remain entombed in the ship. This is a grace the military often hasn鈥檛 (ancestral bones) or sacred sites of K膩naka Maoli. 

The O驶补hu Water Protectors have spent the past two years holding the Navy and public officials accountable by creating awareness and helping mobilize thousands of people through social media campaigns, press conferences, protest marches, and calls to action. But these days, for the first time, K膩naka Maoli and their allies are standing together with military families who joined them to demand justice, accountability, clean water, and aid for the military鈥檚 affected service people and civilians. 

Wayne Tanaka, water protector and director of the Sierra Club, which successfully sued the Department of Health twice over regulations regarding Red Hill, says, 鈥淚 guess there鈥檚 a little bit of irony in [members of the military joining the movement], but also a lot of inspiration. To see people from completely different backgrounds coalescing around the bigger picture鈥攑rotecting what we need to thrive, what we need to give the best chance to have a bright future for our kids鈥攊t鈥檚 been so inspiring to witness and gives me hope to come together to tackle some of these existential crises that we鈥檙e facing.鈥�

Water Protectors and Military Families Working Together

When families in Kapilina Beach Homes鈥攃ivilian housing southwest of Joint Base Pearl Harbor鈥揌ickham鈥攂egan getting ill, they were told by both Kapilina apartment management and the Navy鈥檚 emergency operation commander that they weren鈥檛 on the Navy water line. After that was proven to be false, those in Kapilina were offered nothing. Active military members, in contrast, were given water and housing in hotels for months. 

The , despite various residents鈥� reports of sheens on the water, odors, and health problems. Sampling from the EPA determined there are still hydrocarbons in the water and advised the Navy to investigate the root cause and provide water to affected residents.

K膩naka Maoli veteran Aidyn-Rhys King, with his wife, Mandie, and roommate Xavier Bonilla, were among the several affected in Kapilina. They, alongside O驶补hu Water Protector Mikey Inouye, formed Shut Down Red Hill Mutual Aid (SDRHMA) shortly after the leak, which has been providing water to that community every month since. 

In addition to clean water, the SDRHMA collective has also been providing the affected community with political education, resources, and tools to organize themselves for justice and accountability. They also hold community picnics to give military families and others affected a safe forum to share concerns. Through this organizing, they have been able to build solidarity between military families and K膩naka Maoli, so the historically opposing groups can communicate together, learn each other鈥檚 histories, and figure out how everyone can show up for each other鈥檚 struggles.   

鈥淚t鈥檚 a bridge that many of us never thought to be possible within the next 10 years, but is now possible because of this terrible crisis,鈥� says Inouye.  

Jamie Blair Williams, who lived at Red Hill Mauka Army housing, eventually became a core member of the group. Williams, whose spouse is in the Coast Guard, was who got ill and continued to get ill after drinking and bathing in water that the Department of Health reported had petroleum levels 350 times higher than the department considers safe.  

Williams also lost her two dogs, her home, and thousands of dollars in personal belongings contaminated by the water. She, alongside thousands of others, are part of various litigations against their housing complexes and the Navy, who denied their health concerns were related to the fuel leak. A mass tort, with more than 1,000 litigants, is set to go to trial in 2024. Another mass tort claim, in which Williams is the lead plaintiff, will go to trial in 2025. 

Williams got involved with the water protectors after she, like many, felt that affected residents were being denied salient information. She posted a video from her home鈥檚 security camera showing Army officials talking about hazards worse than fuel on her property. She made the video public on social media in hopes that it would force more transparency from the military. 

Inouye amplified the video鈥檚 reach on the O驶补hu Water Protectors鈥� social media pages and invited Williams to a sign waving. Already looking for ways to get involved in the activism, but not sure where to begin, Williams accepted and has since participated in panels, protests, and joined the O驶补hu Water Protectors in a demonstration in front of the White House. 

Inouye also helped get her and others associated with the military access to M膩kua Valley鈥�5,000 acres of land that was seized during World War II for live-fire practice. Back then, K膩naka Maoli were evicted with the promise that their lands would be cleaned up and returned after the war. Nearly 80 years later, that hasn鈥檛 happened, and much of the valley鈥檚 native forests and cultural sites have since been destroyed by wildfires. 

In 1996, the nonprofit M膩lama M膩kua formed for the preservation, community access, and return of the valley. Due to a court-sanctioned Cultural Access Agreement in 2002, M膩lama M膩kua is given cultural access to the valley twice a month, which is how Williams was able to see it. And in December 2023, the military training there. Many credit the nonprofit for this decision.

Williams says she came to Hawai驶i with a very surface-level understanding of the contentious relationship between the military and K膩naka Maoli, but after multiple trips to M膩kua, now her understanding is deeper in a way that she says feels knitted into the fabric of who she is. Though she also adds, 鈥淎s someone who is not Indigenous, the true depth of pain that comes with when you are part of a culture that considers wai (water) and 驶腻颈苍补 (land) as a spiritual part of human existence and the kind of violence that the military then unleashes and how that injures you as a human being, as an individual, and as a community, I鈥檒l just never fully be able to understand.鈥�

Collective Successes

Near the one-year anniversary of the 2021 leak at the Red Hill facility, yet another leak occurred: 1,300 gallons of toxic fire-suppression foam leaked from the facility. The foam is a per- and polyfluoroalkyl substance (PFAS)鈥攁 鈥渇orever chemical鈥� that does not break down naturally.

Twelve days later, thousands of demonstrators, including the O驶补hu Water Protectors and 65 other organizations, coalesced in a 鈥淲alk for Wai.鈥� They were led by Ernie Lau, the manager and chief engineer of the Board of Water Supply, as they marched from Ke驶ehi Lagoon to the Navy Exchange. 

Despite having called for the aquifer鈥檚 protection for years, this was Lau鈥檚 first time joining to publicly support the group鈥檚 efforts to pressure the Navy. 鈥淚t鈥檚 time for me to come out of the box and not be a typical government official that stays in his office,鈥� he told .

The Board of Water Supply recently filed a claim for $1.2 billion against the Navy to cover the costs of the crisis.  

The collective efforts of water protectors and military-affiliated organizers on O驶补hu over the past two years eventually forced the Department of Defense to order the Red Hill facility be shut down and emptied of fuel. This is after the Department initially fought the facility鈥檚 closure. In the fall of 2023, more than 104 million gallons of fuel was removed from the Red Hill tanks. Some 64,000 gallons remain, which are set to be removed starting in January 2024, with permanent closure of Red Hill set for January 2027. 

Inouye says the reason why the military responded to their public pressure in such a historic way was because they saw that the situation was so bad that it threatened their future presence on the islands. Many of the 65-year land leases that the U.S. military obtained for a mere $1 in the 1960s will expire starting in 2029. If the leases aren鈥檛 renewed, the military may be forced to vacate. Activists have already begun . 

Many water protectors say they are not done organizing around Red Hill until the last drop of fuel is out of the facility, and there is a guarantee of no future use. Still, the movement they have built has been a success in many ways. They have created lasting systemic change through education, mutual understanding, and learning how to show up for one another鈥檚 struggles, which Inouye says involves more of a deep organizing approach within communities.

鈥淚t happens at a person-to-person level, neighbor to neighbor. While not as flashy as thousands of people at a protest, it鈥檚 the type of work required to build towards disruptions that actually create a crisis for decision-makers of powerful institutions,鈥� says Inouye. This way, he added, when it鈥檚 time to mobilize for larger issues, it鈥檚 not a call to action for strangers, but a call to action to comrades who have organized their own community.

Water protectors, impacted residents, affected members affiliated with the military, and Sierra Club representatives in a Community Representative Initiative (CRI) as part of a consent decree the Navy signed with the EPA and the state of Hawai驶i. After , federal officials did not attend the next meeting in January 2024, . The O驶补hu Water Protectors contend that the CRI was created as 鈥�.鈥�

鈥淲hat鈥檚 still up in the air is whether this giant bureaucracy will also be able to acknowledge the bigger picture鈥攖hat it鈥檚 not within our national security interests to jeopardize resources we need to survive the climate crisis, especially water,鈥� Tanaka says.

Kalehua Krug is one of the organizers of Ka驶ohewai, a coalition of Hawaiian organizations that erected a ceremonial 办辞驶补, or fishing shrine, in front of the U.S. Pacific Fleet command headquarters days after the 2021 leak. It remains there today to create awareness and serve as a place for the Hawaiian community to gather.

鈥淓ducation is the only proactive way we have to reshape reality,鈥� Krug says. 

Krug is the principal of the Ka Waihona o ka Na驶补uao Public Charter School, where students are taught through a culturally informed educational model that centers the Indigenous worldview. He teaches them about kinship with nature and the importance of water so they can appreciate, love, and care for it鈥攁nd then grow up to have more ethical values around how to treat the world.

Whereas mainstream culture鈥檚 attachment to the idea of progress is to leave the past behind, Krug says, 鈥淚t鈥檚 the past that informs the future.鈥欌�� He points to the fact that before colonization, Native Hawaiians developed ways to live on the islands sustainably for thousands of years in ecological harmony. With that data, he says, 鈥淲e鈥檝e got enough science to rebuild the world.鈥� And he says an Indigenous worldview, at this point, is a must for everyone on the planet: 鈥淲e鈥檝e all got to behave different.鈥�

Land is important to Native nations for myriad reasons. Land enables the Yurok to maintain cultural traditions such as gathering traditional foods and practicing place-specific religious ceremonies. Like all sovereign entities, land defines the Yurok as a nation, both culturally and politically. Land offers economic development opportunities. It also bolsters climate resilience as the tribe restores wetlands, coastal prairies, and old-growth forests using traditional land management techniques.

In the past three and a half decades, the tribal land base has grown twentyfold, to a total of 100,000 acres, funded in large part by sequestering carbon. For this work, the United Nations Development Programme awarded the Yurok Tribe its , which recognizes efforts that reduce poverty through environmental justice work. It鈥檚 an exciting example of a small community鈥攁bout 5,000 members are enrolled鈥攂uilding climate resiliency in a way that best fits their needs.

鈥淲hen I was a young man growing up on the reservation, all of our land laid behind locked gates,鈥� says tribal Vice Chairman Frankie Myers. 鈥淲e鈥檇 have to break into our land in order to get into our prayer sites. In order to get to our gathering sites, we had to be outlaws. My kids growing up will never have that feeling. My wife can gather without worrying about being harassed by law enforcement or a logging company.鈥�

The Tribe鈥檚 Quest for its Traditional Territory

The Yurok Tribe has long faced state and federal policies meant to eliminate its land base. Before American colonization and conquest, the tribal territory stretched along what is now the Northern California coast and inland within the Klamath River watershed.

The in the 1840s drew white settlers West, where they killed of Native people through forced displacement, enslavement, and disease. In the 20th century, the Yurok continued to be denied access to their land and water, leading to over fishing rights. By 1986, when they finally gained federal recognition, the tribe was returned鈥攁bout 1% of its traditional territory.

For these reasons, 鈥渙ur number one priority is to get our land back,鈥� Myers says. In 2011, the tribe used to buy about 32,000 acres in the and watersheds, which had been owned by a timber company. The watersheds were selected both because of their biodiversity and old growth forests, according to Myers, and because the areas were used in Yurok religious ceremonies.

This purchase more than quadrupled their land base, but also meant the tribe owed the state government millions of dollars. They originally planned to pay back their loans by sustainably logging the land, but that would have taken a long time. 鈥淲e needed to be creative about how we were going to attack this problem,鈥� Myers says. 鈥淲e needed to be courageous in leaning into what we had.鈥�

They soon found a creative solution. In 2010 and 2011, the California Air Resources Board (ARB) was conducting a formal rule-making process to create a . Cap-and-trade programs allow industries that cannot otherwise reach their emission compliance requirements to purchase credits, called offsets, from sellers that sequester greenhouse gases. (In California, industries can use credits to offset up to 8% of their emissions.)

The ARB did not initially engage with tribes because they were focusing on land where the state had enforcement jurisdiction. At that time, Jason Gray, now head of the state鈥檚 cap-and-trade program, had just joined ARB as an attorney to advise on offset protocol design. 鈥淭he Yurok, rightly so, came to us and said, 鈥楽hame on you guys. Why aren鈥檛 you including us?鈥欌�� he recalls. The state listened, and the Yurok and several other tribes provided feedback to ensure the program worked within the structures of tribal law while fulfilling the state鈥檚 need to enforce regulatory standards. In 2013, when the cap-and-trade program formally launched, the Yurok became the first entity in the state to register a forest offset project.

Participation in the program has been a huge success for the Yurok. With income from the offset program, the Yurok have paid off loans from their previous watershed purchases; supported youth programming, housing, and road improvement; and helped develop off-reservation businesses such as in Humboldt County, California. They have also been able to buy back tens of thousands of acres of their traditional territory, which has had a powerful impact on the tribal nation.

鈥淚t鈥檚 quite amazing what the Yurok have accomplished,鈥� Gray says.

A Holistic View of Forest Management

The Yurok鈥檚 small land base was once heavily logged by private timber companies and co-managed by agencies such as the U.S. Forest Service, who viewed land management from a fundamentally different perspective than the Yurok.

For example, the Yurok view fire as a tool and partner. They historically used prescribed burning, also called cultural burning, to prevent the coastal prairies from becoming overgrown with conifers and , the stems of which the Yurok use for basket weaving. Yet for much of the 20^th century, Forest Service policy treated fire as a threat. 鈥淭hey considered fire arson,鈥� says Joe Hostler, who works in the Yurok Environmental Program鈥檚 community and ecosystems division. The Forest Service鈥檚 suppression of prescribed burning is 鈥渙ne of the reasons we have such overgrowth in our forests today,鈥� Hostler says.

Myers says this management approach is part of a colonial, Western perspective that views humans as separate from the natural world, rather than part of it. In contrast, he says that 鈥渙ne of the core tenets of our traditional ecological knowledge is [the idea that] nature is not natural without human interaction.鈥�

Land reclamation with income from the cap-and-trade program has enabled the tribe to take control of its land management again and revitalize once-banned techniques like cultural burning. It has also allowed them to sustainably harvest timber for economic development and forest management, restore salmon habitats in the Klamath River watershed, and create farms to increase food sovereignty.

This is all part of the tribe鈥檚 climate change adaptation strategy. 鈥淭he climate change we are seeing now is unprecedented,鈥� Myers says. 鈥淏ut we still hold true to those same teachings that we [have held] since time immemorial.鈥�

To establish the tribe鈥檚 vision of a more resilient future in a changing climate, Hostler interviewed elders about historical environmental conditions. They described a cool, clear, and clean Klamath River, healthy salmon runs, and vast forests of old-growth redwoods. These memories became the baseline of what the tribe now says a healthy environment should look like, and what they are working toward with their climate change adaptation plan.

鈥淲e are connected to our land,鈥� Hostler says. 鈥淲e have intimate knowledge of the landscape and intergenerational knowledge.鈥�

Following in the Yurok鈥檚 footsteps, 13 other tribes and Alaska Native corporations from across the U.S. now participate in California鈥檚 cap-and-trade program, from the White Mountain Apache in Arizona to the Passamaquoddy in Maine. As of September 2020, were issued to tribes or Alaska Native Corporations for forest projects through California鈥檚 program; about half of all forest offset credits issued. 

What is most important to Myers, though, is that the Yurok鈥檚 participation in California鈥檚 cap-and-trade program has strengthened tribal members鈥� relationship to their traditional territory. 鈥淭he most beneficial thing we鈥檙e doing with our land is giving members access to it,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat is the greatest benefit we鈥檝e done with our land.鈥�

The Moloka鈥檌 are one of many Indigenous groups around the U.S. making inroads toward energy sovereignty. But the approach and methods differ depending on communities鈥� belief systems, landscapes, and local politics. For two rural cooperatives in Hawai鈥榠 and New Mexico, energy sovereignty means taking actions toward decentralizing resources, increasing solar power plus storage, and centering community and the land in the process.

Not All Renewables Are Created Equal

The residents of Moloka鈥檌 are still in the nascent stages of gaining more community control over their energy. To find the best renewable solutions that fit both their culture and the natural environment, they have turned to their traditions and beliefs.

鈥淭he land is the chief, and we are the servants,鈥� says Lori Buchanan, vice president of Ho鈥檃hu Energy Cooperative. The cooperative was formed in 2020 and was officially incorporated in February of 2021 with the aim of providing locally owned, affordable, renewable energy. 鈥淭he people are there to serve the resources and to ensure that the resources are not only sustainable鈥攚hich is a word I don鈥檛 like to use鈥攂ut make them abundant in perpetuity, because we think hundreds of years down the road. Our vision is not shortsighted like corporate greed and a quick buck, but very longsighted for the next generation and the next generation.鈥�

The first step toward reaching that goal has been devising a proposal to submit to Hawaiian Electric, the main energy utility in Hawai鈥榠. In 2015, the state mandated that Hawaiian Electric consider community-based renewable energy projects in their work, so Ho鈥檃hu Energy Cooperative and the Moloka鈥檌 community are demanding to be considered. 

Their plan is for the cooperative to own solar panels and battery storage while Hawaiian Electric would continue to own the poles and wires that transfer electricity to residents鈥� homes. Hawaiian Electric would purchase the solar power from Ho鈥檃hu Energy Cooperative and provide renewable energy to cooperative members at a discounted rate.

Buchanan is Native Moloka鈥檌 and one of many on the island who has staved off extractive energy projects through protest. In 2012, she and other residents of Moloka鈥檌 organized to stop 50 wind turbines from being put on the island because of the degradation it was anticipated to cause to both the environment and the residents living there. While wind is considered a renewable energy source, it alone cannot supply a community鈥檚 energy portfolio. When the wind stops blowing, tapping into energy storage, including batteries, could help power the turbines. After that storage is used, a community may still need to use the fossil fuels provided by the existing grid. Wind turbines range in size, and the larger the turbine, the more chances there are for as seen from on the island of O鈥檃hu.  

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a Hawaiian saying,鈥� says Todd Yamashita, president of Ho鈥檃hu Energy Cooperative, 鈥�He wa鈥檃 he moku, he moku he wa鈥檃鈥斺�榯he canoe is an island, the island is a canoe.鈥� Of 7,000 people, we only have what we have and that鈥檚 all we have. So if you have anything to do here鈥攚hether it is cultural, educational, environmental, economic鈥攊f it鈥檚 extractive in nature, you are absolutely unwelcome.鈥�

Time of Transition

In 2020, renewable energy usage (wind, solar, and hydro power) in the U.S. accounted for 19.8% of total kilowatt hours, compared to 60.3% from fossil fuels (natural gas, coal, petroleum, and other gases). A meaningful transition to renewables at scale will involve both existing electric utilities and new models, like that of Picuris Pueblo.

Located in the mountains of northern New Mexico, Picuris Pueblo is the smallest tribal nation in the state. With relatively few opportunities for economic development in their remote location, Picuris partnered with Kit Carson Electric Cooperative in 2018 to embark on a solar power project that would create revenue for Picuris, meet 100% of daytime energy demand with solar power, and reduce energy costs for tribal members.

Through funding by the Department of Energy, Picuris built a 1-megawatt solar power system with about 4,000 solar panels. The energy generated is sold to Kit Carson Electric Cooperative, which relies on a mix of solar and non-renewable energy sources to provide power to its membership, including Picuris. Thanks to the solar array, residents of Picuris receive a $50 to $75 credit on their energy bills.

The project has been so successful that Picuris Pueblo is expanding their solar power operations to include a second initiative. Kit Carson is also increasing its solar power grid. The cooperative estimates that it will be able to buy solar power at $0.03 cents per kilowatt hour compared to the $0.05 cents per kilowatt hour it costs to purchase coal. Its members will save the difference on their energy bills. 

鈥淲e define [energy sovereignty] as you鈥檙e free to decide which type of fuel source you want to use,鈥� says Luis Reyes, CEO of Kit Carson Electric Cooperative. 鈥淪o, in the case of Kit Carson, if we don鈥檛 want to be tied to the fossil fuel pipeline, our power suppliers would allow this kind of energy independence to find a fuel source that best fits our needs.鈥�

The partnership benefited Kit Carson Electric Cooperative too: Picuris Pueblo鈥檚 added solar capacity brought them closer to providing 100% daytime solar power to its 33,000 members, a goal they are on track to reach by 2022. More solar power also means less reliance on natural gas and coal, some of the main sources of energy used in New Mexico. The cooperative will provide solar-generated power to its membership during the day, and at night, it relies on stored energy in batteries the cooperative owns, as well as supplemental energy from Four Corners, the site where they source their non-renewable energy.

In 2016, Kit Carson bought out of their contract with their former vendor, Tri-State Generation and Transmission Association, because they were only allowed to provide 5% solar power to their customers. The cooperative then partnered with Guzman Energy, an independent energy contractor to pursue their solar power plan.

Since Kit Carson has developed its solar infrastructure, the cooperative has purchased less coal energy from Four Corners. What was a 90% purchasing rate of coal energy in 2016 has decreased to around 40% in 2021. However, if Four Corners were to incorporate more solar sourcing into its model, it could help retain vendors who prioritize sustainability, such as Kit Carson, in the long run.

鈥淚f Four Corners today were to put solar, maybe some wind, then we would continue to buy from them and then we would continue to build solar locally,鈥� Reyes says.

A New Energy Future

As countries across the world have pledged to reduce carbon emissions, many Indigenous communities across the U.S. have been and are creating new energy futures. Blue Lake Rancheria, a tribal nation in Humboldt, California, has developed enough of its own solar energy grid that it can 鈥渋sland鈥濃�攁 term that the renewable energy sector uses to describe communities that can use power separate from the grid. When rolling blackouts were happening across the western part of the United States in 2020 and in 2021 because of an overtaxed grid, Blue Lake Rancheria was able to still provide electricity to its residents on the reservation and reduce stress on the main grid.

Even with success stories like these, the renewable energy sector is facing significant questions. As of now, the industry does not have a responsible way of disposing of certain pieces of the solar panels once they have exceeded their lifespan, usually an average of 30 years. There are also concerns about associated with mining the materials needed to make electric battery storage. But experts argue renewable energy is still than our current model of fossil fuel dependence. And as the world invests big in renewables, the sector will likely see myriad community-led innovations and improvements, which continue to inspire the residents of Moloka鈥檌.

鈥淎s we go, we鈥檙e hoping to do many creative projects that pushes the technological envelope for what you can do on a small island community,鈥� says Yamashita of Ho鈥檃hu Energy Cooperative. 鈥淧rojects that have equity, that directly benefit the people. And I can鈥檛 think of any better way than the people here building it themselves.鈥�

鈥淚 never had any interest in buying a fishing permit or owning my own boat because I saw the changes happening,鈥� says Rion Schmidt, a Sugpiaq Native who has worked in fishing and fish research his whole life. 鈥淔ewer and fewer fish, water warming up; I realized while I might be able to live a subsistence lifestyle and eat these foods, that making all my money off the fisheries might not be totally sustainable for someone like myself.鈥�

Instead, he鈥檚 looking to another species that has supported Indigenous Alaskans for millennia: kelp. The nonprofit has started a program to empower and equip young Indigenous people with the resources and training to start their own kelp farms. The goal is threefold: creating economic opportunities, supporting the health of the ocean, and connecting people to a traditional food source.

Schmidt is one of seven soon-to-be-kelp-farmers working with the Native Conservancy to build out his 22-acre kelp farm next year. Cultivating this traditional food in its natural environment is a prime example of food sovereignty, which Schmidt defines as 鈥減rotecting Native people鈥檚 right to the resource.鈥�

An Emerging Industry

The Native Conservancy is the first Native-owned and Native-led land trust, which empowers Alaska Native peoples to permanently protect and preserve endangered habitats on their ancestral homelands.

The Conservancy was founded in 2003 by Dune Lankard, who grew up in the Copper River Delta and Prince William Sound. There, his family fished and hunted wild game and always had more than they could fit in their freezers. They regularly delivered their excess to friends and family who appreciated traditional foods and didn鈥檛 have the time, energy, or resources to hunt and fish themselves. He learned at an early age that sharing an abundant harvest was not only an act of philanthropy and good will, but also a responsibility.

When the 1989 Exxon Valdez spill left subsistence foods contaminated in oil, Lankard began to focus his life鈥檚 work on conservation and protection of the wild foods that had sustained his community for thousands of years. He started the the day of the spill, which then worked to successfully protect 765,000 acres of forest from clear-cutting in the spill zone in 1995. The Preservation Council became a 501(c)3 in 2001 and now focuses its efforts on salmon habitat protection and environmental justice.

Since its founding, the Native Conservancy has worked with the Preservation Council to preserve more than 1 million acres of wild salmon habitat along the Gulf of Alaska coastline. Many of the Native Conservancy鈥檚 current projects work to build resilience and food sovereignty by delivering traditional foods to elders, piloting a portable freezer model in the community, and training kelp farmers.

鈥淚ndigenous peoples are interested in the kelp space for three reasons,鈥� Lankard says. First, 鈥渞estorative purposes; second, growing and eating a nutritious traditional food source; and third, building a regenerative local economy.鈥�

The ecologically restorative benefits of growing kelp are well documented: Kelp grows in the ocean and requires no land, fresh water, or fertilizer. In contrast, it takes and 216 gallons to produce one pint of soybeans. Kelp can also sequester carbon up to , which means it鈥檚 a powerful tool in countering the impacts of climate change, such as ocean acidification and warming.

To Lankard鈥檚 second point, kelp is nutrient-rich, with high levels of potassium, magnesium, iron, and calcium, so it can support human health, too. Coastal tribes have harvested and dried kelp for generations, using it in a variety of dishes from soups to kelp cakes鈥攁 delicacy made by smoking and curing kelp and dried berries. Lankard remembers that during his childhood, his mother and grandmother harvested kelp in the spring during low tide and brought it home to dry and eat.

To Lankard鈥檚 final point, a regenerative economy is one that promotes cooperation and environmental sustainability rather than extraction. By supporting young Native kelp farmers, Lankard wants to empower communities to decide their own fate. He also hopes to get ahead of what could be a burgeoning kelp industry before it鈥檚 entirely profit-driven. The idea is to equip young Indigenous farmers with the skills and resources they need to successfully source, cultivate, harvest, process, and market kelp themselves.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not that easy with this operation because there is no established kelp industry; it鈥檚 a fledgling space,鈥� Lankard says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why we felt that the only way Indigenous people can get in, let alone compete in this new kelp space, is if we address [potential] bottlenecks through our testing and our pilot programs.鈥�

A New Generation of Farmers

The process of kelp cultivation begins with a Native Conservancy dive crew that sources specimens of fertile wild kelp, or sorus, to maintain genetic diversity within the crop. Then, harvested sorus is brought to the Conservancy鈥檚 partners at the in Seward. Here the spores are encouraged to settle onto spools made of string wrapped around large PVC pipes, and the kelp starts to grow.

Water is changed daily to support the young algae. After six to eight weeks, when the algae is 2 to 3 centimeters long, it is transferred, or outplanted, onto offshore test lines accessible by boat. The kelp then grows to its full size in the open ocean.

The Native Conservancy now grows kelp on seven test sites covering 100 miles within Prince William Sound. Over the past year, the organization successfully grew 4,000 pounds of ribbon, sugar, and even bull kelp, a notoriously difficult species to cultivate. Lankard鈥檚 team regularly measures salinity, pH, nutritional profiles, and growth profiles of the kelp.

鈥淥ur aim is to collect and synthesize information that will be most useful to future farmers,鈥� says Tesia Bobrycki, director of regenerative economy at the Native Conservancy. This includes 鈥渁 landscape analysis of the best, proven places to grow kelp, array designs, species-specific modifications, and best practices for outplanting, monitoring, and harvesting,鈥� Bobrycki says.

In addition to conducting research to inform future farmers, the Native Conservancy recently received funding from the , a federal agency providing infrastructure and economic support throughout Alaska, to design a portable kelp nursery. The Conservancy is now making this scaled-down model available to remote villages and communities around the state.

Startup costs can a be a big barrier to entry for new kelp farmers, with expenses for permits, anchors, buoys, and lines totaling tens of thousands of dollars. To address this, the Native Conservancy is working to help secure low-interest, long-term deferred loans for Indigenous farmers as they start their mariculture operations. The Conservancy now has commitments from several donors to jumpstart the loan program, and is in the process of interviewing tribal and non-Native community development financial institutions to house this loan product.

Questions for the Future

As Schmidt prepares to build his farm, and the Native Conservancy looks toward the future, many questions remain.

For kelp that is harvested for commercial purposes, marketing and creating a value-added product can be tricky. New farmers must figure out what their regional markets look like for kelp, and whether they want to sell their harvest wholesale or work with producers to create new, value-added products like the kelp popcorn, pastas, pickles, and salsas produced by companies including and . If the quality of harvested kelp is not food-grade, farmers may have to sell it at a lower price to be used as fertilizer or compost. New farmers will have to grapple with these questions as they write their business plans, and they won鈥檛 always have answers.

Another concern is ensuring the carbon-sequestering power of kelp cultivation is not squandered. While harvesting kelp annually will certainly yield economic benefits, a major goal of the Native Conservancy is for every acre of kelp harvested, one acre of kelp will stay in the water year-round in order to sequester carbon long-term and support ocean health. Lankard is looking at creating a 501(c)(4) with regional tribes to push for policy that would potentially allow the community to grow restorative kelp alongside commercial kelp.

Ultimately, Lankard is hopeful that Indigenous and non-Indigenous customers alike will be interested in his community鈥檚 products, not only for taste or quality but because these farmers are looking to live a new way on the planet鈥攐ne that supports environmental restoration as well as a regenerative economy. While the coming months will surely present further questions and challenges, Lankard is not deterred. He says, 鈥淟et鈥檚 just see what we鈥檙e capable of accomplishing.鈥�

One nonprofit organization in Hawai鈥榠, , is attempting to improve food production through aquaponics. In Hawaiian, malama means 鈥渢o take care of or protect,鈥� and 飞补颈尘腻苍补濒辞, also a name of a community on O鈥榓hu, means 鈥減otable water.鈥� The program was founded to test 鈥渃ulturally grounded family-based backyard aquaponics intervention,鈥� according to the organization鈥檚 website. Now, the program is working to expand its operations to other communities and islands, bringing malama to more Hawaiians.

Aquaponics: Renewing the Old

Aquaponics is the combination of cultivating fish (aquaculture) and plants in water (hydroponics). Essentially, it is a method of growing animal protein in a confined space with practically no waste materials. Bacteria in the tank convert ammonia from fish waste into nitrates. Nitrates then serve as a nutrient to plants. 

The only inputs include fish, fish food, seeds, pest control (which can be done with insects), and the electricity required to run pumps and water wheels. Murky fish tank water is recirculated to plants, which purify it in the process of gleaning its nutrients, and then the oxygenated water is pumped back into the fish tanks. Aside from some evaporation, these systems can produce for years with very little water replacement.

Aquaponics as practiced by Malama is a powerful system utilizing ancient Indigenous knowledge, improved with contemporary materials and methods. Much criticism can be made of the food systems that exist in contemporary society that are harmful to human and environmental health, including mass monoculture cultivation, soil degradation, chemical use, and today. The result is not only the destruction of biodiversity, but also of ideas.

In Hawai鈥榠, Malama鈥檚 founder, Ilima Ho-Lastimosa, was 鈥渄oing a lot of food sovereignty work, traditional gardening, and connecting it to kids,鈥� says Jane Chung-Do, the organization鈥檚 public health researcher and an assistant professor of public health at the University of Hawai鈥榠 at Hilo. Ho-Lastimosa鈥檚 vision was to preserve Native Hawaiian culture, founding a nonprofit in 2005 called God鈥檚 Country Waimanalo. The vision would grow into one that focused on ecological practices and the health benefits of returning to traditional diets. 

Malama Waim膩nalo, as the organization was renamed, incorporated that cultural legacy into a program focused on backyard aquaponics. Ho-Lastimosa 鈥渏ust really saw the need for Hawaiian families to get interested in family-based, multigenerational, culture-based activities,鈥� Chung-Do says. 

A Legacy of Exploitation

While Hawai鈥榠 has fantastic conditions for scientific research鈥攊ncluding the on Mauna Loa that led to early warnings of global warming鈥攖he state has always been at the intersection of exploration and exploitation.

Hawaiians were first 鈥渄iscovered鈥� by Captain James Cook in 1778, and the islands became the site of sugar cane plantations owned by haole (White) sugar barons, a situation that persists to the present day. Though widely since at least the 1840s, Hawai鈥榠 suffered the cruel overthrowing of its queen and an abolishment of its language for nearly a century. The subsequent adoption into the United States in 1898 as a territory and in 1959 as a state has yet to provide , as the U.S. does to people who are Indigenous to the contiguous United States and Alaska. 

Today, the islands face high food costs and environmental destruction from the tourist industry. Couple these colonial stressors in Hawai鈥榠 with a rapidly changing climate, and the topic of food sovereignty reigns superior.

Climate change, as evidenced by the rising carbon dioxide recordings in Mauna Loa (which have gone from 315 parts per million in 1958 to ) has caused the oceans around the Hawaiian Islands to warm, rise, and acidify. These changes have , harming other native food species that rely on reefs for calcium carbonate鈥攖he literal backbone of so many of these species. Consequently, land-based ecosystems are also suffering, as increased drought harms traditional foods like breadfruit and taro, which have fed Indigenous peoples on these islands since time immemorial. 

In Waim膩nalo, on the eastern tip of O鈥榓hu, Malama鈥檚 backyard aquaponics research project is restoring sustainable and fresh foodways by rejuvenating harmonious techniques similar to the ancient ahupua驶补 method, which utilizes the water flowing from the mountains to the sea to grow plants and fish, Chung-Do says.

This traditional system divides land vertically along rivers so that each ahupua驶补 has a region of mountain, valley, and sea, creating a wedge of land with all a community鈥檚 needs along its slopes: salt, fish, taro, sweet potatoes, koa trees, and so forth. Although the classes the organization offers and the food-growing systems it implements are at a much smaller scale and use contemporary materials, Chung-Do says the team views these methods as 鈥渕ini ahupua驶补鈥� capable of continuing traditional knowledge, foodways, and the healthy communities that come with it.

Chung-Do described the toll colonization, militarization, and mass agriculture took on Indigenous farming systems. Malama Waim膩nalo works to counter those effects by providing equipment and training to build backyard aquaponics systems and grow traditional plants, such as taro. She says the Waim膩nalo community has responded well to the concept and how it incorporates Indigenous 驶腻颈苍补 (鈥渓ove of the land鈥�) farming practices and stewardship.

The strength of aquaponics in this context comes from the symbiotic relationship of all the elements, Chung-Do says. All organisms involved (plants and fish and humans) benefit from each other, reflecting the relationship Indigenous peoples around the world have with the land. Malama, through its work, demonstrates that it鈥檚 possible to restore ancient methods and revitalize the systems threatened by modern environmentally damaging practices that do not contain the same symbiotic relationships, she says.

Restoring Traditional Foods in Untraditional Lands

While Hawai鈥榠 faces its unique challenges as a collection of destination islands without a treaty that guarantees the rights of Native Hawaiians, other tribal communities within the geopolitical boundaries of the United States navigate their own troubled waters. They face many historically similar challenges, threats of cultural erasure, and legacies of oppression. While many tribes are combating the high prevalence of obesity, diabetes, and other diseases in their communities by restoring traditional foodways and place-based spirituality, tribes removed from their ancestral lands must find unique ways to cope.

The Seminole Nation of Oklahoma teamed up with , a Native-run company, to build customized aquaponics farming systems for individuals, schools, businesses, communities, and tribes. Kaben and Shelby Smallwood, two brothers from the neighboring Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, founded the business in 2012. Symbiotic Aquaponic partnered with, trained, and provided equipment to the Seminole Nation through a grant, and now that system grows and distributes foods to the tribe. These systems allow organic foods to be grown with 1% of the water used in industrial agriculture, empowering Oklahoma tribes who, like the Seminole and Choctaw, were forcibly relocated here. 

Seminole Aquaponics, a division of the Seminole Nation Division of Commerce in Oklahoma, is managed by rancher and self-described former-nurse-gone-ag Rebecca Votaw. Votaw, who is not Native, combines her passion for holistic healing with the Seminole traditions of her husband and children鈥檚 Indigenous ancestors to restore food sovereignty for the tribal nation and help improve its members鈥� health.

Votaw grows traditional foods in the system, such as the Three Sisters (corn, pole beans, and squash), and also prioritizes finding the best varieties for nutrition, seed saving, and succession planting. She also grows Job鈥檚 Tears, a variety of millet related to maize and other important crops, and analyzes seed catalogs to pick tomato varieties that can be canned if a surplus is produced.

鈥淭he whole idea for creating [an aquaponics system] was finding ways to expand on [Seminole] food sovereignty, but also create a business that could potentially turn around and affect the community,鈥� Votaw explains. 鈥淚f used properly, and the way it was intended for, it will do just that. But it鈥檚 a growth process.鈥�

One of the initial barriers to that growth process was a financial one. Votaw says that startup costs are high, but the return on investment can be surprising. For example, Seminole Aquaponics started with 12 pounds of bluegill in one tank. In less than a year, that had increased to 29 pounds, and the tribe is now expanding its system to include catfish and bass. 

All the project鈥檚 income goes back into expanding the system. Votaw says that, in early spring, they are 鈥渟tarting seeds, putting in pots, and getting ready for plant sales to make available to the [Seminole] Nation and outside sources.鈥� Seeds are started on-site near the aquaponics system and then transferred to pots to make the best use of limited space. Besides distributing produce, these pots are also given to tribal members to grow their own food, create their own seed banks, and continue the positive feedback loop. Because potting soil is expensive, Votaw is now introducing red wiggler worms and their castings. She calls it 鈥渄oing our own worms鈥� to reduce costs and exponentially increase the system鈥檚 zero-waste quality.

One of the challenges for the Seminole Nation of Oklahoma, however, is that not all traditional foods thrive in the hot Oklahoma summers like they did in the tribe鈥檚 ancestral lands in the American Southeast, before the tribes were forcefully relocated in the 19th century. Examples include the medicinal tea leaf yaupon, the incense sweetgrass, and blueberries. Votaw says tribal members have tried different techniques to grow these species, such as companion planting, and continue to explore a variety of options for maximum nutrition and the benefits of an aquaponics system that is sheltered from the weather.

But she says the best part of their aquaponics endeavor is the flavor.

When visitors bite into ancient yellow and purple carrots, Votaw says, they are surprised by the taste. 鈥淧eople in general, that shocks them, because store-bought food is picked too early and is not the same flavor.鈥�

Seminole Aquaponics also provides tribal youth with wholesome samples as part of its partnership with various diabetes and wellness programs. The food Votaw and her two-person team grows packs a punch of nutrients and taste to get tribal members tucking in.

Restoring Indigenous foodways is not just about restoring sovereignty and traditional practices. It鈥檚 also about celebrating the ancestors and taking care of a community of relatives. 鈥淔ood is the center of so many Indigenous cultures. Food is central to everyone鈥檚 health,鈥� Malama Waim膩nalo鈥檚 Chung-Do says. She says the participatory community endeavor is being validated by the impact aquaponics are having in Native Hawaiian households. Not only are families eating healthier, but children are learning where their food comes from, and entire communities are reconnecting to the land.

Abaki Beck contributed research to this story.

This story has been supported by the , a nonprofit organization dedicated to rigorous and compelling reporting about responses to social problems.

Since time immemorial, the Great Lakes Anishinaabeg have used fire to manage the landscape across what is now called North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, and parts of Canada. Despite fire鈥檚 universal value to humanity, European settlement put an abrupt stop to the traditional practice of controlled burns, deeming fire an entirely destructive force. The resulting damage has rippled across centuries. The wildfires that currently rage across western North America are post-colonial scars of that ideologically driven mismanagement.

鈥淚t only takes a generation or two to lose knowledge,鈥� Panek says. Traditional knowledge of fire handling, fire-related language, and the fire-adapted landscape are just a few of the cultural pillars nearly lost to time. Yet, in the past several years, the restoration of fire knowledge and fire-dependent ecosystems has gained traction thanks to Indigenous leadership.

Panek, for example, spearheaded the return of prescribed burns to Stockton Island (or its Ojibwe name, Wii-saa-ko-day-wa-ning, meaning 鈥渢he place that has been burned鈥�). The island, located in Lake Superior, off the coast of northern Wisconsin, is a traditional site for blueberry gathering. Indigenous efforts like Panek鈥檚 have sparked interest in challenging the American fear of fire around the Great Lakes and beyond.

鈥淭he forests that we see today are pretty colonized. 鈥� That鈥檚 not what our ancestors would鈥檝e known,鈥� Panek says. 鈥淥ur ancestors used fire to build landscape, fire-adapted landscape鈥攐r fire-dependent landscapes, in some places. And those landscapes influenced our identity, our language, our way of thinking, our place in this world.鈥�

A Colonized Forest

Just west of Lake Superior鈥檚 far western shore sits the University of Minnesota鈥檚 Cloquet Forestry Center. It has been a hub of forestry research and education since it was established in 1909, and researchers here are leading the effort to reconcile relationships with local tribal people through fire management.

On a recent tour of the Forestry Center, Evan Larson, professor of environmental sciences at the University of Wisconsin, Platteville, points to the cross-section of a tree. Each of the lobes growing concentrically around the original trunk is separated by a thin layer of healing sap and represents a fire event. The tree survived every human-made fire in its lifetime using its specially adapted bark and healing mechanisms. In this way, the tree has thrived in the landscape since 1793.

鈥淭his big lobe of healing wood that goes from that last fire out 鈥檛il today: That鈥檚 that fire-free interval,鈥� Larson says. 鈥淭hat was the period of removal, of the expression of allotment and land displacement, fire suppression.鈥� It represents the fire-free growth the tree experienced for the latter half of its existence.

鈥淭hese trees have been waiting 115 years [for fire],鈥� says Kyle Gill, forest manager and research coordinator, as he stands in a fire-treated portion of the Forestry Center鈥檚 research area known as . The plot is noticeably more open than the adjacent, untreated portion of the forest. Ferns have sprung up from the soil, sunlight floods the forest floor, and the breeze sings in a pitch distinct from the plot with a denser composition, developed in the absence of regular fires for more than a century.

In the absence of fire, the native red pines in Camp 8 are being replaced by hardwoods. This leads to a denser forest composition made up of plants that are more shade-tolerant, choking out sun-loving groundcover species that were once dominant below the red pines in the area, such as blueberries, honeysuckle, and sweet fern.

This has transformed the landscape, threatening local tribal knowledge and traditions. Forested ecosystems in the Great Lakes region are uniquely poised to welcome back fire treatment. In fact, they鈥檙e built for it.

One of the local native species, red pine (also called Norway pine) needs fire for regeneration. Its bark thickness, elevated crown, life cycle, and physiology all evolved in response to the regular presence of fire. Rejecting fire altogether endangers the historic forests that are home to species like the red pine, and the ecocultural lifeways associated with them, including the management of hunting lands and preparing sites for berries.

More Than a Destructive Force

Evidence of controlled fire鈥檚 benefits and its crucial value to Native populations is documented and preserved in oral tradition. But fear and misunderstanding have caused the United States to take a firm opposition to the practice since the very beginnings of European settlement.

In 1894, the Great Hinckley Fire killed 418 people in Northern Wisconsin. Just two decades later and 60 miles away, in 1918, the Cloquet Fire killed 559. These are still the second and third deadliest wildfires in U.S. history. These harrowing events, along with the Forest Service鈥檚 introduction of Smokey Bear in the 1940s to inspire social anti-fire sentiments, solidified public opposition to fire in all its forms.

And that sentiment flared up with a vengeance during World War II. 鈥淯ntil we smash the Axis, every manmade forest fire is an enemy fire,鈥� warned the U.S. Government Campaign Plan for Wartime Forest Fire Prevention in 1943. At that time, the U.S. was seeing an average of 140,000 to 220,000 forest fires every year. Ninety percent of them were human-made, caused by 鈥渃areless smokers鈥� and campers, along with farmers looking to develop better pasturage without the means or know-how to control the blaze. By spreading propaganda framing fire as the enemy of the nation, the government primed the public to support universal and indiscriminate fire suppression.

The U.S. is still living with the consequences of the centuries-long fire eradication efforts from the North American landscape, from changes to the landscape to disruptions of the traditions of First Peoples. Panek explains that a lot of Indigenous place-based knowledge is passed down via stories, many of which are 鈥渃ued鈥� by the ancestral landscape. Without fire, the landscape looks much different than it did to Ojibwe ancestors. This has led to generational losses of sacred knowledge.

鈥淚f we don鈥檛 have the triggers, the cues to transmit that knowledge, it literally dies with our elders,鈥� Panek says. 鈥淥ur language, our culture, our ways of seeing the world is based on an ecosystem that is fire-adapted. And we don鈥檛 have that right now, so what does that mean for us?鈥�

鈥淲e have to rebuild it, and we have to recapture that understanding and relationship with fire,鈥� he says. 鈥淥ur identity depends on it.鈥�

The Slow Burn of Progress

In recent years, the University of Minnesota Cloquet Forestry Center has made a significant effort to overcome American taboos and fears of fire, in part by studying the ecocultural history of fire in the Great Lakes region.

Since 2016, the Forest Center has also focused on relationship building with the Fond du Lac Band via listening sessions, ceremonial feasts, and meetings with council leaders for planning and knowledge sharing. The onset of the pandemic in 2020 provided abundant opportunities to deepen relations with local Anishinaabe peoples.

The Forestry Center is now working to incorporate traditional ecological knowledge into its work without appropriating it. Above all, this means being considerate of Ojibwe lifeways and traditions, avoiding feelings of entitlement to Anishinaabe knowledge of fire, and respecting the boundaries that come with sharing that knowledge.

This work culminated in the Forestry Center reintroducing prescribed burns to its share of the unceded territory of the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, most recently in the spring of 2022.

Gill and Larson note that efforts must be taken on an individual level, in addition to institutional change.

鈥淎s researchers, we have a tendency to go into these communities and just start extracting 鈥� rather than investing in the community,鈥� Gill says. He recalled learning more about his innate colonizer mindset from a local Fond du Lac elder, Ricky Defoe, at a workshop in 2016. 鈥淒ecolonization starts with how we approach things,鈥� he tells me. The essence of the colonizer mindset is 鈥淲hat can you give to me?鈥� whereas the Indigenous mindset asks, 鈥淲hat can I contribute and have to develop a relationship that鈥檚 more reciprocal?鈥�

A Future of Fire and Sovereignty

The Forestry Center leadership鈥檚 engagement with local Ojibwe communities and the Ojibwe people鈥檚 concrete steps to reaffirm their sovereignty are essential to sustaining Traditional Ecological Knowledge and preserving these historic forests in the face of climate change. Still, the reintroduction of fire at the Cloquet Forestry Center has not been without its challenges.

The Forestry Center and the University of Minnesota at large are still grappling with their own history of colonization. Much of the Forestry Center鈥檚 work must be carried out under the looming historic reality of land theft under the Morrill Act of 1862 and the Dawes General Allotment Act of 1887. The former stole Native land for the purpose of creating colleges to 鈥渂enefit the agricultural and mechanical arts.鈥� The latter legislation was another attempt to forcefully assimilate Indigenous peoples into Western lifestyles, dividing up their land for individual ownership and agriculture, and selling significant portions of it to non-Natives.

Tom Howes is the natural resources manager and a member of the Fond du Lac Band of the Lake Superior Chippewa. His family was one of the many displaced by a land grab that took 3% of unceded Fond du Lac territory, on which the University of Minnesota and the Cloquet Forestry Center sit today.

鈥淚n the 1854 Treaty, we gave up the Arrowhead region in Minnesota, and we said, 鈥榃e鈥檒l take this 100,000-acre reservation.鈥� That was the deal. That鈥檚 the last thing we consented to,鈥� Howes says. 鈥淲hen we said we want a 100,000-acre homeland forever, that was so we could live our life. And part of that living our life is to hunt, fish, trap, pick berries, tap trees,鈥� he says. But the Forestry Center 鈥渋s off-limits for that.鈥�

Although the Forestry Center has recently allowed limited berry picking, Howes believes the proper path forward is to support Indigenous peoples鈥� efforts to reacquire the stolen land and undo individualized allotment in favor of collective tribal ownership.

He proposes that land grant universities, in particular, also waive tuition fees for Natives affected by their land theft. Minnesota State colleges have with the Minnesota Indian Affairs Council as of this year. Similar efforts are underway in the University of California system, Colorado, Oregon, and Arizona, among others. Ultimately, Howes says, the land must be returned to Indigenous caretakers. Yet, Howes notes that these efforts will look different across different communities.

鈥淚t just depends on which community you鈥檙e talking to,鈥� Howes says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e fortunate here. 鈥� We actually have treaty rights that 鈥� are acknowledged and affirmed, and we have quasi-intact ecosystems to gather from.鈥�

The Minnesota Indian Affairs Council has also taken steps to further affirm Indigenous sovereignty over the unceded lands containing the Forestry Center, acknowledging in 2020 the theft of unceded Fond du Lac territory 鈥渨hich allowed tribal lands to be wrongfully taken to build the University of Minnesota and other universities.鈥� The document further notes the University鈥檚 past unwillingness to acknowledge and resolve this wrongdoing, before recognizing 鈥渁 new era of relationship building and partnership with the University of Minnesota鈥� founded on expectations to engage with local tribal governments 鈥渁t the highest level of the University and given the same status and attention as conducting state and federal regulations.鈥� The resolution lays the foundation for continued collaboration between the Cloquet Forestry Center and Lake Superior Chippewa for future fire management.

The Forestry Center鈥檚 work in fire reintroduction and relationship building is the result of several years of intentional, sensitive, culturally and academically informed work to dismantle Eurocentrism and combat generations of harm from colonization. Fire stewardship is just one of the countless Indigenous lifeways that has nearly been lost due to Western imperialism and hegemony. Yet, prioritizing humility and creating spaces for listening, uplifting, and centering Indigenous voices are all tangible steps to unravel the harms of colonization and reawaken resilient ecosystems as they existed for millennia.

鈥淚t takes the strength to approach something with humility and the confidence to expose ignorance,鈥� Larson says. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e going to learn about these places, then the teachers that you have are the people who have lived in these places for millennia. 鈥� If we are actively learning how to live in these places without destroying them, or at least destroying our ability to live in them how we want to or hope to, then you have to open yourself up to learning new ways of living.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 2:39 p.m. PT on Oct. 10, 2022, to correct the spelling of oshkigin and to add the names and titles of those featured in the photos.听Read our corrections policy here.

This story is the third in a three-part series produced in partnership with , an editorially independent magazine about nature and conservation powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Read parts 1 and 2 here.

The species is listed as endangered in the state of Washington and threatened under the federal Endangered Species Act. But lynx once existed in abundance in Washington state鈥攊ncluding on the Tribes鈥� ancestral territories鈥攂efore colonization, habitat destruction, trapping, and climate-change-worsened wildfires all took their toll. These compounding factors have had a lasting impact on the region鈥檚 lynx population.

While the cats are protected in the United States, they are still trapped without limit in British Columbia. Many of these lynx might otherwise migrate south across the border. But without that natural influx, human-aided immigration may be necessary for the survival of lynx, at least in Washington state. In 2013, an interagency task force was formed and affirmed the importance of the Kettle Range in conserving lynx in the U.S. because of its viable connection to existing habitats and populations north of the border. 

Climate change and the growing threat of catastrophic wildfires are key reasons for the lynx鈥檚 precarious conservation status. While lower-intensity fires historically created mosaics of lynx habitat, massive wildfires, which began in earnest throughout the region in 2002, have burned entire swaths of the Okanagan Mountain Range, which contains one of the state鈥檚 few core lynx habitats. By 2019, fires like these had substantially impacted 50% of the suitable lynx range in the Okanagan Mountains.

In this era of climate change, widespread drought, and wildfires of increasing frequency and intensity, the already small lynx population in Washington could soon be left without adequate habitat. Lynx disappearing from the state has become a real possibility.

Sanpoil District wildlife biologist Rose Piccinini, who is not a tribal member, grew up close to the land, due north of the reservation in an area known as the 鈥淣orth Half,鈥� where the Tribes maintain their traditional hunting, fishing, and gathering rights. 鈥淚 always am proud to say that I work for the Tribe, and I think part of it is that connection to the land and the connection to the animals, and the holistic way the Tribe looks at managing,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 work in a vacuum, only looking at lynx and lynx habitat, but recognizing that all of the animals are important, and part of the picture and part of that balance that we鈥檙e trying to restore.鈥�

Assessments conducted by Washington State University and the nonprofit Conservation Northwest between 2013 and 2019 determined the Kettle Mountains still contained a small number of likely transient lynx and adequate habitat and food for lynx to be reestablished there, despite the heavy impacts that megafires have had in the Okanogan Mountains. 

With this evidence in hand, Whitney, as the Tribes鈥� wildlife department director, gave his department the go-ahead to jump on board. The five-year plan was to translocate 10 lynx per year from British Columbia to the Colville Reservation. They hoped the lynx would make their homes there and begin to reproduce. In addition to restoring the community, a major goal was to provide an additional population in western North America, as well as increase the chances of connectivity with lynx in B.C. and an existing population in the Okanagan highlands. 

The first season, which ran from November 2021 to February 2022, saw three of the nine introduced lynx return to Canada. One of those later made her way back down to the Kettle Mountains, demonstrating that north-south connectivity was not only possible but happening. 

During the second season, in October 2022, the team trapped and released the animals earlier in the fall instead of through winter as they had in the first year. 鈥淭hey had an opportunity to get the lay of the land before the winter,鈥� Piccinini says. The team trapped and released 10 lynx the second year, two of which had been captured the first year and had returned to B.C. Earlier this year, the team was planning to set up a geofence and use newer, better GPS collars to determine more precisely where and how lynx are moving between habitats, which may inform future wildlife corridor projects.

Now, at the beginning of the project鈥檚 third year, all metrics point to success. Of the surviving 17 lynx trapped and released in both years, 10 appear to have established themselves in the Kettle Range, while four have returned to B.C. Three of the relocated lynx have since died. This sobering news, however, is at least partially offset by the likelihood of a new litter of kittens born on lands north of the reservation boundary, which, if confirmed, will help bolster the local population. Piccinini is anxiously awaiting confirmation from trail cameras she and tribal members have set up in the area. Seven additional lynx were recently captured and of those five remain on the reservation.

The return of lynx to the Colville Confederated Tribes鈥� lands represents an important geographical reciprocity. Some of Whitney鈥檚 human relatives, too, are reestablishing themselves in B.C., where they once lived with the lynx, the salmon, the elk, and myriad other relatives. 鈥淲e鈥檙e intermingling,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey鈥檝e taken care of the habitat up there for us and ensured our return, so we鈥檙e helping them return as well.鈥�

The territory of Whitney鈥檚 band, the Sinixt, extends from Kettle Falls, in Washington state, to the Big Bend area north of Revelstoke, B.C. in 1956 as they were negotiating the first Columbia River Treaty. 鈥淭hey declared us extinct so they didn鈥檛 have to do anything,鈥� Whitney told me in his office in Inchelium, Washington, approximately 24 miles as the crow flies from Kettle Falls, which now lies dormant beneath Franklin D. Roosevelt 鈥淟ake.鈥�

In order to have the Sinixts鈥� rights recognized in Canada, Whitney鈥檚 uncle, Richard Desautel (after whom Whitney is named), shot an elk in British Columbia on traditional Sinixt territory and turned himself in to the provincial wildlife law enforcement agency. After a series of court victories and appeals in 2021, Desautel and the Sinixt in Canada that forced the government to recognize their Aboriginal rights in British Columbia. The Tribe recently opened an office in Nelson, B.C., to further assert those rights.

Meanwhile, the Tribes haven鈥檛 slowed their efforts to restore their community. Next up are burrowing owls, Whitney says, and if possible, buffalo. But only if they鈥檙e allowed to run free, he says. Whitney cites historical evidence of the presence of buffalo in the Tribes鈥� territory. 鈥淎 lot of stories I鈥檝e been told were of folks back in the day who would jump on their horses, ride over to Montana, and round up a bunch of buffalo and bring them back. And then they would persist, however many years, until they either ate them all, they dispersed too far, or they died,鈥� he says. The Kalispel Tribe recently gifted the Colville Confederated Tribes 33 buffalo, which they released on the range at the beginning of October. 鈥淥ur goals are being developed and will be compiled into a bison management plan over the winter months,鈥� Whitney says.

Whitney loves the work of restoring his community. 鈥淲e talk about animals like people, like friends,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 grew up in the woods learning about different animals, and spent time with my father and uncle. A lot of them aren鈥檛 around anymore,鈥� he says.

Whitney thinks back to a separate ceremonial release of salmon he participated in at the inundated site of Kettle Falls, where he released salmon into waters that hadn鈥檛 known them since the dam blocked access to their ancestral spawning grounds. 鈥淚t was pretty emotional,鈥� he says. Not long after, some of those same salmon were caught by anglers in the Canadian reaches of the Columbia River. 鈥淲e have proven that they will go to Canada,鈥� he says.

Indeed the salmon are once again traveling north, in parallel with Whitney and his Sinixt relatives in Canada. And along their way, the spawning fish the Tribes have released will provide them information about the suitability of spawning habitat along their journey. In turn, this will likely put pressure on the U.S. government to ensure that salmon can pass through the dams on the Columbia River and spawn through the Colville Confederated Tribes鈥� lands on up into the Canadian headwaters of the Columbia River.

Essentially, voice by voice, individual by individual, the Tribes are working together to restore, protect, and sustain their community on lands under their jurisdiction by managing those lands in line with their cultural and traditional values鈥攚ith the aid of science. By strengthening the very fabric of the ecosystems their ancestors have been stewarding since time immemorial, they鈥檙e strengthening their vital role in those systems鈥攊n that community, in that chorus. In this way, the community itself evolves together toward a natural balance that is abundant, resilient, and mutually reciprocal. 

鈥淚t makes my heart happy,鈥� Whitney says. 鈥淚t heals me.鈥�

This story is the third in a 3-part series produced in partnership with , an editorially independent magazine about nature and conservation powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Read part 1 here and part 2 here.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:34 a.m. PT on Dec. 16, 2023, to clarify that the Tribes are referred to as the Colville Confederated Tribes or the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, not the Colville Confederacy. Read our corrections policy here.

Scott is deeply invested in maintaining healthy soil. She is the fourth generation of her family to ranch the land along the Missouri River east of the Cheyenne River Reservation, and the 125th generation of Lakota peoples to steward the land. 

Everything on Scott鈥檚 ranch, DX Beef, is done a little bit more slowly than one might see on a conventional ranch: Cattle graze rotationally on 14 different permanent pastures across 7,000 acres of land. Because her cows aren鈥檛 treated with any antibiotics or chemicals, she and other ranch hands regularly check on the cow dung to make sure it looks healthy; if it doesn鈥檛, cattle are removed from the herd and treated individually. 

While some might praise regenerative agriculture as a new advent, the techniques are older than the U.S. itself. These foodways are based on ancient movements now touted under new names: regenerative agriculture, permaculture, farm-to-table, and eating local. But the land theft that built ranching businesses is one of the main reasons Native peoples were killed, disenfranchised, and separated from traditional foodways in the first place. 

It鈥檚 not lost on Scott that the ranchers getting most of the credit for sustainable techniques are those newest to the land. Native farmers, who have long been pushed to the margins, want newcomers to the world of non-industrial food production to know there鈥檚 nothing novel about caring for the land that grows our food. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 not a new discovery,鈥� Scott says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just a late discovery for some that are a lot more confident in using it as a marketing approach.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Colonialism via Cattle

Cattle, specifically, can help tell the story of colonization of Native peoples on Turtle Island. Ranching was one of the reasons settlers and colonizers began to claim land from Native peoples west of the Mississippi in the mid-1800s, according to Ryan Fischer, a visiting assistant professor of history at the University of Wisconsin, River Falls, and the author of the book Cattle Colonialism: An Environmental History of the Conquest of California and Hawai鈥榠. 

Fischer says there are no cattle native to this land. Spanish and English colonizers brought them to the U.S. Bison, which are native to the U.S., maintained the Midwest鈥檚 rich ecologies and supported the diets and cultural practices of Scott鈥檚 Cheyenne ancestors. But bison nearly went extinct because of settlers鈥� desire to turn Native land into ranchland. 

By the mid-1800s, the construction of railways and refrigerated train cars made beef more readily available and affordable. Later, federal officials found that unused fertilizer from WWII munitions could be used to boost corn production, which helped justify the creation of factory farms and introduced beef to an even broader market of consumers. 

Around the same time, Scott鈥檚 ancestors were removed from their ancestral river with the signing of the Pick-Sloan Missouri Basin Program, which created dams as a means of 鈥渇lood control.鈥� Scott remembers being told stories of this from her grandparents and great-grandparents; the history of cattle colonialism is still recent. 

But thanks to Scott鈥檚 work, the land, and the community, is healing. 

So while Scott would like to raise bison, these animals need thousands of acres and many years to roam before being ready to slaughter. In today鈥檚 agricultural economy, she can鈥檛 make a living off them.

鈥淲e just can鈥檛 do it the way that our ancestors intended for us due to larger systemically oppressive realities that we鈥檙e navigating in the development and evolution of what our future food systems are going to look like,鈥� she says.

Cattle, she鈥檚 found, are a decent alternative; their hooves roughly resemble those of bison, which means DX Beef cows can help break down soil nutrients. Because she doesn鈥檛 use chemicals, the animal waste can naturally fertilize the land in the way bison used to. 

After processing, about 90% of the finished beef is sold in the two counties nearest the ranch. The direct-to-consumer business model means Scott is able to offer beef raised on the same land her customers themselves interact with. She鈥檚 also been able to address some of the food-access challenges that peoples living on the Cheyenne River Reservation face by bringing healthy options directly to them. 

In this way, Scott says her business is 鈥渁n expression of resiliency amongst a system that disregarded the functioning relationship that we had in agricultural production prior to colonial impact.鈥�

Cross-Cultural Collaboration

Agriculture practices that prioritize soil health and honor an inherent relationship between cattle and the land are increasingly seen as an environmentally sustainable alternative to industrial farming. Raised this way, cattle can create a thriving habitat for soil phytonutrients, support the growth of native grasses, and result in beef that some say is tastier than the industrial alternative. 

This system of farming practices, broadly referred to as regenerative agriculture, only accounts for 10% of farms and ranches today, but the numbers are slowly increasing, according to Ryan Siwinski, an organic livestock and dairy consultant for the Rodale Institute, a research and advocacy organization in the organic food movement. 

As the movement grows, he says regenerative agriculture is showing consumers, who have long been told that meat consumption is inherently harmful, that the environmental impact has everything to do with the way cattle is raised.

Enrique Salm贸n, a professor in the department of ethnic studies at Cal State East Bay, is hopeful the larger ranching and farming community will listen to the lessons of Indigenous ranchers and support their leadership in the growing field of regenerative agriculture. He cites a centuries-old system of water management that鈥檚 been so integrated in New Mexican culture that many forget it was imported by the Spanish鈥攁 story not so dissimilar from that of cattle. 

Prior to the arrival of the Spanish, 19 Pueblo tribes relied on a system of water sharing based on irrigation from rivers, streams, and tributaries, but limited transport of water meant Pueblo peoples mainly hunted and gathered their food. This changed after the Spanish introduced the Pueblo tribes to a water-management technique that remains in use today, and acequias, or gravity-fed canals, turned the desert into arable land. 

More importantly, acequias increased Pueblo peoples鈥� ability to farm and grow food without losing their traditional practices. 鈥淚f those guys could do it, we can figure out other ways for that kind of collaboration to happen,鈥� Salm贸n says.

Raising Climate Resilience 

Western science is now backing Indigenous knowledge that eating locally is best for personal and environmental health. But Spanish and English colonizers brought cattle to the U.S., meaning there are no cattle native to this land. 

Still, so-called heritage breeds can be a key tool for climate resiliency, according to Jeannette Beranger, a senior program manager at The Livestock Conservancy, an organization dedicated to raising, sustaining, and saving breeds of livestock whose populations are threatened by industrial agriculture.

Even though many of the breeds supported by the Conservancy aren鈥檛 native to the U.S., the genetic diversity they offer can be critical to staving off disease and illness, which industrial agriculture practices are exacerbating with a high usage of antibiotics, pesticides, and other chemicals. With a reliance on breeds of marketable animals, like standard broiler chickens that gain weight quickly, monoculture industrial agriculture threatens to eclipse the cultural and culinary value of other breeds. 

Once breeds that are less profitable or more difficult to raise鈥攊n other words, breeds that aren鈥檛 well-suited for the factory setting鈥攁re gone, they鈥檙e gone forever. 

The Conservancy helps build a community of like-minded ranchers and support a wealth of resources for raising uncommon breeds. But these kinds of organizations and the business platform they offer ranchers aren鈥檛 necessarily easily accessed by Native farmers and ranchers. 

Scott, for her herd, does not raise 鈥渉eritage鈥� cattle. Instead, she favors the Black Angus, because she can intentionally incorporate traits from other breeds that create a herd able to endure climate change鈥檚 hotter summers and colder winters. 

鈥淲e have this inherent desire to be connected to the production of our food systems, and we鈥檙e going to do that in whatever way that we can,鈥� Scott says. 

Many of these projects are very innovative鈥攆eats of the intellect, really鈥攂ut as I hear them, the absence of life (and reverence for it) looms loud. The graphs and catchy pitches leave little room for the beings these projects purportedly aim to protect.

The pull of solving problems is nearly irresistible, especially in times like these when many of us are so desperate for change. But the over-reliance on human agency can pull us out of the present and distract from the life that鈥檚 all around us.

That鈥檚 true for global climate catastrophe and it鈥檚 true for my own backyard. When I moved into a new apartment in Delft, Netherlands, a year and a half ago, I walked outside, looked around, saw what might be changed to fit my aesthetic, and went back inside. And that from someone who strongly identifies as a nature lover.

A recent course exploring the concept of opened my mind to the ways colonial ideology is ingrained in our society. My growing awareness of this has shown my relationship with nature鈥攁s with technologists鈥欌�攖o be troubled. We have a deeply rooted propensity toward controlling, grasping, and extracting. This desire for domination manifests in the technological climate 鈥渇ixes鈥� on a global scale (as well as the fossil-fuel-driven development that created the crisis in the first place). And it also manifests in my heartfelt efforts to solve, fix, and make projects of life.

I know full well that overcoming this problematic mindset can鈥檛 be tackled with my usual slew of deadlines and measurable goals, since these are part of the problem. Instead, it must be a great easing. A gentle breathing that loosens the shame I bear for my colonial mindset and soothes the adrenaline spikes that propel me into anxiety-fueled action.

Walking helps. Lately, I鈥檝e slowed my pace dramatically, allowing my buzzing mind to simply hum. Instead of making to-do lists, I look around. Remarkably, delightfully, with just a little attention, a whole world bustling with life reveals its abundance. This opening of my perception鈥攖o grass, to ants, to wind, to birds鈥攑laces me as one piece in the beautiful complexity. It鈥檚 a relief knowing how tangled up I am with everything else. Certainly, I鈥檓 not alone.

Still, my perception 颈蝉苍鈥檛 wholly liberated from my ancestral thinking. When saying a belated greeting to my backyard this past summer, I stopped in front of each plant separately: the eight shrubs, two trees, many ferns and flowers, grapes, berries, and two pigeons. This parsing up of the land is an impulse of the individualist worldview that gave rise to private property and ownership.

And it鈥檚 in the same vein as the impulse to encounter and assess each plant based on its potential utility to me. When meeting the red raspberry bush, I imagined the berries I could eat. When stung by nettles in the park, I thought of how to pilfer them to make tea. In treating them as resources rather than beings in themselves, I continue the objectification and extraction methods of colonial science, according to professor of Indigenous peoples, technoscience, and society . In doing so, I miss the opportunity to say 鈥渉ello,鈥� a simple yet profound greeting that lays the relational groundwork for the future question, 鈥淢ay I?鈥�

I鈥檝e noticed, too, how my heart stretches toward some beings in my surroundings and shirks others. The trees and flowers, for example, are easy to breathe with. But I鈥檓 reluctant to connect with the pavement, bricks, and lampposts. And 颈蝉苍鈥檛 the fence in my backyard a dead thing meant to separate?

This moral distinction between natural and unnatural, alive and dead, is yet another layer of colonial heritage blocking me from relationship with the environment I inhabit. After all, artist and futurist Adah Parris posits that all . Neglecting the cement means neglecting most of the city that surrounds me and disregarding the genealogy of things.

Herbalist, gardener, and educator mused about the effects of kinning within an urban environment when she said in her podcast For the Wild: 鈥淚 often think of our bodies in the city as also the lungs that are helping to purify the life here.鈥�

Anyone might be a conduit of healing like P茅rez. But not as a savior in the posture of charity, which some climate solutions seem to assume. Such a stance acts in unidirectional and demeaning ways. P茅rez encourages embodied care, which involves relationship and mutual attunement.

My deeply held tendencies toward individualism, extraction, and separation won鈥檛 be easily shifted. But with tender attention, they might be eased over time. As I experiment with this embodied practice of recognition and relationship, I already feel a difference in how I move in the world. The uniqueness of this place unfolds, and grand global fixes seem more and more out of touch. This 颈蝉苍鈥檛 to say that massive shifts aren鈥檛 needed. But rather that these shifts should begin from a place of communion rather than generalization.

Certainly, moving through the streets with this openness begins a deep shift within me. In attending to my surroundings鈥攆rom grasses to fences to building鈥攎y shoulders unclench and my breath slows. Any healing that might emerge in the environment, then, is mutual.

The exclusion of Indigenous people and other non-white communities in environmental and conservation work is, unfortunately, nothing new. For centuries, conservation has been driven by Eurocentric, Judeo-Christian belief structures that emphasize a distinct separation of 鈥淢an鈥� and 鈥淣ature鈥濃�攁n ideology that does not mesh well with many belief structures, including those belonging to Indigenous communities.

Christianity has deep, painful historical associations with the obsession of dominance.

鈥淐hristianity has been largely built up around the idea of colonization,鈥� Braun says. Not only do these belief structures hold disproportionate power in environmental legislation, but they hold historical pains for those outside of Western religions. 鈥淐hristianity was forced down our throats,鈥� Braun says. 鈥淥ur reservations were divided up: 鈥極K this community 鈥� you can be Catholic. This community 鈥� you鈥檙e Lutheran. This community 鈥� you鈥檙e whatever.鈥欌��

Before the onset of such religion through colonialist conquests, the overwhelming consensus throughout the world was that human beings were just a small part of this natural world. Neither detached, nor superior. Of course, this 鈥渃onsensus鈥� was not necessarily expressed in such a way that all groups adhered to the same belief structures. Yet, the underlying environmental ideology remains: Human beings are, to some extent, connected to all other living things on Earth, even the Earth itself. As European imperialism鈥攁nd along with it, cultural genocide鈥攂egan to take hold worldwide, so began the spread of the 鈥淢an versus Nature鈥� dogma.

Today Braun鈥檚 life is just one example of the ideological exclusion of non-European thought as it relates to wildlife and the natural world. Nonsubscribers are barred from participation in the protection of the world and nonhuman lives they hold so dear, which inhibits their environmental stewardship. But around the world, and especially in the United States, we are witnessing a historical push toward the dismantling of imperialism, the decentralization of power, and the welcoming of non-white, non-European values into conservation.

How Modern Conservation Upholds the Superiority of Humans

Christianity has deep, painful historical associations with the obsession of dominance. The same Bible that was used to enforce humans鈥� domination over nature was also used to force Indigenous peoples to abandon their cultural truths for those more palatable to Europeans. This laid the foundation that continues to separate human life from nature to this day.

As the Bible states in Genesis, 鈥淟et [Man] have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over all the wild animals of the earth.鈥� We see echoes of this passage in the frameworks of many conservation objectives today, with concepts such as 鈥渃reating鈥� sustainable forests, 鈥渕anaging鈥� wildlife populations, and 鈥減reserving鈥� wilderness as a realm separate from that of humans. This reduces our perception of human connectivity to nonhuman life and to distance constituents from the objective recognition of Earth鈥檚 intrinsic value.

Experiences rooted in genocide and slavery still inform people鈥檚 experience of the outdoors.

Take one of the 鲍.厂.鈥檚 leading environmental organizations, for example. The 鈥攁 federal organization with 鈥攈as a mission statement that almost exclusively highlights the instrumental value of North America’s natural lands: 鈥淭he National Park Services preserves unimpaired the natural and cultural resources and values of the National Park System for the enjoyment, education, and inspiration of this and future generations 鈥� to extend the benefits of natural and cultural resources conservation 鈥� throughout this country and the world.鈥�

Their mission is painfully anthropocentric, never mind that the very lands it aims to extend were stolen from Indigenous tribes who are now denied access. Missions such as these create a near-impenetrable ideological barrier through which environmentalists of non-Christian cultures cannot pass.

Keeping POC Out of Conservation

These organizational goals exclude other faith (or non-faith) groups and have nurtured a hostile environment that disproportionately affects people of color. Historical experiences function to reinforce these impacts, further preventing people of color from exercising agency in conservation initiatives. For one, white constituents do not live with the same generational trauma that people of color do.

Experiences rooted in genocide and slavery, for example, still inform people鈥檚 experience of the outdoors. Black people were forbidden to enter certain spaces owned by the National Park Service and other natural lands because of Jim Crow laws and deeply rooted racism, . . Many were lynched in these landscapes as well. Thus, for Black people, experiencing the outdoors was to put one鈥檚 life on the line.

Simultaneously, 鈥渢hose in power [imposed] a particular concept of environment,鈥� Gould says, which denied Black people鈥檚 experiences in natural habitats. Ideological disparities have likewise discouraged Indigenous agency in land management despite how profoundly they value land and wildlife. In the words of , 鈥淭he land is not really the place (separate from ourselves) where we act out the drama of our isolate destinies鈥� It is not a matter of being 鈥榗lose to nature鈥欌�� The Earth is, in a very real sense, the same as our self (or selves).鈥�

Inequality lies even in the evasiveness of definitions. 鈥淕oogle the word, 鈥榚nvironment鈥� and see how far you need to scroll to see pictures of people in urban areas,鈥� Pomona College psychologist Adam Pearson says. 鈥淲hat counts as being an 鈥榚nvironmentalist?鈥� And what counts as 鈥榚nvironmentalism?鈥欌�� The vast majority of Americans believe that people of color do not feel strongly about environmental causes. Black, Latino, Asian, and white respondents overwhelmingly associated environmentalism with whiteness and underestimated environmental valuation in their own communities. Some 65% of Latin and 68% of Asian respondents self-identified as 鈥渆nvironmentalists,鈥� compared to 50% of white respondents.

What Equal Opportunity Actually Looks Like

The public has long held onto the idea that the socioeconomic inequalities play a large role in a person of color鈥檚 individual capacity to care for the environment when in fact, conservation organizations often create unequal socioeconomic barriers. People of color who try to enter professional roles in American conservation often encounter pay rates (and have done so for decades). That requires applicants to have enough accumulated wealth to be able to afford forgoing reasonable pay to 鈥済ain experience鈥濃�攁 luxury out of reach for many non-whites because of . Even those who fall in line with the Christian dogma are granted unequal access and compensation. Forty-nine percent of Black Christians, compared to 28% of white Christians, earn less than $30,000 annually, according to the .

Ideological disparities have also had clear effects on Indigenous agency in land management. For example, the United States Department of Agriculture鈥檚 Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services works to combat 鈥�,鈥� the idea that wildlife poses a threat not only to human health, safety, and property, but to natural resources as well. This concept is a stark contrast to many cultures鈥� environmental values. 

Indigenous knowledge can reveal truths not visible with white, Eurocentric approaches to conservation.

How would one expect an Indigenous person, a Buddhist, or a Muslim to feel welcome in such a space? The answer lies not only in dismantling millennia of imperialism, but also in the conscious invitation of non-white, non-European cultures into conservation.

According to Pearson, this requires combating stereotypes of environmentalists and creating enthusiasm for working in traditionally noninclusive spaces. Fulfilling these responsibilities requires taking an honest look at how ideological contrasts actively exclude people of color and perpetuate a negative feedback loop that overrepresents white people in environmental and conservation spaces.

鈥淚nviting people to advise doesn鈥檛 mean that they鈥檙e gonna listen,鈥� Braun notes when discussing possible methods of increasing diversity in conservation. 鈥淚鈥檝e seen that a lot. That鈥檚 just them patting themselves on the back.鈥� She says real progress relies on human connection. 鈥淲hen you are facing one another, then you鈥檙e forced to deal with things like the prejudices you carry on your back. You鈥檙e forced to face the potential of racism. You鈥檙e forced to face the economic divides.鈥�

Abandoning Exclusivity for Diverse Community-Based Management

As climate change becomes a mainstream concern, Indigenous knowledge can reveal truths not visible with white, Eurocentric approaches to conservation. Traditional ecological knowledge is , according to a 2019 study in British Columbia and Alaska. 鈥淭he region is a bellwether for biodiversity changes in coastal, forest, and montane environments,鈥� the authors write, and 鈥渁n extremely dynamic and resilient social-ecological system where Indigenous Peoples have been adjusting to changing climate and biodiversity for millennia.鈥�

Nearly 100 Indigenous elders from communities along the Pacific Coast shared with researchers the changes they had observed in coho and sockeye salmon migration patterns and the effects of warming aquatic temperatures with great detail. They had similar observations of the Sitka black-tailed deer, highlighting that their migration patterns had been influenced by fluctuating factors such as rising temperatures and reduced snowfall. Ultimately, the researchers asserted that present environmental governance is far too rigid in its exclusivity of Indigenous knowledge and that 鈥渢oken community visits鈥� must evolve to invite Native environmental observers and managers to share their knowledge to create tangible progress.

While these ideas remain nascent in much of American conservation, other countries provide examples of success. For decades, forests in Benin were exclusively owned and managed by state officials. They were supported (and thus, politically influenced) by major stakeholders including the Fondation Aide 谩 l鈥橝utonomie Tob茅, a Swiss non-governmental organization. Though the foundation surely had the best interests of the Benin constituents in mind, their collaboration didn’t represent the public鈥檚 values. Those living within the Tob茅-Kpobidon forest, for example, did not feel welcome in forest management, which led to unsustainable resource use and degradation of the land. 

To establish newfound hope for sustainable forest management and community involvement, a team of researchers, led by Rodrigue Castro Gbedomon . This methodology aims to 鈥渁lleviate poverty among forest users, empower them, and improve the condition of the forests.鈥� The idea was that the invitation for community involvement (and thus, agency in management decision-making processes) would nurture a sense of ownership in constituents, encouraging them toward more conservative use of forest resources, thereby creating a more sustainable existence for the forest.

The team consciously invited varying ideals and perspectives into management practices by interviewing elders and community leaders on their perspectives regarding the forest鈥檚 health. Stakeholders included nongovernmental organization leaders, and traditional and religious authorities that led and guided the surrounding communities. Divinity priests were invited as well, representing deities revered by the locals, including Ogu (the god of iron), Tchankponon (the god of smallpox), Otchoumare (the god of the rainbow), and Nonon (the god of bees). First Settlers and local hunters were also given authority in this work, serving to extend the network of participation deeply into every facet of the residents surrounding and within the Tob茅-Kpobidon forest.

This decentralization of power and integration of diverse belief structures was supported by the foundation, which provided the financial resources and the means for reinforcement of the constituents鈥� chosen management policies. This included warning signs indicating forest boundaries and guards to manage entry into the area. The foundation also rewarded locals鈥� involvement with a yearly stipend of 500,000 FCA ($1,000 USD) to further encourage their continued dedication to conservation activities.

This new governance structure yielded phenomenal results. As community access to the forest expanded for medicinal gathering, hunting, beekeeping, and more, the forest鈥檚 contribution to the local economy increased to make up more than 25% of the First Settlers鈥� income. Also, the native flora experienced a 鈥減rogressive evolution鈥� alongside a healthy, low rate of human agricultural interference. (Cashew plantations, for example, expanded at only 0.4% annually). This community-focused approach continued to have positive effects on the forest in the years after the study.

The Tob茅-Kpobidon Forest experimental management approach, along with the extensive foundation of evidence validating Indigenous knowledge, serve as a beacon of hope amid the darkness that looms over non-white, non-European demographics that yearn for a role in conservation initiatives. It demonstrates that the present ideological chasms that keep people of color out of conservation can be defeated and that such cultural victories powerfully serve both humans and the natural landscapes in which we reside.

Note: This story has been updated to reflect the writer’s preference not to capitalize white when referring to race.

Much of the Camp Fire burn scar is in the  ancestral homelands. The Mechoopda are a federally recognized tribe and a subdivision of the Northwestern or Konkow Maidu. Meders-Knight launched the  in response to the Camp Fire and has run a number of TEK workshops for both Native and non-Native students since then. 

One of the ways in which such efforts are distinct is that wildfire destruction is contextualized in history. For example, Meders-Knight opened the Paradise TEK seed workshop with a primer on decolonization to help participants understand the role of seeds within California鈥檚 history of genocide and ecocide.

Giving back to the plants is like giving reparations to the tribe.

Ali Meders-Knight

Seeding a landscape claimed by European American settlers during the California Gold Rush, Meders-Knight repopulates this land with native plants and Indigenous land tending. As she puts it, 鈥淕iving back to the plants is like giving reparations to the tribe.鈥� Calling plants by their Maidu names expresses ancient relationships tied to specific ecosystems. 

For non-Native participants, restoration work is an act of reversing colonization and supporting Mechoopda sovereignty. Every week, Meders-Knight teaches Native and non-Native volunteers how to give back to plants at Verbena Fields, a restoration site in nearby Chico, where many of the seeds for the Paradise workshop were gathered. By using Native plant names, knowledge, and burning practices, TEK practitioners such as Meders-Knight are connecting with their ancestral past and trying to create a viable future for their children and grandchildren.

At her workshops and during volunteer work days, Meders-Knight teaches participants what Potawatomi botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer calls Indigenous people鈥檚 鈥�.鈥� This approach means referring to plants and animals as family members and treating them respectfully. During the Paradise seed workshop, Meders-Knight encouraged volunteers to make a gift to the land by offering prayers, or dedicating seeds to those who have died in the COVID-19 pandemic. 

鈥淢echoopda鈥� means 鈥渨hen the snow melts, the land gets wet,鈥� according to Meders-Knight. The tribe鈥檚 name ties it to the particular valley and foothills where snowmelt is essential to restoring waterways and wetlands. 

At the heart of Verbena Fields is a gathering circle and ceramic tile display of a Mechoopda creation story that Meders-Knight and a group of Native youth created in 2009. In the artwork, Earth Maker and Turtle appear, as does an oak tree with acorns. Turtle helped Earth Maker by diving down under the waters and bringing up dirt in its claws. Earth Maker then shaped the dirt into the Earth and used 肠鈥檌辫补 (willow) sticks to create humans, so the story goes.

Fires, many of them intentionally set, also shaped much of California鈥檚 vegetation before European colonization.

The beautiful open vistas and bountiful plants and animals described by early European explorers were not an untouched wilderness in which humans played no role. Geographer Meleiza Figueroa, who works with Meders-Knight at Chico Traditional Ecological Stewardship Program, explains that Native people created the landscape that Europeans encountered: 鈥淟ands adapted to them as they adapted to landscapes.鈥� Throughout what is now California, Indigenous people developed cultural beliefs and land-tending practices over millennia of belonging to specific ecosystems.

Fires, many of them intentionally set, also shaped much of California鈥檚 vegetation before European colonization. Meders-Knight wants to bring back traditional burning practices because, as she says, 鈥渇ire lives here.鈥� According to her, each tribe had a fire story about 鈥渁 bird or animal that takes the fire back, because fire is power.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For Meders-Knight, Mechoopda are like the animals in these stories, helping to 鈥渟teal the fire back.鈥� She makes a clear distinction between 鈥済ood鈥� and 鈥渂ad鈥� fire. Good fire is carefully tended and set during appropriate weather conditions. It has 鈥渨丑颈迟别 plumes,鈥� while catastrophic wildfires have smoke that is brown and purple, 鈥渓ike a bruise.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

 (Plains Miwok) observes that in Native Californian stories, knowledge of fire goes back to 鈥渢he beginning of time.鈥� Native communities treated fire as an ally to increase biodiversity, improve basket materials, encourage healthier berries, control pests and diseases, enhance the growth of grasses and bulbs, germinate seeds, encourage mushroom growth, and reduce the chances of high-intensity fires. As  Tribal Chairman Ron Goode claims in a , 鈥淔ire has spirit, this land has spirit, and when we鈥檙e burning, they come alive.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Indigenous cultural burning is starting to return.

According to Hankins and other experts, Western methods of fire suppression are largely to blame for California鈥檚 catastrophic fires that are becoming increasingly common every summer. The removal of Indigenous people and their land-tending practices, such as intentional burning, went hand in hand with misguided fire-suppression policies. 

But Indigenous cultural burning is starting to return. In 2003, the Mechoopda tribe acquired 650 acres of land south of Chico, where it has conducted cultural burns as part of a larger restoration project to heal the land. In October 2020, the  conducted a cultural burn in the  in Santa Cruz County. In 2019, in northwestern California, members of the , , and other tribes started a cultural burn with wormwood torches, as reported . 

In the aftermath of the Camp Fire,  under collapsed buildings and debris in Paradise and other towns that flourished during the Gold Rush. In a presentation on decolonization in Paradise, one year after the Camp Fire, Meders-Knight declared, 鈥淔or generations we were not allowed or invited back on this land. 鈥� For generations, White people in Paradise were finding our pestles and mortars and displaying them in their homes. After the fire, often the only things left were these mortars and pestles.鈥� A sign of resilience, these ancient objects also pointed to the history of genocide and ecocide that created the conditions (fire-starved forests) that led to the Camp Fire. 

Meders-Knight told participants at the same TEK seed workshop in Paradise last December that Native people are especially well-positioned to confront climate change because they already 鈥渒now how to survive the end of the world.鈥� The Gold Rush and its accompanying massacres were her people鈥檚 apocalypse. 

Beginning in 1848, the Gold Rush precipitated violent and catastrophic change for Mechoopda people as well as for the ecosystems on which they depended. Many Mechoopda, in what is now the Camp Fire burn scar, were killed by settlers. Others were removed from the land during the tragic 1863  or Konkow Trail of Tears. 

Meders-Knight鈥檚 work at Verbena Fields is a response to the destructive displacement of people, plants, and animals in Northern California. After gold mining, massacres, forced removal of Mechoopda, and construction of Army Corps of Engineers dams, Verbena Fields became a dumping ground for construction projects. 

Neat suburban homes with manicured lawns sit on both sides of the park. When these subdivisions were constructed during the second half of the 20th century, builders dumped their waste materials in the creek鈥檚 channel. 

In 2009, when Meders-Knight started her work, bulldozers had removed the hazardous construction waste, leaving nothing but dirt at the site. It is Meders-Knight鈥檚 artistic vision, expressed in her paintings and restoration plans, that imagines what was once here and will be again: a fire-resilient native garden, full of food and medicine.

Today, in an agreement with the city of Chico, the Mechoopda tribe manages Verbena Fields. As part of that effort, Meders-Knight has been working there for more than 12 years, coppicing 肠鈥檌辫补/willow, saving and dispersing seeds, and removing star thistle, mustard, Scotch broom, Himalayan blackberry, and other invasive non-native plants. Every Friday morning, anywhere from 5 to 25 volunteers show up to put their hands on the land and learn from Meders-Knight and DiGenova, the native-plant expert. 

On a plant walk at Verbena Fields during the winter of 2021, Meders-Knight and DiGenova, who lead monthly tours of the park together, pointed to a flourishing patch of wedakdaka/Indian lettuce (otherwise known as 鈥渕iner鈥檚 lettuce鈥�) where a year ago there had been far less. Waji/鈥淚ndian potatoes鈥� that they planted a couple of years earlier were pushing through the soil in tiny shoots. 

Verbena Fields is an emerging model of what decolonizing land can look like, supported by partnerships between Native and non-Native communities. DiGenova, who uses they/them pronouns, has been an essential collaborator with Meders-Knight for the past couple of years by contributing their extensive knowledge of native-plant propagation. For them, Verbena Fields is an example of what land around Chico might have looked like before colonization. As they see it, 鈥淭丑别谤别 aren鈥檛 that many things in the world that really make a difference, but planting and tending to native plants does. We鈥檝e seen a restored forest, that it works.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Yet the return of native plants and Native people to Verbena Fields is not without conflict. One Friday workday in 2021, Meders-Knight arrived at Verbena Fields to find that vandals had chopped down some trees, including a favorite t鈥檃t鈥檃m c鈥檃/alder. She felt like a 鈥�12-year-old friend died 鈥� before its time.鈥� The following week, a large group assembled to work on the fallen trees. While peeling t鈥檃t鈥檃m c鈥檃/alder bark, Figueroa, the geographer, explained that in this way they could 鈥渉onor鈥� the t鈥檃t鈥檃m c鈥檃 by putting it to use. 

For many volunteers, working at Verbena Fields is a way of coping with the shame and guilt that descendants of settlers feel for all that has been lost. Restoration rites offer reparations for a colonial past that had terrible consequences for both the Indigenous people of California and the animal and plant communities with which they lived. For DiGenova, working at Verbena Fields became a therapeutic response to grief about what was lost, as well as something to do in the face of impending climate change. As they explained it, 鈥淚 just recognized that if I came here, I could have a taste of being more fully human.鈥� Being more fully human came about because of their connection to the land that they used to grieve, that they thought was gone. But even 鈥渋n the story of it being so devastating, there鈥檚 a shred of hope in it being so much better than I thought it could have been. 鈥� It鈥檚 too soon to give up.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Land restoration and decolonization are not quick fixes. Meders-Knight says she wants to 鈥渃reate restorative places and ecosystems for the next 100 years.鈥� Until then, it will be hard to know the full fruits of her labor. As she put it in an interview on the radio show , 鈥淚 will be visiting and tending these places in spirit form.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淭hose are visual clues that you are in an important place of learning,鈥� says , a University of Montana natural areas specialist. 鈥淭his is the standard way that American universities look.鈥�

The common design was an effort by white settlers to recreate the prestigious Ivy League campuses of Princeton, Harvard, and Yale, Marler says. These kinds of landscapes are 鈥渁ll based on European ideals of what is valuable and beautiful,鈥� she says. This has conditioned Americans to associate places of learning with European landscapes instead of local, Indigenous ones.

By dismantling Indigenous landscapes, settler-colonists reimagine them as their own. Environmental historian Traci Brynn Voyles describes the process by which non-white lands are recast as valueless and available for erasure as 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The cultural roots of university campus landscapes surround whiteness and a European aesthetic, which can result in Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) feeling a and alienation on college campuses, even if there is no overt racial hostility.

Advocates are calling for places of learning to instead be aligned with Indigenous values and aesthetics. The demand for meaningful action has emerged and reverberated throughout institutions of higher education across the country. 

鈥淲hen I think of decolonizing, I think about exercising ways of Indigeneity,鈥� says , a Shoshone-Bannock and Chippewa-Cree Master of Science student at the University of Montana. 鈥淔or me, that means maybe less development, or focusing resources on native plants, maybe creating more areas where we can access foods or things like that when we鈥檙e in these college spaces.鈥�

Re-Indigenizing the Settler Colonial Aesthetic

Re-Indigenizing the colonial landscapes of college campuses can address both the historical erasure of Indigenous presence and the isolating impact campuses currently have on BIPOC students, faculty, and staff. Ethnobotanical gardens can create a welcoming and healing space for all鈥攅specially for Indigenous participants鈥攖hrough emphasizing human relationships with native plants.

Educational institutions such as ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; and others have recently established ethnobotanical gardens, native plant gardens, and as a means to restore Indigenous flora.

The ethnobotany garden outside of the at the University of Montana (UM) attracted Fellows, who says, 鈥淚 like to walk around and observe and see what鈥檚 growing and know that I can go harvest sweetgrass during a break. 鈥� It鈥檚 a special place 鈥� that I鈥檝e spent a lot of time at.鈥� She says it is a great space that students can visit between classes to unwind.

Fellows also served as an intern in UM鈥檚 Four Sisters Garden. Based on the agricultural practices of the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara tribes, the garden includes sunflowers, squash, corn, and beans, which support one another鈥檚 growth. Sunflowers attract pollinators, squash leaves protect the soil from drying out, corn stalks allow vines to climb, and the beans fix nitrogen in the soil. Fellows emphasized that as someone who is not a member of these tribes, 鈥渃aring [for] these seeds and caretaking for these plants,鈥� requires participants 鈥渢o be careful about how we鈥檙e doing these practices.鈥� In order for campuses to re-Indigenize their landscapes, there is a need to understand what the land and what people鈥檚 relationship with that land looked like precolonization.

It is similar at other universities. The modern-day campus of the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, for example, was covered in tall- and mixed-grass prairies until less than 200 years ago. These lands were host and ecological partner of the Bodw茅wadmi (Potawatomi), Peewaalia (Peoria), Kaahkaahkia (Kaskaskia), and Myaamia (Miami) since the slow retreat of the last glaciers about 12,000 years ago, according to .

Since the 1830s, the Illinois landscape, and especially that of its college campuses, has lost nearly all of its native plant species. Only 0.01% of Illinois鈥� original Indigenous prairieland remains today. Some of the last remnants were in March 2023 by the Greater Rockford Airport Authority just outside Chicago as part of a . As bulldozers leveled the most in the state, they were carrying out the task of and Indigenous removal in yet another settler-colonial process. 

Environmentalist Rob Nixon refers to this kind of centuries-long change in landscape as 鈥�.鈥� Often uncinematic, the damage is real鈥攂ut its perpetrators are difficult to pin down with specificity.

The erasure of the Indigenous landscape has taken, and continues to take, time. The final violent act of Indigenous removal is to prevent any possibility of Native peoples鈥� return. On college campuses, as in many places, this is done by imagining they were never here in the first place.

Re-Indigenizing University Campuses

But across the country, advocates are making change. In an effort to re-Indigenize college campuses, BIPOC students, allies, alumni, and faculty are introducing gardens and cultural houses based on Indigenous practices to campuses. While such projects aim to create safe places, they are often on the periphery of the university grounds and not in a central or visible location, adding to the isolation and othering of people of color on college campuses.

In contrast, Oregon State University (OSU) has created both an Indigenous center and a garden in the middle of campus. Director of Tribal Initiatives in Natural Resources , Latinx with Raramuri and Apache heritage, describes the importance of these places: 鈥淸It鈥檚] not just being ourselves, but stepping into our power. And having conversations that we might not have felt safe having here, you know, a decade ago on this campus.鈥�

Eisenberg has been part of the OSU community since 2006, first as a graduate student and then as a postdoctoral researcher. Eisenberg鈥檚 in restoration ecology, wildlife biology, and Traditional Ecological Knowledge frames her work in partnering with tribal nations to support sovereignty rights. 鈥淏ack in 2006 it was not a safe space to be Indigenous or different,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very, very different right now.鈥�

Thanks to the efforts of student advocates over the years, OSU now has and Indigenous plants on campus, and in the future there will be Indigenous cultural burning. Thinking back over her time at OSU, Eisenberg says, 鈥淚 would have never imagined that we would get to this point.鈥�

By restoring a place鈥檚 history, a college community can see the ways that Native plants sustained and continue to sustain Native people, which is why Eisenberg says re-Indigenizing the land is so important today.

The University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign is still in the process of creating an Indigenous plant garden, but students in the ecological restoration club utilize Indigenous knowledge to volunteer and care for native plants at the UI Arboretum.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a place that not that many students really know about unless they are already seeking it out, myself included,鈥� says Vijay Shah, an Indian-American chemical engineering Ph.D. student. 鈥淚 take it upon myself to understand the place I am, through learning Indigenous language and learning about Indigenous plants on the land.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Red Bison has advocated for installing pollinator habitats with native plants in relatively unused land at the center of campus, such as along the periphery of the main quad. Some in the campus community, Shah adds, 鈥渕ay not recognize that a prairie plant restoration, which appears unseemly or disorganized, can actually be healthy in its own right.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Marler, at the University of Montana, has also noted that when Indigenous plant gardens are attempted on college campuses, some may view them as 鈥渦gly鈥� or think they 鈥渓ook bad鈥� because the campus community is not used to this Native aesthetic.

Despite this wastelanding, however unconscious, there is much for everyone in a campus community to gain from restoring Indigenous land connections. Shah described the benefits of pollinator habitats beyond cultural and ecological restoration, recounting that 鈥渢he more students get to recognize 鈥� prairie flowers 鈥� it brings people closer to the place [where] they鈥檙e studying.鈥�

Another purpose of these kinds of native plant or pollinator gardens is educational. 鈥淢ost people have plant blindness and they just don鈥檛 think about 鈥� how plants are organized or what the plants are,鈥� Marler says. By drawing attention to Native plants, appreciation can be cultivated. 

Beyond Land Acknowledgements

In recent years colleges and universities have begun writing and presenting 鈥渓and acknowledgement鈥� statements on their websites and at campus events. But some argue these statements are performative and preclude more meaningful action. University land acknowledgements do not address the process of slow violence or the false colonial narrative perpetuated by these institutions, students say.

Fellows shares that while her university in Montana is creating new native plant gardens, it is also continuing to demolish campus green spaces to construct new buildings. 鈥淲e say those acknowledgements, however here we are 鈥� continuing to develop these spaces and 鈥� for what? For a ?鈥� she asks. 鈥淎nd what does football represent within our [Indigenous] communities? Who is represented in those communities? What does it mean when we鈥檙e putting all this infrastructure and capital into [campus] space?鈥�

More work is still needed, but many advocates are hopeful for the future of re-Indigenizing college campuses鈥攅specially in places where Indigenous ethnobotanical gardens have already been successfully established and integrated into campus life.

The most sensible way to stop slow violence and end waiting for settler-colonists to imbue 鈥渨astelands鈥� with value is to intervene. This is done by returning to the kinds of landscapes that Indigenous peoples stewarded for some 30,000 years. Centering that history鈥攃entering Indigenous presence鈥攃an meaningfully transform institutions of power into places of learning.

Matteson remembers the collective dismay and anger in the room as the five-person board approved Enbridge鈥檚 permit request. She also remembers what happened next: Tania Aubid, a member of the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, stood up and told the commissioners that they had just declared war on the Ojibwe people. 

Outside of the conference hall, organizers held a rally. Matteson listened as Winona LaDuke, a member of the White Earth Nation and executive director of the nonprofit Honor the Earth, spoke alongside several youth interveners鈥攖eenagers who were suing to stop the pipeline in court. Listening to their words, Matteson was moved by their unwavering dedication鈥晅o the land, water, and climate, but also to upholding the treaty agreements, which were being violated by this pipeline project.

Only by confronting the context of the 鲍.厂.鈥檚 settler-colonial history can settlers begin to reckon with their personal identity as treaty people. 

After the news conference, Matteson packed her two young children into the car. They drove for nearly three hours before reaching a part of the land where the Mississippi starts to widen into one of the nation鈥檚 most storied rivers. It was a place she knew well. Matteson鈥檚 family had lived in the area for five generations, ever since her great-great-grandfather, Amasa, settled a homestead and opened a small sawmill on 1855 Treaty land. She鈥檇 grown up in the nearby town of Palisade, Minnesota, population 150.

Here was where Enbridge planned to drill the Line 3 pipeline under the Mississippi.

Standing on the riverbank that night, Matteson made a pledge to do everything she could to uphold the treaties and to stop Line 3. 鈥淚 remember that day, saying to myself 鈥業 am making a commitment to this fight,鈥� 鈥� Matteson recalls. 

Defending Treaty Rights: From the Salish Sea to Line 3

On July 25, a Lummi Nation-carved totem pole will pass through the Mississippi Headwaters, under which Enbridge plans to drill the Line 3 pipeline. It鈥檚 part of a 1,500-mile journey from the Salish Sea in the Pacific Northwest through numerous Indigenous sacred sites, including Bears Ears in the Southwest and Standing Rock in the Midwest, en route to Washington, D.C. The totem pole is intended to invite Native and non-Native people to connect with the idea of broken treaties and the ongoing efforts to honor them, especially when treaty rights come into conflict with extractive capitalism.

Putting a hand on the totem pole, as people are invited to do at each sacred site event stop, one can鈥檛 help but feel a sense of awe for the many stories, hopes, and prayers it carries鈥攁nd to offer their own. The 24-foot pole, hauled on a trailer behind a pickup, bears images that tell stories of the present-day struggles faced by Indigenous communities鈥攊ncluding the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women, the crisis of children held in cages at the U.S.-Mexico border, and the work of language revitalization. One carving is a grandmother with seven tears, using culture to teach her granddaughter how to turn trauma into wisdom. The totem pole aims to serve as 鈥渁 reminder of the promises that were made to the first peoples of this land and waters,鈥� Lummi master carver Jewell James told . 

Once you know the true history, you can learn from it, and become wise from it.

These promises were made in the form of nation-to-nation treaty agreements, recognized in the U.S. Constitution as 鈥渢he supreme law of the land.鈥� For non-Native individuals residing in the U.S., treaty rights are still the legal mechanism giving people the right to live on ceded tribal land. Put another way, if settlers (like the two of us writing this piece) are not actively holding up their end of the deal, then they forfeit the right to be here.

In exchange, the U.S. government promised tribes services, such as health care, education, and housing鈥攁nd in many cases, treaties reserved the right for Native people to hunt and fish within their traditional territory. Instead, the reality has been a history of genocidal massacres, forced displacement, brutal residential schools, the outlawing of language, religion, and culture, and broken treaty obligations. Only by confronting the context of the 鲍.厂.鈥檚 settler-colonial history can settlers begin to reckon with their personal identity as treaty people. 

鈥淧art of what鈥檚 so wonderful about the pole is how it invites people to learn about the treaty, and to learn about the true history of this country,鈥� says Lummi tribal fisher and treaty advocate Ellie Kinley, co-founder of Sacred Sea, a Indigenous-led nonprofit whose mission is to defend Lummi sovereignty and treaty rights and promote Indigenous stewardship of the Salish Sea.

鈥淥nce you know the true history, you can learn from it, and become wise from it.鈥�

鈥淲e Are All Treaty People鈥�

On June 7, 2021, about 2,000 people attended Treaty People Gathering, a mass Line 3 protest in rural northern Minnesota. At one of two actions that happened that day, more than 1,000 people marched to a part of the Mississippi where the pipeline is slated to be drilled; at the other action, hundreds risked arrest (and more than 200 were arrested) shutting down an Enbridge work station for the day. 

鈥淲e Are All Treaty People鈥� was one of the gathering鈥檚 main rallying cries. They are words that Matteson has thought seriously about since that night at the Commission hearing.  

In 2020, after two decades living and working in Minneapolis, Matteson moved her family back to Palisade. She quickly got involved with the , a cultural camp supporting people standing with the Ojibwe opposing Line 3. She is now close friends with Tania Aubid, the founder of the camp and the Ojibwe woman who informed the PUC commissioners that Line 3 was an act of war upon her people. The women鈥檚 friendship has given them both the strength to do more. In early 2021, they embarked on a hunger strike together. To bring attention to the fight to stop the pipeline, Matteson went 21 days without food; Aubid went 38.

When asked why she moved with her two young children to the Welcome Water Protector Center, Matteson is clear that protecting the water and the climate were reasons, but so too was ensuring that her government upholds its side of the treaties. 

The treaties are not just a concern for Indigenous people.

鈥淚鈥檝e been reminded by so many Indigenous people that the treaties are not just a concern for Indigenous people,鈥� she says, golden light falling between the trees at camp. 鈥淭hey were entered into by the U.S. government, and as citizens, we have a responsibility to ensure our government honors that law.鈥�

Over the course of the 19th century, the Red Lake Nation, the White Earth Nation, and the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe signed treaties with the U.S. government鈥攖reaties that granted rights to U.S. citizens and reserved rights for tribal members. In recent years, tribal attorneys have argued that Line 3 would infringe upon those treaty-protected rights, including the right to cultivate and harvest wild rice鈥�manoomin in the Ojibwe language鈥晈hich is regarded as a sacred species and is a vital source of sustenance for local tribal members. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a perpetuation of cultural genocide,鈥� founder of Line 3 resistance group, , Tara Houska told , describing the impact Line 3 would have on manoomin.   

It has been a long road for the tribal attorneys, a road made more complicated by the fact that some Native-owned and two other Ojibwe nations . Most recently, on June 14, the Minnesota Court of Appeals ruled against the tribes, finding that Enbridge had appropriately demonstrated that there was a need for the pipeline. There are, however, reasons to believe the Tribes鈥� case will fare better in a case at federal court, where it is to be heard in the coming months. In 2019, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in the favor of treaty rights in high-profile .

But as the case makes its way slowly through the federal court system, the fight for treaty rights is playing out on its own timeline in the woods of rural Minnesota.

Before Line 3 was anywhere near the edge of the great Mississippi, Aubid and Winona LaDuke built a waaginogaaning, a traditional Ojibwe prayer lodge, on the banks of the river, in the exact spot where Line 3 was slated to be drilled under its waters. Earlier this year, in the depths of the Minnesota winter, Enbridge workers appeared on site, nailing 鈥淣o Trespassing鈥� signs to trees.
   
The workers informed Aubid and LaDuke that they were trespassing on Enbridge property. 

鈥淣o, you鈥檙e trespassing,鈥� Aubid replied.
   
When the workers returned with law enforcement, Aubid handed the police officer a copy of the 1855 Treaty Authority letter, informing them of her legal, treaty-protected right to practice her religion there. The police and the Enbridge workers left Aubid in her prayer lodge soon after, but nobody expected Enbridge to stay away for long.

They didn鈥檛. In July 2021, Enbridge drilled under the river, despite Aubid, Matteson, LaDuke, and others to try and stop them.

The prayer lodge still stands in the path of the pipeline, and dozens more people have joined the Welcome Water Protector Center as the fight against the pipeline is reaching a boiling point. Since December alone, nearly 600 people have been arrested for actions related to stopping the construction of Line 3 and tens of thousands more have marched, intervene, and funding the pipeline.
   
Aubid is clear on what she hopes will happen next. 鈥淲e鈥檇 like more people to come here,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檇 like people to help us protect the lands, protect the waters, and to do what they can to uphold their side of the treaties.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Later, as we walk beside the languorous waters of the Mississippi, Matteson reminds us of the importance of settlers upholding the treaties. 鈥淭his 颈蝉苍鈥檛 history,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his is happening here. It is happening now.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 5:26p.m. on July 20,2021, to reflect the current state of the drilling. Read our corrections policy here.

鈥淚t feels very bad working in the warehouse when it gets hot,鈥� he says in Spanish, through a translator. 鈥淭he hot air gets stuck, and having to drive the equipment or be around it, it gets really hot.鈥�

Sweating, head pounding, Ramirez operates heavy equipment to ensure that pallets of goods flow steadily through a facility delivering products to Costco and Sam鈥檚 Club. He鈥檚 working under the constant pressure of quotas, aware that supervisory eyes are on him every time he takes a break to get some water.

Approximately work in warehouses like Ramirez. Some 160,000 of those workers are in California, working in what California鈥檚 Division of Occupational Safety and Health, or Cal/OSHA, terms a 鈥溾�� industry. 

In the Inland Empire, the increased emissions caused by the warehouse industry are a direct contributor to climate change, as is the built environment more broadly, which creates a that raises temperatures even more. 

Like Ramirez, most workers dread summers, especially as climate change is increasing the number of high-temperature days. This year, that dread is tinged with frustration: Eight years after the legislature to establish an indoor heat standard to protect workers like Ramirez from hot working conditions by 2019, the agency finally that was almost immediately derailed by protests from another state agency, the . It, along with the state鈥檚 Department of Finance and by heat protections for indoor workers, claimed the standard would be too costly, despite a finding that 鈥渢he anticipated benefits of the proposed regulation, primarily improvements in worker health and productivity, exceed the anticipated costs.鈥� On June 20鈥攖he first day of summer鈥攖he agency to address these objections by exempting prisons from the regulation. It could go into effect as early as August if state regulators agree to fast-track it.

With momentum on indoor heat protections for most workers finally being realized, Ramirez, among others, will be keeping a close eye on Cal/OSHA to see if the agency makes good on its . Heat is hazardous for not just carceral workers, but incarcerated workers鈥攚ho are not necessarily covered by Cal/OSHA in the first place, explains AnaStacia Nicol Wright, policy manager at worker advocacy organization Worksafe. Wright notes that all incarcerated people, including workers, often swelter in conditions that can be. Of Cal/OSHA鈥檚 regulatory exemption for prisons, Wright adds, 鈥渋t always does beg that question of racism and incarceration.鈥�

Nevertheless, California worker-organizers and groups that have been steadily advocating for indoor heat standards and are looking to this landmark moment in heat regulation as a sign of hope. Worksafe is one such group, which has been with testimony and written submissions at state hearings and played an important role in organizing around the state鈥檚 development and implementation of a standard. The worker-led , which engages in education and worker actions, is another example, along with . 

Setting Standards

Indoor heat standards create a framework for regulating workplaces that get dangerously hot, including warehouses, commercial kitchens, and the bowels of sprawling parking structures. Heat illness can cause severe symptoms,. Repeat heat exposures can be especially risky and may cause problems such as. 

At least 436 indoor and outdoor workers nationwide died because of high heat. Those deaths are likely an undercount: Cal/OSHA as well as its federal counterpart depend on companies to report these fatalities, and a 2021 NPR investigation observed that Cal/OSHA鈥檚 recordkeeping on the subject was 鈥�.鈥�

Higher temperatures are also associated with a. For overall health and safety, it鈥檚 critical to protect workers with basic safety measures, including proper ventilation, access to cool water and places to recover from heat, and rest breaks. In the absence of a federal standard on heat for indoor or outdoor workers, only provide guidance for indoor workers. Washington, Oregon, and California have extended protections to outdoor workers, but some states actually go in the opposite direction. Florida just passed a law from setting their own heat standards, for example, following a growing GOP trend to pass state-level preemption laws that block more liberal municipalities and counties from passing ordinances and regulations related to labor,, and, among other issues. 

A national standard would address these issues, protecting workers in every state, . On July 2, 2024, the Department of Labor 听that it would be issuing a 听颈苍 the Federal Register, setting the stage for a comment period and public hearing to implement a standard covering indoor and outdoor workers nationwide. However, given the 听颈苍 Chevron v. National Resources Defense Council curtailing the power of regulatory agencies, and depending on the outcome of the presidential election in November, a federal standard or may be subject to litigation.

Without formal heat regulation, it can be challenging to hold employers accountable for dangerous conditions, as seen in San Bernardino in July 2023 when Cal/OSHA inspectors were.

鈥淭hese are jobs we go to [in order to] make a living. Nobody should be dying at work. Who wants to go to work and die? Of all the ways you could die, to die at your employer because you were trying to make a living and they couldn鈥檛 be bothered to make sure you were safe鈥︹�� says Worksafe鈥檚 Wright, her voice trailing off as she reflects on the suffering across California鈥檚 sweltering indoor workplaces.

鈥淔or folks who might not know, particularly in the Inland Empire, it鈥檚 very hot,鈥�  says Tim Shadix of the Warehouse Worker Resource Center. 鈥淚n the worst warehouses there鈥檚 not good climate control or air conditioning. It can get as hot or hotter inside as the temperature outside. In the Inland Empire that鈥檚 easily in the 90s or triple digits.鈥� The Southern California Association of Governments notes that the number of extreme heat days鈥斺�攊n some areas of the region . 

California鈥檚 regulation will require access to drinking water and cool places to recover from heat exposures when indoor temperatures rise above 82 degrees Fahrenheit. Workers wearing restrictive clothing (such as PPE) or working in areas with radiant heat, such as the equipment Ramirez works with, would be entitled to more protections. At 87 degrees or higher, workplaces would also be required to use 鈥渆ngineering controls鈥� (such as ventilation) to lower and control temperatures. Worksafe in arguing that protections should kick in at 75 degrees, or around 71 degrees for workers doing moderate and heavy labor. 

鈥淭he temperatures are high if we鈥檙e just sitting out and having lunch with our family, and high if we鈥檙e at the beach,鈥� UPS employee Robert Moreno told the Department of Industrial Relations at a . 鈥淏ut now think about these temperatures inside of a warehouse that鈥檚 been sitting in the sun all day long. Most of these warehouses are sheet metal鈥攕un radiates inside all day long. You go into these warehouses, there鈥檚 zero to no airflow, very [stifling] heat.鈥�

Outdoor Heat

Indoor workers aren鈥檛 the only ones wilting in the heat. Poor conditions for outdoor workers, especially farmworkers, are a perennial theme of hot summers. California was actually an early trendsetter in adopting an, which mandates access to clean drinking water and requires shaded places to rest when outdoor temperatures exceed 80 degrees. Employers are also required to allow agricultural workers a 10-minute cooldown period at a minimum of every two hours when temperatures soar above 95.

Temperatures are, as seen in 2020 when farms took advantage of their 鈥溾�� to keep workers onsite in the midst of wildfire evacuations, and again this June when agricultural workers were once again 鈥溾�� to enter areas under evacuation to work. Those workers were sent out even when the air was from wildfires with the express goal of bringing in crops before they were smoke-tainted. 

California requires employers to 鈥渙ffer鈥� N-95 masks and other PPE on days with poor air quality, but that requirement 颈蝉苍鈥檛 necessarily honored, and some may not even be aware of this entitlement. And a more robust version of that bill would have included 鈥渟trike team鈥� workplace enforcement that created a framework for inspectors to to enforce protections. That measure was stripped from the final version.

Incentivizing Protections

Although regulation is a key component, it鈥檚 not the only way workers can access protections. The same Florida workers affected by the state鈥檚 ban on local heat standards have found other ways of holding employers accountable. The Coalition of Immokalee Workers鈥�, for example, includes a that growers can follow to achieve certification, with the worker-led organization targeting large corporate clients such as, calling on them to purchase from qualified growers. 

Similarly, the model helps workers across industries, including the warehouse industry through groups like the Warehouse Worker Resource Center, . Similarly, sectoral bargaining such as allows workers in the same industry to collaborate on setting standards that will apply across that industry.

But regulation is not sufficient if it鈥檚 not enforced, or if workers are not provided with the tools to understand it.

鈥淲orkers are asking for employers to train their workers so they know what to look out for, and that also includes the managers,鈥� says Ramirez. 鈥淭he workers and the employers need to be aware of the symptoms to look out for, and prevent them, as they鈥檙e happening. When we feel overheated, we need time to rest so we won鈥檛 get to a point where we faint. To rest, workers need a place to sit, they also need water close and accessible.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

Training also includes worker engagement and transparency, , including 鈥減osting heat illness risk assessments in work areas [and] ensuring workers鈥� rights to measure temperatures with their own instrument.鈥� Notably, in 2021, the Supreme Court requiring union access to worksites during nonworking hours, which allowed organizations such as United Farmworkers to visit workers onsite for labor organizing and education, critical to ensuring that workers know their rights.   

Workers must be protected from reprisal for reporting unsafe conditions, an issue that has . This is particularly critical for who may fear the consequences of speaking out, a valid fear given who say the company threatened and eventually terminated an employee for his organizing work, including efforts to address dangerously hot temperatures in Amazon Air warehouses in the Inland Empire. The Department of Homeland Security recently addressed the chilling effect created when employers to silence immigrant workers, creating legal protections for workers coming forward to report workplace violations, but such protections are only effective if workers are aware of them.

鈥淭hey take more time and more money to protect the products, the things making money for the business,鈥� says Ramirez of industry resistance to regulations. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e not taking time to protect workers.鈥�

Moreno鈥檚 testimony at the Department of Industrial Relations spoke to hopes for a better future: 鈥淲hat I鈥檓 asking from you guys is, 20 years from now, I want someone to look back at what this Board did and say, 鈥淥kay, in 2023 California did it right. They set standards that are above and beyond.鈥� I want other states to look at California and say, 鈥楥alifornia is doing it right. They are putting people over profits.鈥欌��

UPDATE: This story was updated at 3:06 p.m. on July 9, 2024, to include new developments, including the Department of Labor鈥檚 July 2 announcement that it would be issuing a proposed rule in the Federal Register that could implement national heat standards for indoor and outdoor workplaces. Read our corrections policy here.

鈥淥ur connection to the outside world is satellite internet鈥攕o no power, no internet,鈥� Alexandre says. He and others at Shelterwood Collective were without power for two weeks in early 2023 when massive storms hit California. 鈥淲e ran the generator two to three hours a day to check in with the outside world, let people know we were OK.鈥�

鈥淲e joked that this was the worst-best storm of our lives. The damages are only going to get worse, but our autonomy and ability to respond to it is only going to get better,鈥� Alexandre says. 鈥淥ur hope is that as we build up this microgrid we won鈥檛 be as dependent on Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E)鈥攂oth in the summer when they cut off power because of wildfires and in the winter when the trees come down on the power lines. We鈥檒l shift from a community that is vulnerable to one that is more independent and sovereign in how our energy is produced and used.鈥�

is an Indigenous-, Black-, and queer-led collective of land protectors and cultural strategists stewarding 900 acres of forest in Northern California. They are among a growing number of organizations and localities trying to wrest control of their energy futures away from behemoth, dirty, and dangerous energy utilities like PG&E, and to put decisions about energy production, distribution, and use in the hands of the most impacted communities. For Shelterwood and others, one way to do that is to build community-governed solar microgrids. 

The nation鈥檚 largest utility, , is investor owned. It serves some 16 million people across 70,000 square miles in Central and Northern California. As a profit-seeking private entity whose shareholders are guaranteed a specific rate of return on investment, PG&E often forgoes spending on essential measures to protect human and ecosystem health. This has resulted in catastrophic wildfires, deadly explosions, power shutoffs for millions of people, escalating rates, expansion of dirty energy projects, and vehement opposition to the increasingly popular move toward community-controlled, renewable energy. The consequences have been particularly devastating for Indigenous, Black and Brown, disabled, elderly, poor, working class, and rural communities.

In 2010, PG&E malfeasance caused an explosion in San Bruno, California, blowing a hole in a major city and killing eight people. In 2018, PG&E鈥檚 crumbling electrical grid started a fire that ravaged Paradise, also in California, killing 85 people and burning 14,000 homes. Year after year, massive megafires鈥攖he Dixie, Tubbs, Zogg, and Mosquito fires, each in the top 10 fires in California history鈥攈ave either been caused by PG&E, or PG&E has been at the center of investigations and settlements surrounding the fires. The utility , some are ongoing, there have been without , and the clock is still ticking on some .

The company has recouped its losses from these fires by hiking up costs for ratepayers, who already pay among the highest rates in the country. Additionally, instead of completing long-overdue infrastructure repair to minimize wildfires, PG&E has sought to limit its liability for future fires by instituting rolling blackouts during wildfire season, leaving millions throughout the state without power, with little advance planning to protect communities dependent on power to live.

The ability to have uninterrupted service is particularly important for people with disabilities.

鈥淭his week in the Bay Area, disabled people and elders without power are having difficulty breathing, moving, eating, and staying alive,鈥� explained the late disability justice organizer Stacey Park Milbern at a rally outside PG&E鈥檚 headquarters during a power blackout in 2019. 鈥淎 friend is going without her nebulizer treatment. A neighbor didn鈥檛 have a way to store insulin. Another community member is homebound because she needs electricity to open the garage. People are being forced to throw out groceries without knowing where the money will come from to replace them. Blind people are crossing the street without there being traffic lights or audible signals telling them when to cross. Have you tried communicating in American Sign Language in the dark? It鈥檚 not easy.鈥� Milbern continued, 鈥淚 use life-sustaining medical equipment鈥攎y ventilator鈥�16 hours a day. My doctor completed extensive paperwork telling PG&E why I need power to live. When I called PG&E, I was on hold for two hours. I hadn鈥檛 received any notice from PG&E, but my house was on four different maps as losing power. To PG&E, my life is not important.鈥�

Despite being abandoned by PG&E during the wildfires and planned power outages, disabled activists to survive鈥攎aking do-it-yourself box-fan filters, distributing KN95 masks, sourcing generators and ice, and buying hotel rooms for those in need of power. 

While the consequences are especially stark for disabled people, who鈥檝e long been marginalized in conversations about energy policy, communities everywhere are recognizing that if we need power to live, that power cannot be controlled by a profit-driven monopoly utility. Rather, decisions about energy production, distribution, and use must be made by people with the most at stake in those decisions.

Energy democracy is the fight to shift energy from a resource that has been centralized and commodified by corporations into a shared resource that is decentralized and democratized, resilient and redundant, aligned with the health of local ecosystems, and which meets the needs of workers and communities. It is a key pillar of a larger .

鈥淓veryone waits in fear of a Wall Street corporation pressing a red button to turn their power on or off,鈥� says Pete Woiwode, co-director of the . 鈥淲hat if we flipped that and the folks who make the decisions about whose needs to prioritize鈥攚ho has access to life-giving energy鈥攁re the folks most vulnerable in these scenarios? Energy can be a process by which we upend generations of horrific injustice and put our lives, livelihoods, and ecosystems at the center.鈥�

Increasingly exasperated with powerful, polluting utility companies, fire survivors, environmental justice communities, and people with disabilities formed Reclaim Our Power to organize for renewable energy, public ownership, and community control. They have repeatedly called on California Governor Gavin Newsom to deny PG&E鈥檚 safety certificate, or what advocates have dubbed PG&E鈥檚 鈥渓icense to burn.鈥� Reclaim Our Power鈥檚 sister organization, , was essential in creating throughout the state, which put the decision about where to procure energy in the hands of local communities.

While Reclaim Our Power tries to pry loose PG&E鈥檚 stranglehold on California鈥檚 energy, the coalition is planting the seeds of an energy future beyond PG&E by supporting a cohort of local communities in designing and constructing their own solar microgrids. The idea is simple: To effectively control the energy system, people need to practice.

That cohort includes fire-affected migrants in Sonoma County, Black high school students in East Oakland, immigrant elders in Oakland Chinatown, and queer and trans people of color acting as land stewards at Shelterwood. Through the cohort, 10 organizations thus far have learned about the energy system, their own consumption needs, and the emerging technology.

For some in the cohort鈥攍ike Shelterwood鈥攃ontrolling their own energy is critical.

鈥淪helterwood centers queer and trans folks in ecology. It means a lot鈥攔eturning to home鈥攅specially in a community in which we鈥檙e ostracized into the margins or forced into the cities for protection,鈥� says Layel Camargo, co-founder and co-executive director of Shelterwood, and an Indigenous (Yaqui and Mayo of the Sonoran Desert), trans organizer and cultural worker. 鈥淲e鈥檙e returning our people back to the land.鈥�

But Shelterwood is in the heart of Northern California鈥檚 wildfire country, Camargo explains. When it鈥檚 hot and windy, PG&E turns off the power without warning. This is a problem for Shelterwood, which sits outside of cellular service and relies on electricity to power satellite phones. Shelterwood also depends on power for their housing, kitchen, retreat center, phones, lights, internet, electric vehicles, and electric tools.

鈥淩ural communities are really at the hands of these monopolized energy companies. In an emergency, without power, we couldn鈥檛 call 911. There鈥檇 be no way to get information about an evacuation,鈥� Camargo says. 鈥淭he best way for us to survive out here, and to stay ecologically aligned, is to have as much control of our utilities as we can.鈥�

For Shelterwood, building out their own microgrid 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just practical, it鈥檚 also political.

鈥淲hen I heard about the counts of manslaughter against PG&E after fires, I felt like it was my responsibility that if I was going to be in charge of electrical infrastructure for a 900-acre forest I would want to be less dependent on a company where our values are not aligned,鈥� Camargo says.

In addition to solar, Shelterwood is also installing a hydro microgrid. This will be used in winter when the sun is less plentiful but the water is flowing through the creeks, streams, and gullies on their land, sometimes up to 25 gallons per minute.

Energy Insurrection

California 颈蝉苍鈥檛 the only place building out microgrids as part of new energy futures. Puerto Rico has traditionally imported most of its energy, which means that it is both more fossil-fuel intensive and expensive. Importing energy also leaves the archipelago more vulnerable to energy shortages and outages in times of disaster.

When Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico in September 2017, it knocked out power to most of the island. The small town of Adjuntas was one of the last regions reached by FEMA, a full month after the hurricane hit. Prior to the storm, the 45 solar panels on , a community center in Adjuntas, had been something of an oddity. But suddenly without electricity on the island, Casa Pueblo became an instant 鈥渆nergy oasis.鈥� People came from all over the island to store refrigerated medicine, plug in their respiratory equipment, and charge their cell phones.

In the immediate aftermath of the storm, Casa Pueblo distributed 14,000 solar lanterns to residents, reducing the risk of fire by candlelight and the vulnerability of elders. They equipped 10 homes with extra energy for dialysis and small refrigerators for insulin and antibiotics to meet critical health needs. With their solar power, they set up a public satellite phone, which people came in long lines to use to contact their families. They also recorded one-minute messages from residents to play on-air from their solar-powered radio station.

Post-hurricane, Casa Pueblo built out the island鈥檚 first community-controlled microgrid. It outfitted an additional 150 homes with solar energy, installed 50 full-sized refrigerators in solar-powered homes, and powered a barbershop, two hardware stores, an agricultural center, two elder homes, the fire station, a restaurant, a pizzeria, five mini markets, a solar cinema, the transmission tower of the radio station, the elementary school, and a pharmacy, among others.

鈥淓veryone has a right to energy, not just those who can pay for or finance solar power,鈥� says Arturo Massol-Dey谩, executive director of Casa Pueblo.

For these homes and businesses, solar used to be the backup source of energy. Now Puerto Rico鈥檚 main private utility company, PREPA (Puerto Rico Electric Power Authority) is the backup. Energy bills for solar users in Adjuntas have gone down from $85 per month on PREPA (fossil fuels) to $5 per month on solar. Casa Pueblo is now working to bring 鈥渟econd life鈥� used-car batteries to Adjuntas to serve as solar storage.

鈥淓nergy is the capacity to do work. We don鈥檛 enjoy the wealth made from our work. One way to decolonize Puerto Rico is in practical terms: Create energy independence. We can be producers, not consumers. We don鈥檛 need coal and gas. We have sun and wind,鈥� Massol-Dey谩 says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e calling for an energy insurrection. We鈥檙e not going to wait for the government. We鈥檙e going to unplug ourselves.鈥�

Bringing Energy Independence to the Mainland

The 鈥渆nergy insurrection鈥� in Puerto Rico is an inspiration for many U.S. energy-democracy activists, but especially for Selena Feliciano, national campaign coordinator of the and herself Puerto Rican.

鈥淚 have Ta铆no [the Indigenous peoples of Puerto Rico] roots in my family. Indigeneity understands that energy is not wires, not technology. It鈥檚 the sun. It鈥檚 what connects us, keeps us going. It鈥檚 only in the last 150 years that we鈥檝e equated energy with infrastructure,鈥� says Feliciano. 鈥淭he people of Puerto Rico have held steadfast to honoring the tradition of energy beyond technology, and as a basis of resistance.鈥�

The Energy Democracy Project is a collaboration of 40 frontline organizations in the U.S. to advance energy democracy. Their members hail from Alaska to San Juan, Puerto Rico, and from Jackson, Mississippi, to the Gulf South.

It will take statewide policy change to dismantle private utilities like PG&E and to truly move an energy transition at scale. To get there, microgrids鈥攍ike at Shelterwood and at Casa Pueblo鈥攎ake concrete improvements in people鈥檚 lives, foster familiarity with the technology, bring the conversation into people鈥檚 homes, allow us to practice self-governance in place, and ignite political imaginations about an energy future beyond private utility companies.

鈥淓nergy Democracy rests on community decision-making, but if the community doesn鈥檛 know about the available technology or doesn鈥檛 know that an alternative is possible, it鈥檚 hard to organize around it,鈥� adds Feliciano. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why these first steps are so important鈥攆or people to experience these possible configurations and solutions for themselves.鈥�

鈥淭he microgrids point to how else we can do it. It creates a real choice between PG&E and this other thing we鈥檝e built. It鈥檚 a world that people can fight for, and it is within reach,鈥� Woiwode says. 鈥淗owever, no one technology, microgrids included, is the answer to true energy democracy. If a Google campus, Chevron refinery, and a prison used microgrid technology, but did so in a way that didn鈥檛 actively disrupt the racist, extractive, anti-democratic structure of our current system, we would not be any closer to the energy future we all need.鈥�

A just transition in the energy sector 颈蝉苍鈥檛 merely a question of technology鈥攔eplacing coal, 鈥渘atural鈥� gas, or nuclear power with solar, wind, or hydro power鈥攂ut rather a political struggle over who governs decisions about the resources it takes to power our lives. Like the double meaning in Reclaim Our Power鈥檚 name, it鈥檚 not just electric power, but political power.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not just about the poles, wires, and technology. It鈥檚 about the decision points in people鈥檚 lives,鈥� Woiwode says.

It is the collective contending with those decision points, say energy democracy activists, that define energy democracy. Unplugging ourselves, as Massol-Dey谩 calls for, doesn鈥檛 mean we all act as individuals. Rather, it is the relationships between microgrids that make the system resilient and redundant. Decentralization without democratization would only exacerbate existing inequities.

鈥淥ur vision is not that everyone takes their ball and goes home to self-contained units of energy distribution. Energy sovereignty does not mean get out, disappear, with wealthy white people disappearing from the system. There needs to be connective tissue,鈥� Woiwode says. 鈥淲hat we want is a mosaic of interconnected community鈥攍ike the forest.鈥�

The energy justice movement doesn鈥檛 seek merely to reform the existing shareholder-owned governance structure of our energy system. It is not a call for a kinder, gentler, slightly less deadly PG&E or PREPA. Rather, it is a reckoning with how the privatization and enclosure of energy has estranged us from earth鈥檚 regenerative cycles. It is an invitation to restore our relationship to energy, and to each other. It is a reminder that there is enough energy for all when we are able to have a reflexive, responsive relationship to place and to earth鈥檚 living systems. It is a course correction that devolves governance down to the level of greatest impact so that decisions aren鈥檛 made by a few men with MBAs, tucked safely away in corporate offices, but by people in our communities whose lives are most impacted by the tough choices in precarious times. It is an opportunity to practice people-to-people, radical self-governance.

As , when climate disasters like wildfires and superstorms intensify it only further reveals the failures and fractures of our existing energy system that burns fossil fuels in one place and transmits that energy over large swaths of land, according to the whims of a profit-maximizing corporation. But grassroots activists on the ground are building models of the kind of renewable, affordable, interconnected, community-governed energy systems needed for energy democracy.

This story was produced as part of a Just Transition reporting fellowship with听.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 1:07 p.m. PT on Sept. 13, 2023, to clarify that Shelterwood Collective鈥檚 generator was gas-powered, not diesel-powered.听Read our corrections policy here.

The cognitive dissonance of these circumstances hit home when, in 2003, at age 10, Guzman first visited her grandparents and family still living in her parents鈥� hometown in Mexico. Here, in the small community of El Pedregal de San Juan, in the state of Hidalgo, Guzman says she was amazed by the rain-fed milpa system of growing corn, wheat, and squash that her uncles still maintained, using seeds that have been in her family for generations. 

鈥淚 was just so enamored,鈥� she says. But anger and sadness followed as she came to understand the forces that caused her parents to migrate in search of employment in the United States. 鈥淧eople like my parents, they were pushed off the land.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Guzman鈥檚 parents gave up caring for the soil and growing food that nourished them in pursuit of greater opportunities that involved growing crops for export and other people鈥檚 profit. It鈥檚 an ironic yet common occurrence: Although Western agriculture has begun embracing regenerative farming principles, the very people who have been using these practices since time immemorial have been socially, economically, and politically forced from the lands that sustain them.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 not the society we should be living in,鈥� says Guzman. Instead, she and a host of scientists, educators, farmers, organizers, and activists around the world are working to implement these regenerative principles and reciprocal practices, literally from the ground up.

Living History

鈥淲hen I think about soil, I think about the ecosystem and I think about history,鈥� says Briana Alfaro, administrative program manager at in upstate New York. 鈥淚 think about the geology that helped create the makeup of what minerals are in the soil.鈥�

But soil is not just bits of rock and dust. In addition to minerals, it is composed of gas, water, living organisms, and the organic remains of once-living creatures. And the process of turning these components into soil is incredibly slow and microscopic. In the prairie, it takes between . In . 

But destroying that formation, hundreds and thousands of years in the making, happens quickly. Humans can compact the soil in a matter of seconds with a bulldozer or a slab of concrete. During the Dust Bowl in the 1930s, due to massive disturbance of the soil through over-tilling, the center of the American continent . And today, even when the soil stays on the ground, we鈥檙e through the use of pesticides, herbicides, synthetic fertilizers, and more. 

Soil is alive. It is filled with life, and it supports the lives of so many living creatures鈥攊ncluding us. Recognizing and tending to this reciprocal relationship could help shift our understanding of sustenance and what it takes to achieve lasting prosperity for both people and the planet. 

Alfaro suggests using the term 鈥渟oil livestock,鈥� which she recently heard and feels best encapsulates the true work of caring for the soil. 鈥淚t鈥檚 another part of farming, right?鈥� Alfaro explains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 another set of beings that you鈥檙e responsible for.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

How we respond to that responsibility will have compounding effects for the Earth鈥攁nd all of us who live here. As the climate warms, and the human population grows, soil will be foundational to our thriving鈥攐r our downfall. At a core level, our collective survival will depend on how humans choose to interact with soil. 

鈥淭he soil to me is the source of life. That is, it nurtures many of the lives鈥攏ot just humans, but also the plants and animals and all those tiny things that we can鈥檛 even see,鈥� says Miwa Aoki Takeuchi, associate professor in the University of Calgary鈥檚 department of education. 鈥淲hen we say 鈥榬ich soil,鈥� we imagine the soil itself is populated with so many lives and diverse networks.鈥�

And that richness can translate into the systems we use to impart value to other things in our lives and our economy.

鈥淚 think a healthy soil is a form of community wealth,鈥� says Liz Carlisle, associate professor in the environmental studies program at University of California, Santa Barbara. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an intergenerational form of community wealth.鈥�

Carlisle studies the deep history of regenerative agriculture, going well beyond the buzzword it has become in environmental circles of late. She says it started with her grandmother, Helen, who had grown up on a farm in western Nebraska that the family eventually lost in the Dust Bowl. 鈥淎s a child, I remember my grandmother saying, 鈥榊ou know, we need to learn how to take better care of the soil,鈥欌�� recalls Carlisle. 鈥淚t felt like a responsibility鈥攈aving been born into this family that made some really big mistakes鈥攖o be part of a process of repair.鈥�

Carlisle now focuses her research on Indigenous food systems that existed for thousands of years on the North American continent, on the African continent, on the Asian continent鈥攁ll over the world. She contrasts these enduring practices with the hierarchical approach to industrial agriculture we see today: 鈥淓xtracting from soil for short-term financial gain only makes sense in a world where certain people and other living beings fall outside of our circle of care. Whereas if we really believe that everybody鈥檚 life matters, it makes all kinds of sense to steward this common resource of soil for everyone and for those beings yet to come.鈥�

Such a fundamental shift would upend how our society defines prosperity today. 

When it comes to soils and what they鈥檙e producing, 鈥渨e always seem to be using a cost-benefit analysis,鈥� says Michael Kotutwa Johnson, assistant specialist at the University of Arizona鈥檚 Indigenous Resilience Center as well as its School of Natural Resources and the Environment. 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we look at a social-benefit analysis instead?鈥�

In October 2023, Kotutwa Johnson hosted a group of scientists and educators from the National Autonomous University of Mexico, and he said the number one problem they wanted to address was not pollution or agricultural runoff鈥攊t was diabetes. He believes the spread of this disease is a direct result of the U.S. exporting its ideas of food and food policy. 

鈥淲e need to rethink our policies, our agricultural policies, in the United States to focus more on quality, not quantity and efficiency,鈥� he says. 

Kotutwa Johnson is a Hopi farmer who evaluates the success of his farming not only on the corn he produces but also on other impacts it has in his community: Are our bodies becoming healthier? Are these communities doing well? 

For the Hopi, a matrilineal agricultural society, there is no distinction between their agricultural system, their belief system, and their social structures, Kotutwa Johnson explains. One cannot exist without the others, and they can only thrive together. 

鈥淭he act of planting alone for us is an act of faith,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e live in a climate that only gives 6 to 10 inches of annual precipitation a year, but yet we鈥檙e able to raise things like corn, beans, melons, and squash, which I was told, when I went to Cornell, needed 33 inches of rain.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But creating a nurturing, respectful relationship with the soil and what grows from it has allowed these crops to thrive under Hopi stewardship.

鈥淭hose plants are like our people to us,鈥� says Kotutwa Johnson. 鈥淲e take care of those plants from when they鈥檙e little babies coming up out of the ground to when they get old and they pass on; and we lay them down at the end, and they provide us seeds for another generation.鈥�

Laying down the cornstalks at the end of the plants鈥� lives, to Kotutwa Johnson, is a means of thanking them and giving them well-deserved rest. In Western terms, keeping the ground covered is a means of holding the soil in place to prevent erosion. As the organic ground cover breaks down, it also adds nutrients to the soil. So whatever the worldview behind it, this practice unquestionably leads to better soil health. 

Reciprocity Over Extraction

Shifting from a relationship of extraction from soil to one of reciprocity with soil is central to Indigenous ways of knowing and growing鈥攂oth food and community prosperity. 

鈥淥ur ancestors revered soil and had such a relationship with it,鈥� says Alfaro. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 such a huge part of what we do at Soul Fire Farm: help bridge that connection, catalyze that connection for people鈥攖o land and to that ancestral knowledge.鈥�

Central to this connection is an understanding that this type of relationship involves both give and take. For Alfaro, a multiracial Mexican American farmer and activist, this comes in many forms. 鈥淚 feel better when I go spend time in my garden for so many reasons, you know, but I know that one of them is that I process and leave something behind every time I鈥檓 there.鈥� She describes this process in natural terms, as the composting of sadness and grief. 鈥淚鈥檓 inevitably also growing myself food, growing my community food, growing my community flowers鈥攁ll the things that help lighten me up and provide nutrition.鈥� And the benefits of that relationship go both ways: 鈥淚f we鈥檙e healthier, then we can give back to the soil more.鈥�

Likewise, Aoki Takeuchi respects and finds inspiration in the way soil cooperates with others to decompose what humans consider garbage. 鈥淎s someone who has experienced the intersectional system of oppression, I sometimes didn鈥檛 have a way to metabolize or decompose all the traumas,鈥� she explains. But she uses soils as a literal and metaphorical lesson in her teaching. 鈥淗ow can [soils] metabolize that trauma, that historical trauma, and transform that into a source of nurturing and a source of growth?鈥� says Aoki Takeuchi. 

Her belief in the power of this work is part of what inspired Aoki Takeuchi to create , a program for refugee youth in Canada to rediscover and reconnect with land after they鈥檝e been forcibly removed from their own. The goal of the summer research program is to 鈥渓isten to the silenced voices of the soil, land, and displaced communities.鈥�

And that reciprocity goes beyond the simple exchange of materials. 

鈥淗ow do we give back to the land for everything that the land has given us, including scientific and mathematical knowledge?鈥� asks Kori Czuy, one of the instructors at Soil Camp and the manager of Indigenous science connections at the in Calgary. Western science always wants to name and categorize things definitively, but that鈥檚 not how Czuy teaches students. She de-emphasizes scientific hierarchies and rigid categorization.

鈥淚 always distinguish between the word[s] 鈥榢nowing鈥� and 鈥榢nowledge,鈥欌�� Czuy says. 鈥淜nowledge is set. It鈥檚 the written word. It can鈥檛 be changed. It鈥檚 static. Knowing is alive.鈥�

Land Matters 

But reconnecting with soil 颈蝉苍鈥檛 always possible, easy, or even desirable. Too many communities and people have been forced to work the soil on other people鈥檚 terms. 

Carlisle says race is implicated in current U.S. food production in profound ways: 鈥淚f you think about why we had a plantation system, and why we now have a system that still looks a lot like that, you could argue that it鈥檚 not because it鈥檚 the most productive way to produce food, but it is a very effective way to produce racial hierarchy.鈥�

Carlisle says the pattern is painfully consistent around the world: 鈥淵ou have a global majority of people who carry traditions of regenerative food systems who are being excluded from land ownership, and yet who are being asked to labor in industrial agriculture, [who] are so infrequently in decision-making positions about how that land is cared for.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淧eople have persisted and maintained these regenerative ways of relating to land in the face of hundreds of years of brutally oppressive structural violence,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an instructive pathway of what it means to continually articulate a vision of reciprocal care鈥攅ven in the face of the most tremendous obstacles.鈥�

Carlisle says we can鈥檛 make meaningful strides toward regenerative agriculture if we don鈥檛 simultaneously insist on a transformative shift toward racial justice. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 work for all of us,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd I think it is especially work for those of us who identify as white.鈥�

Guzman agrees that the transformation of our agricultural system needs to come from a place of inclusion and equity. 鈥淲hen we think of soil, and really trying to support soil and build up soil, we can鈥檛 forget 鈥� the human piece: that we need people who care about it to be able to have access.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

If that access were widely granted, Alfaro at Soul Fire Farms imagines a parallel shift in the way farmers relate to and invest in the soil. Without the limitations of one-year leases or the risk of displacement, she dreams of the beauty of transitioning away from annual crops that are planted and harvested every year, to perennial crops, which stay rooted in the ground more permanently, offering their benefits to the soil year-round and year after year. She says it was a profound moment when she learned 鈥渉ow beneficial it is to have perennials, to grow perennials, and what it means to be able to grow perennials, and what a privilege that is.鈥�

The Humanity of Soil

As people, our bodies are deeply shaped by our environment and teem with microbial life in various forms of symbiosis. Maybe we鈥檙e not so different from soil after all. 

鈥淲e鈥檙e all made of the same thing, you know, from rocks to microbes to everything,鈥� Czuy says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e all stardust. We鈥檙e all made of particles that are in motion constantly.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Indigenous growers prioritize those personal connections and relationships with soil. 

鈥淚t takes time to know your soil,鈥� says Alfaro. 鈥淎nd there鈥檚 a lot of different ways you can get to know your soil. Start where you are: What is this soil? What does it like? What likes to grow here?鈥�

In her soil camps, Aoki Takeuchi encourages students to connect with the soil in whatever way feels right for them.

鈥淲e really would like to foster a space for humbly listening, and listening in plural forms, so that we can listen to the very quiet voice of the soil.鈥� She says that voice is easy to miss if we don鈥檛 pay attention鈥攐r if we limit our listening to ableist notions of the idea鈥攂ut that there are many ways to listen to the story and honor the soil鈥檚 voice. 鈥淥ne could be seeing the color of the soil, another may be smelling different .鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For Guzman, the connection to soil comes in the form of her passion for pottery, as well as her Ph.D. research with farmers much like her parents鈥攚ho care deeply about the land but have been forced by economic circumstances to become cogs in the industrial food system. She holds fast to a reminder a professor once gave her: 鈥溾�榃hen the revolution comes, we鈥檙e gonna need everyone鈥攚e鈥檙e also gonna need scientists.鈥欌��

Guzman says she considers herself a 鈥渃ynical optimist.鈥� 鈥淚鈥檓 kind of a shit-talker and hateful about where the system is 鈥� but really optimistic about the future.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

That optimism is important鈥攂ecause the stakes are only getting higher. 

鈥淚n the face of the climate crisis, growing food has only become more and more difficult,鈥� Carlisle says. 鈥淔armers face flooding, droughts, extreme heat, new pest and disease challenges; and all of these are things that healthier soils can help farmers to weather.鈥�

A soil with more organic matter is going to hold more water, which can prevent flooding in heavy rains and can help through long dry seasons and excessive heat. Healthier soils also make for healthier plants, which can better withstand pests and diseases. And those plants make for more dependable and nutritious food sources for people. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 never been more important to steward this common resource of a healthy soil, as a matter of climate justice and food justice for those populations that will be most heavily impacted by the ways that these extreme weather events impact people鈥檚 ability to produce food,鈥� Carlisle says.

Or, as Alfaro puts it: 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 life in the soil, and we also have to take care of that so that we can be resilient.鈥�

This story was funded by a grant from Kendeda Fund, as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Redefining Prosperity.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. View our editorial independence policies here.

鈥淓very social movement in the U.S. that has been successful has always had strong youth and students out there leading the charge鈥攁nd in most cases, leading the charge more aggressively and demanding actions over and beyond the general population,鈥� says Robert Bullard, a professor of urban planning and environmental policy at Texas Southern University. That鈥檚 certainly true for climate, with youth demanding a radical transition away from fossil fuels on decidedly tighter timelines than their predecessors have advocated for. Pressure from youth such as Varshini Prakash, the co-founder of the Sunrise Movement, led Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden to endorse a bolder over the course of the campaign.

Sena Wazer, co-director of Sunrise Connecticut, describes how her work is often viewed by older activists: 鈥淭he main response that I think many of us get from older folks is, 鈥榃ell, you’re so inspirational and give me hope,鈥� which is nice, but it ends up getting really frustrating, because we’re not here to give you hope, you know? We’re here to get something done.鈥�

Bullard says it鈥檚 critical that we, as a society, allow youth鈥檚 energy and optimism bubble to the top, and to empower young people to assume the leadership they鈥檙e seeking. Having written more than a dozen books on environmental justice, he considers himself an elder in the movement. In contrast, Bullard calls young people 鈥渢he tip of the spear,鈥� and says it鈥檚 absolutely critical to have them out there 鈥減ushing hard for transformative change.鈥�

A Convergence of Issues

The unequal impacts of a changing climate have become extremely clear in 2020, so equity has come to the fore of climate conversations in every corner of the country. A global deadly pandemic continues to rage out of control in the U.S., heat waves are setting new temperature records, wildfires are scorching American Western states, and the hurricane season has already made it to the end of the alphabet for naming storms. In all cases, low-income, Black, Latinx, and Indigenous communities are bearing a disproportionate amount of the impacts.

鈥淭oday, the scab is off, the ugly reality of injustice is hitting us up close and personal, made more realistic by this COVID pandemic,鈥� Bullard says.

This year the decidedly youthful focus on intersectionality is a big part of what defines the transformation of the climate movement. Climate is not just an environmental issue, according to youth activists. It鈥檚 also a racial justice issue, an economic issue, and an access-to-health care issue.

Today, the different movements are converging, and I think that convergence makes for greater potential for success.

鈥淓nvironmental justice is really seeing the intersection of these issues,鈥� says Alex Rodriguez, a community organizer with the Connecticut League of Conservation Voters, which aims to make environmental issues a priority for the state鈥檚 elected leaders. The group is now focusing their efforts on the coming election and recently succeeded in persuading the state to allow absentee voting in November. 鈥淲e want people to be safe when casting their vote,鈥� says Rodriguez, 26, whose fellow grassroots committee members range from age 16 to 60.

Rodriguez, who also serves on the equity and environmental justice working group for the Governor’s Council on Climate Change, says, 鈥淲e see our programmatic work as a way to help lawmakers see what they can do to improve the dignity of those suffering from environmental racism, systematic racism, and economic oppression.鈥�

Seeing the overlap and bringing these issues together is a strength that Bullard says was missing from the civil rights organizing he was involved with in the 1960s. He says 2020 is unique in many ways.

鈥淭he number of marchers is unprecedented, from different economic, ethnic, and racial groups鈥攁n awakening unlike any that I’ve seen on this Earth in over 70 years,鈥� Bullard says. 鈥淭oday, the different movements are converging, and I think that convergence makes for greater potential for success.鈥�

Young and Old

But young people are one essential demographic among many when it comes to climate action. With all that鈥檚 on the line for climate in the coming elections, up and down the ballot, collaboration becomes key. Bullard says previous generations of climate activists can now play the critical role of mentoring, assisting, and supporting. Standing with, not in front of, youth.

鈥淵outh are leading us and taking on frontline activity,鈥� says Jayce Chiblow, the community engagement lead for Indigenous Climate Action, a Canadian organization that works for Indigenous-led climate justice solutions. But in doing so, she says many young Indigenous activists are experiencing the trauma of violence, getting arrested, and being taken away from their land. 鈥淎ll of our older people are supporting those youth: Elders, mentors, people trained in nonviolent action,鈥� Chiblow says. 鈥淭he youth aren鈥檛 alone.鈥�

That support can go a long way. 鈥淭丑别谤别’s a lot of anger and a lot of fear, and that’s understandable,鈥� says Wazer of Sunrise Connecticut. 鈥淚 definitely feel those things, too, just considering the ways that our future has been threatened and kind of trashed by older generations.鈥�

Under the Trump administration, the number of environmental rollbacks alone can be disheartening, not to mention new drilling permits in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge going up for auction.

An intergenerational approach can leverage the individual strengths of youth and older people in all their diversity.

Wazer is frank about the risks of burnout, depression, and anxiety from the stress of it all, but draws inspiration from the example of the late U.S. representative and lifelong civil rights activist John Lewis. 鈥淭hat forgiveness and that ability to keep fighting and stay motivated 鈥� I think that that is something really powerful to learn from older generations.鈥�

An intergenerational approach can leverage the individual strengths of youth and older people in all their diversity.

鈥淭he elders hold our stories,鈥� says Chiblow, who is Anishinaabe from Garden River First Nation, Ontario. Those stories include lived experiences, culture, history, and generations of adapting to changes in climate. Such collective experience continues to inform Indigenous knowledge and connections to the land, as well as how people manage and govern themselves in relation to it. This knowledge is passed on through relationship-building and storytelling.

鈥淓very time you hear that story, you鈥檙e at a different point in your life, and you鈥檒l pick up something else 鈥� something new,鈥� Chiblow says.

Changes in perspectives that come with time and experience are among the reasons why intergenerational learning and coalitions are critical to the climate movement. To combine that living and learning is to expand the reach and meaning of the message exponentially. As part of her research for her master鈥檚 degree, Chiblow brought together youth, community leaders, and knowledge keepers in her community to workshop climate action. 鈥淭hose relationships are vital to keep that movement going,鈥� Chiblow says.

Intergenerational collaboration around climate issues, particularly in this election season, starts at home.

The value of intergenerational relationships resonates far beyond Indigenous cultures, too. Rick Lent, a member of Elders Climate Action in Massachusetts, says he is motivated to act for his granddaughter. He recounts the time she said to him, 鈥淧lease tell me that there is something hopeful regarding the climate in our, in the future, because I’m going to be living with the repercussions, and I’m scared.鈥�

Lent takes that request seriously and says that working on behalf of future generations translates into effective messaging. 鈥淲hen you show up as a group of elders, and you’re talking to your legislator, our pitch is, 鈥業’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for my grandchildren.鈥� So it gives you a whole different story about who you are and why you’re doing this work.鈥�

Elders Climate Action has in the Massachusetts legislature, which would set a net-zero emissions goal for 2050 and codify environmental justice in state law. With the November elections fast approaching, the group鈥檚 focus is now on assuring everybody can vote safely. In some states, the group鈥檚 chapters are pushing for voter registration and in others, ensuring people can vote by mail.

鈥淲e’re going to be in a pandemic in this year’s elections,鈥� Lent says, which poses risks to people鈥檚 health, especially that of older voters. And because most poll workers, traditionally, have been seniors, Elders Climate Action is also encouraging youth to take up that mantle. 鈥淲e need vote-by-mail,鈥� Lent says, 鈥淎nd we need more poll workers, younger poll workers.鈥�

The Unique Value Proposition of Elders

Older activists bring unique strengths to the table, according to gerontologist Mick Smyer, who designs strategies to move people from anxiety to action on climate. He calls himself 鈥渢he aging whisperer to climate groups鈥� and 鈥渢he climate whisperer to aging groups.鈥� He is quick to point out that the learning can go in both directions.

鈥淚 think older adults are untapped resources,鈥� Smyer says. 鈥淥lder adults bring several resources, one of which is their circles of influence. Just by virtue of having lived longer, older adults are going to have denser and richer networks,鈥� Smyer says. 鈥淭he second is, when it comes to voting and civic engagement, older adults, as an age group, outperform all other age groups.鈥�

He uses the 2016 presidential election to illustrate his point: 鈥淭he older age groups, 70% of them voted. Nobody [else] came close.鈥� He is cautious about making sweeping statements about older people broadly, but he says that ageism is alive and well. And that can deter the kind of collaboration that would beget necessary progress on climate action.

As the twin global patterns of an aging population and a changing climate continue arm in arm, Smyer says a good place for starting this work is within one鈥檚 family.

鈥淲e each have that power to use in our circles of influence, particularly in our families, and we don’t realize it,鈥� Smyer says. Whether it’s via Zoom or FaceTime or a phone call or a chat in the living room, Smyer says, family members have a superpower: They will listen to each other, and they’ll at least start the conversation.

 鈥淚ntergenerational collaboration around climate issues, particularly in this election season, starts at home, and then goes to the polling booth,鈥� he says.

Speaking the Same Language

As an individual鈥檚 network of family, friends, and connections becomes wider and more diverse, the more work will need to be done to have them all working toward the same goals. That is equally true for the climate movement at large.

In bridging the gaps among baby boomers, Gen Xers, and millennials, Bullard says, 鈥淓ach generation will have some idiosyncrasy and uniqueness about it that another generation will not understand or comprehend.鈥�

If everybody in a group or institution is similar, then there鈥檚 no need to explain a lot, Bullard says. There鈥檚 usually a fair amount of shared knowledge and values. But the more diverse that group gets, in age, race, gender, or culture, he says, the greater the potential for making mistakes, stepping on people鈥檚 culture, and causing pain. But the potential for learning also increases exponentially.

We鈥檙e finally at the turning point where we could start to make real change.

Chiblow says successful collaboration comes down to being able to speak in shared concepts. The term 鈥渏ustice,鈥� for example, is an English word that鈥檚 hard to translate into the Anishinaabe language. Chiblow says that because her community sees itself as belonging to the land, and being part of the land, the Anishinaabe worldview, and therefore their understanding of justice, is necessarily more holistic than the mainstream.

鈥淚ndigenous people have been feeling [the effects of climate change] for so long,鈥� Chiblow says. Today, as wildfires rage across the West, the mantra of 鈥淚 can鈥檛 breathe鈥� is being driven home on a grand scale. For better and worse, climate justice is finally a front-page story.

鈥淚t鈥檚 affecting the broader society,鈥� Chiblow says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e finally at the turning point where we could start to make real change because 鈥� people are really starting to feel that urgency.鈥�

The urgency will be tantamount in the coming election. A lot is at stake, says Chiblow: 鈥淚ncentives, funding, all-around agreement, and also the way we鈥檙e able to manage our lands and ourselves as people.鈥�

Bullard, too, is insistent on urgency. 鈥淭his election is one of the most important elections of a generation, because there鈥檚 so many things at stake,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e can鈥檛 wait another 40 years on climate. We don鈥檛 have that much time. We don鈥檛 have 40 years to get justice.鈥�

There鈥檚 a lot of knowledge built up in experience, and there鈥檚 a lot of energy that鈥檚 stored in young people.

Issues of climate justice will be on the ballot in state and local elections this fall, such as Nevada鈥檚 proposed renewable energy standards and Louisiana鈥檚 proposed disaster funding. And the topic has finally made it onto the national stage. Joe Biden called Trump a 鈥渃limate arsonist鈥� for not acting on or even admitting that the wildfires in California are clearly climate-related. The frequency and intensity of such disasters is indisputable.

鈥淗urricanes don鈥檛 swerve to avoid red states or blue states. Wildfires don鈥檛 skip towns that voted a certain way,鈥� Biden . 鈥淭he impacts of climate change don鈥檛 pick and choose. That鈥檚 because it鈥檚 not a partisan phenomenon.鈥�

In many ways, the results of the upcoming elections will reflect the ways youth activists and older activists are able come to a common understanding of what climate justice means and what they want the future world to look like.  

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a lot of knowledge built up in experience, and there鈥檚 a lot of energy that鈥檚 stored in young people,鈥� Bullard says. 鈥淲hen you put those two together, you have 鈥� an excellent recipe for potential success.鈥�

Additional reporting by Krista Karlson.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 7:06 p.m. on Sept. 21, 2020, to reflect that Rick Lent is a member of Elders Climate Action in Massachusetts, not Connecticut, and that the group was not part of the push to get Markey reelected. Read our corrections policy here.

In megacities such as Cairo and Dhaka, Bangladesh, the lack of green space contributes to a host of problems: increased air pollution, higher air temperatures, and greater exposure to ultraviolet radiation, all of which are making these cities increasingly dangerous places to live. According to the World Health Organization, outdoor air pollution , most in low- and middle-income countries. Outdoor air pollution is particularly deadly in dense urban environments in these nations. In Cairo, for example, researchers estimate that in people over the age of 30 can be attributed to long-term exposure to two common air pollutants: nitrogen dioxide and fine particulate matter (PM2.5). That鈥檚 an estimated 20,000 deaths each year in this city alone.   

Why do cities like these lack green space? The natural environment often plays a role: Cairo, for example, is in a desert; it鈥檚 not naturally lush. Rapid urbanization in recent decades has also led to the development of informal neighborhoods and other new construction projects, exacerbating the problem. But mostly, it comes down to planning. 

Gardening on a rooftop is more than just a clever use of limited space.

For postcolonial cities, formative urban development occurred under colonial domination and focused on exploitation. Urbanist Garth Andrew Myers, author of , that 鈥渃ities were predominantly oriented around the extraction of goods for the metropole.鈥� They were never designed to be sustainable. 

Even today, foreign powers shape the development of postcolonial cities in pernicious ways. China鈥檚 Belt and Road Initiative is听听of foreign development projects that have caused environmental destruction and left developing nations with untenable debts. From 2015 to 2017, Egypt听听to finance infrastructure projects. But much of this recent development听, which is , drought conditions to worsen, and extreme weather events like flash flooding and sandstorms to become more common across the nation.

Informal settlements, home to the cities鈥� most impoverished and marginalized communities, are the most vulnerable to rising temperatures, ultraviolet radiation, and air pollution. These neighborhoods have multiplied in both Cairo and Dhaka since the turn of the 20th century, and they often lack proper infrastructure and access to green space. 鈥淪ome areas in informal settlements have zero square meters per inhabitant of green space,鈥� says Abdallah Tawfic, co-founder of Cairo-based organization . 

These patterns hold true for many of the Global South鈥檚 largest cities. But organizations like Urban Greens as well as in Cairo and in Dhaka are committed to greening their cities by weaving rooftop gardens into the crowded cityscapes. The inspiration behind their projects is simple: 鈥淲e don鈥檛 have the space to plant trees, but we have 500,000 rooftops capable of taking the load of a rooftop garden,鈥� says Ahsan Rony, founder of Green Savers. 

Gardening on a rooftop is more than just a clever use of limited space, though. Rooftop gardens have substantial positive effects on air pollution and city temperatures. 鈥淗aving a green cover is the best thing that could happen to this environment,鈥� says Khaled Tarabieh, professor of architecture at the American University in Cairo. 

Cooler, Cleaner Cities

When a rooftop has a green cover, comprised of plants in raised beds, tables, or trellises, it shades the apartments on the upper floor, preventing overheating, especially in buildings that lack proper insulation, as is often the case in informal settlements. Rooftop gardens also reduce the heat that concrete structures absorb throughout the day and then re-emit at night, keeping cities cooler overall.

In Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, one of the world鈥檚 hottest cities, a study showed that indoor air temperatures in buildings with rooftop gardens were than those without gardens, even during the warmest hours of the day. That saves on energy, too, which can have knock-on environmental effects. Research also shows that even relatively small rooftop gardens can by more than half a degree Fahrenheit. 

With cooler temperatures, less ground-level ozone forms, reducing outdoor air pollution. that plants can remove ozone, particulate matter, sulfur dioxide, nitrogen dioxide, and carbon monoxide from the air. 鈥淚f you are living in a place where you have a thick green cover, you鈥檙e enjoying a better and healthier quality of life,鈥� Tarabieh says.

Rooftop gardens are also more practical than green walls or roofs, which are mounted on buildings. Green walls , but Tarabieh says these spaces often require more water than a rooftop garden of the same size, are much more difficult to maintain, and can even compromise the structures on which they are mounted.

Green Savers has worked on more than 5,000 rooftop gardens in Bangladesh since its founding in 2010. Most of its projects have been in Dhaka, the nation鈥檚 capital and one of the most densely populated cities in the world. But it has also expanded to the cities of Cox鈥檚 Bazar and Sylhet. 

Urban Greens is a much younger enterprise, but it鈥檚 growing fast. Founded in 2018, the organization partners with sponsors to provide hydroponic gardening supplies to low-income families for free and sells these same supplies to other customers. Interest in home gardening skyrocketed during the pandemic so the sales side of the business took off, according to Yahia El-Masry, the organization鈥檚 co-founder and business development manager. 

Reinvesting those profits has allowed Urban Greens to expand faster than anticipated. It is now launching new projects in Upper Egypt and a website called the 鈥淯rban Greens鈥� Network,鈥� which it hopes will inspire more Egyptian city dwellers to begin gardening. 鈥淲e want to create a network of practitioners to share knowledge and information and at the same time, invite other people,鈥� El-Masry says. 

Tending Community Health

Beyond rooftop gardens鈥� environmental benefits, they can also provide food and income to the families who tend them. Those are the goals of Schaduf, another Cairo-based organization working in urban agriculture. 鈥淓nvironmental and social change are both in the vision for the company,鈥� says Malik Tag, the organization鈥檚 business development manager.

Schaduf, founded in 2011, establishes produce-bearing rooftop gardens for Egyptian and migrant families in informal neighborhoods. The families that receive training and equipment from Schaduf grow gourmet leafy greens and herbs, and Schaduf connects them with upscale supermarkets to sell their produce for the best possible price.

In response to Bangladesh鈥檚 , Green Savers has also embraced a social mission, hiring and training young people as 鈥減lant doctors鈥� to tend to rooftop gardens.

The greatest challenge for all three organizations has been convincing funders and local residents that the cost and effort of maintaining rooftop gardens are worthwhile. This is particularly true for those peddling hydroponic systems, which come with a higher startup cost. But the organizations have all had success increasing interest through community workshops and school programs. 鈥淲e found that kids are really interested,鈥� Rony says. Many students, after learning about rooftop gardens in school, have convinced their parents to research them further. 

As global temperatures continue to rise, megacities like Cairo and Dhaka will require more significant interventions than urban agriculture alone to prevent air pollution and temperatures from increasing to unlivable levels. But initiatives to green these cities are an excellent place to start. As Tarabieh puts it, green rooftops may not solve all the cities鈥� problems, but, 鈥淲ill it give us an advantage? Absolutely.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:31p.m. on July 9, 2020, to more clearly explain how foreign powers shape the development of postcolonial cities.听Read our corrections policy here.

About of U.S greenhouse gas emissions come from electricity, so transitioning to renewable energy like solar power is an important part of reducing the nation鈥檚 overall emissions. Climate change is already tribal communities across the U.S.鈥攁ffecting the ability to gather traditional foods and medicines, drinking water quality in rural communities, and more. In places like Montana, climate change-driven warmer temperatures, drier soils, and reductions in snowpack may .

For tribes like those Covenant Solar works with, the switch to solar power is urgent to mitigate the long-term impacts of fossil fuels. But it is also a way to strengthen tribal self-determination through workforce development and energy independence from often exploitative, non-Native-run utilities. 鈥淲e are disrupting the broken fossil fuel-based energy system,鈥� says Covenant Solar founder Cheri Smith. 鈥淭his is economic development with really high human impact.鈥�

Both Northern Cheyenne and the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation, where Covenant Solar works, are on the front lines of the fight for a renewable energy future to combat climate change. At Northern Cheyenne, the battle was against coal mining. In 2016, after years of鈥攊ncluding by Vanessa Braided Hair, Covenant Solar鈥檚 advocacy and community engagement manager鈥擜rch Resources (then called Arch Coal) withdrew its application to mine 1.3 billion tons of coal at Otter Creek, near the reservation.

At Standing Rock, the battle is against the Dakota Access oil pipeline, part of which runs under the Missouri River on the reservation. In summer 2016, thousands of activists, known as water protectors, gathered along the Cannonball River to protest construction of the pipeline. Oil began flowing in May 2017, though activists continue to to shut down DAPL. During the 2016 protests, Cody Two Bears, one of the co-founders of Covenant Solar, helped organize a fundraiser to get 300 kilowatts of solar power installed on the reservation. Today, Covenant Solar is using the solar panel purchased with donated funds as a demonstration project and training opportunity.

鈥淭he majority of solar work being done on reservations don鈥檛 address core issues of poverty and lack of an economy,鈥� Smith says. 鈥淸These one-off projects] are fine, but oftentimes what happens is when systems are donated, they鈥檙e dumped there and then the donor goes away, and the tribe is left with a hulking mess.鈥� Not all tribes have the staff, technical knowledge, or funding to operate or maintain the specialized machinery solar energy requires. That鈥檚 why Covenant Solar is taking a different approach.

The company is not interested in short-sighted solar installation projects. It wants to create a self-reliant, renewable energy economy that lasts long past the media buzz. And that鈥檚 no small task. 鈥淭his is a first-of-its-kind approach. There鈥檚 no template,鈥� Smith says. 鈥淥ur long-term goal is return to self-determination and restoration of hope.鈥�

A Replacement for Fossil Fuels

Robert Blake, founder of the Minneapolis-based solar installation company and the nonprofit , has a similar vision. He is developing a solar microgrid on the Red Lake Reservation in Minnesota, where he is a member. Like Northern Cheyenne and Standing Rock, the Red Lake Reservation faces a similar fossil fuel fight. Enbridge Energy鈥檚 Line 3 pipeline expansion, proposed in 2014, would cross three reservations as well as wetlands in Minnesota where tribes hold treaty rights to hunt, fish, and gather wild rice. Indigenous people and environmental activists have been protesting the expansion for years, with action ramping up in the past few months. Between November 2020 and August 2021, more than were arrested.

Blake believes tribes are key to the United States reaching its climate goals, and that investment in renewable energy is an essential part of that puzzle. 鈥淭hose old fossil fuel forces have a stranglehold on our system,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 no way we鈥檙e going to get off of fossil fuels unless we have something else on the market.鈥�

Covenant Solar and Native Sun both take a systems-based approach to renewable energy development. In addition to solar installation, workforce development and technical training are key aspects of their work鈥攚ith a long-term goal of establishing tribally owned solar utilities. Today, Covenant Solar is helping develop three megawatts of solar power at Northern Cheyenne that will provide power for utilities, homes, and businesses. The dozen solar panel installers Covenant Solar trained at Northern Cheyenne are now going to other tribal communities in the Great Plains to train tribal community members to be solar installers and get jobs in the field of renewable energy.

Though these projects may seem small-scale鈥攁 megawatt here, a few kilowatts there鈥攖hey represent a large chunk of the solar economy in their states. Montana, where the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, has that generate 17 megawatts of electricity. The installation under development with Covenant Solar would bring that total to 20 megawatts. North Dakota, where the Standing Rock Reservation is, has zero utility-scale solar installations. But tribal lands also possess immense potential: Tribal lands in the lower 48 have an estimated per year of solar energy potential. That鈥檚 a staggering 4.3 times the in 2020, only 2.3% of which came from utility-scale solar electricity.

On the Red Lake Reservation, Native Sun is working to install 17 megawatts of solar power, including five megawatts on tribal buildings and a 12-megawatt solar farm. The reservation already has helping power its government building and 240 kilowatts on its job training center.

Like Covenant Solar, an important part of the work at Red Lake is workforce development to ensure that community members are in charge of installation, operations, and ongoing maintenance of the solar panels. Native Sun also partners with the Minnesota Department of Corrections to train local formerly incarcerated people in solar installation and site evaluation.

鈥淲e need our own electricians, our own people servicing our communities,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淓nergy runs the entire community. We really need to have our own tribal utilities.鈥�

A History of Exclusion

Energy development on tribal land has long been stymied by federal regulations. When the Rural Electrification Act passed in 1936 to expand electricity to rural communities throughout the nation, tribes were not expressly discriminated against, but bureaucratic barriers made it nearly impossible for tribes to access loans.

Barriers persist to this day. Federal government approval to develop energy projects on tribal land can be a long and confusing process. The type of regulatory oversight depends on the size of the project, who is funding it, and where the tribe is. That oversight may come from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Bureau of Land Management, the Office of Natural Resources Revenue, or the Environmental Protection Agency.

In 2005, the established Tribal Energy Resource Agreements, or TERAs, which were meant to increase regulatory control held by tribes themselves over their own energy resources. But tribes have identified several problems with TERAs. First, not all tribes qualified: the Secretary of the Interior had the discretion to determine whether tribes had the capacity to manage energy resources. Further, TERAs allowed tribes to take over certain approval activities previously performed by the federal government, but did not allow tribes to perform any 鈥渋nherently federal functions.鈥� What constitutes an 鈥渋nherently federal function鈥� has never been defined. All of these issues mean that since 2005, not a single tribe has entered into a TERA, though several have tried.

In 2018, Congress responded to these issues by updating TERA regulations to restrict the Secretary of the Interior鈥檚 ability to reject a TERA and to remove the requirement for the secretary to judge tribal energy development capacity. The Department of the Interior has yet to implement these new regulations.

鈥淭he majority of tribes鈥攅specially those in the plains states where energy-related poverty is especially rampant鈥攄on鈥檛 have the resources to navigate these barriers to renewable energy development,鈥� Smith says. That鈥檚 where Covenant Solar comes in. Founded by a mix of tribal community leaders and renewable energy experts, Covenant Solar鈥檚 team provides pro bono consulting to tribal governments. 鈥淲hen the size and scope of a project triggers regulatory scrutiny, we are there as a buffer and trusted subject matter expert to ensure that the best interests of a tribe are upheld,鈥� Smith says.

Working with nontribal-run utilities is rarely easier than dealing with lengthy regulatory processes. In the Great Plains, where Covenant Solar works, reservations often face discriminatory utility pricing, Smith says, with monthly rates as often twice or three times the Montana average of per kilowatt hour.

Blake sees the same issue in Minnesota. 鈥淭he system is set up to prey on our tribal communities,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e like predatory lenders. It鈥檚 predatory servicing! There are so many fees on top of fees.鈥�

Solar power run by tribal communities themselves thus offers the opportunity to reinvest the money saved on utilities back into their communities. 鈥淭his is a self-determination issue,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淩ed Lake spends about $40 million [annually] off the reservation for the electricity bill. We鈥檙e trying to cut that in half. What would $20 million in our community look like?鈥� That kind of investment could go a long way on a reservation with an average income of $10,236 and a poverty rate of 36.3%.

Smith agrees. 鈥淚n a home that鈥檚 stricken by poverty, if you can eliminate a big percentage of that electric bill, those savings go to food, to medicine, to clothing,鈥� Smith says. 鈥淚f you offset that for the tribal government itself, you can get better services, better medical infrastructure, better safety infrastructure.鈥� Tribally run renewable energy has the potential to positively impact the entire tribal economy. Smith sees it as 鈥渢ruly momentous and hopeful work.鈥�

Getting utility companies to agree to support a tribal microgrid has not been easy for Native Sun. The company鈥檚 interconnection agreements鈥攔equired approval from the utility company to connect to the electrical grid鈥攐ften stalled out, Blake says. Because the tribe is one of the local utility co-op鈥檚 largest customers, the company stands to lose a lot of money if the tribe creates its own energy system.

鈥淭hey don鈥檛 want us using batteries. They don鈥檛 want us using solar,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淭hey want us to be dependent on them, and they put up all kinds of barriers.鈥�

Another issue Native Sun ran into was what to do with the excess energy that their new solar farm will produce. First, they proposed selling it back to the local utilities co-op, a common practice called 鈥�.鈥� The utility co-op refused. Instead, the tribe will charge its extra energy to a 40-kilowatt battery, using a system called . While this will benefit the community鈥攖hey plan to use their solar batteries to power lights for evening events like pow wows and basketball games鈥攊t also means the tribe is losing out on potential revenue generation from its solar energy.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 not a lot of [outside] interest in seeing tribal nations transition into these renewable energy microgrids,鈥� Blake says.

Taking Back Power

Because so many of these roadblocks come down to policy decisions, it鈥檚 clear that tribes need a seat at the table when it comes to managing energy resources.

One way Covenant is making its work self-sustaining is by creating a revolving fund in which tribal communities contribute some of the money they earn from solar power, while other tribes can pull money out to develop their own solar installations. Right now, Covenant鈥檚 projects are funded by a combination of tribal funds, Department of Energy grants, and individual donations. Smith estimates the revolving fund will be solvent in three to five years. This will create a tribal solar energy ecosystem and ensure tribes aren鈥檛 reliant on chasing down short-term, external grants or donations for their solar energy infrastructure, which would threaten the stability and long-term sustainability of these projects.  

Beyond tribally run utilities, Blake thinks tribes should also create tribal utility commissions that work alongside public utility commissions. In the U.S., public utility commissions are state-run bodies meant to regulate companies that provide public services, such as electricity, natural gas, and water. By forming tribal utility commissions, Blake hopes tribes will have a greater say in policies that directly impact tribal communities鈥� ability to develop economically, address climate change, and strengthen their self-determination. 

Not all tribes see it that way, and development or sale of oil, coal, and natural gas resources still offer strong economic incentives. The Crow Tribe, for example, which lies just west of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, signed a deal with Cloud Peak Energy Inc. in 2013, allowing them to mine 1.4 billion tons of coal from the reservation. The Council of Energy Resource Tribes estimates that traditional energy sources in Indian Country鈥攊ncluding oil, natural gas, and coal鈥�. But investment in fossil fuels 颈蝉苍鈥檛 a long-term solution: U.S. fossil fuel use and research shows that fossil fuels are a vulnerable and .  

For Blake and Smith, this is all the more reason to create renewable energy economies. The fossil fuel industry won鈥檛 last forever, and tribal communities can be part of a climate-conscious solution today.

鈥淲e need to stop fossil fuel from encroaching,鈥� Smith says. 鈥淏ut, what鈥檚 next? This is the 鈥榳hat鈥檚 next.鈥欌��

This story has been supported by the , a nonprofit organization dedicated to rigorous and compelling reporting about responses to social problems.

鈥淚 was working on behalf of an idea whose time had come,鈥� Kennard says. 鈥淎nd there was no stopping me or anybody else.鈥�

Through decades of activism, Kennard never hid his identity as a gay man. He realized that progress wasn鈥檛 fast, nor always linear, whether it be the environmental rollbacks that started in the 1980s or having to wait until 2014 to marry his partner of 50 years.

Now 83 years old, Kennard has written multiple books, including an upcoming text on the power of diversity in nature through a broader understanding of gender and sexuality. While the connection between queer identity and the environment might not seem immediately clear, a growing number of LGBTQIA academics, artists, scientists, and activists like Kennard are working at the intersection of these identities. While he fears for the future of the Anthropocene, Kennard also finds the most hope in young people bringing about a new green economy through technological and social innovation.

鈥淲hat Earth Day did was to change the cultural and social values of unborn generations,鈥� Kennard says. 鈥淎nd now, every incoming generation is greener than the one before.鈥�

Recent climate protests shine a light on how marginalized groups are most impacted by rising temperatures and sea levels, along with stronger and more frequent storms and wildfires. For example, up to 40% of American youth experiencing homeless are LGBTQIA, making them particularly vulnerable to climate disasters. Queer representation in the environmental movement not only centers these experiences but also has the power to change the narrative around humans鈥� relationship to nature: from people domineering over the environment to living in tandem with all living organisms.

Gender and Environmental Equity

As a high schooler in Kenya, Vanessa Raditz was inspired by Wangari Maathai鈥檚 Green Belt Movement to combat deforestation and build community resilience. Later, while studying at the University of California, Berkley, in 2016, Raditz co-created the to address how LGBTQIA perspectives were being left out of the environmental movement and vice versa. Originally operating as a reading group, the project has since expanded to be a resource for those wanting to explore topics like ecofeminism, environmental racism, and queer ecology (viewing nature through a lens of queer theory). The project鈥檚 work is particularly grounded in Indigenous and Black feminist writing on these issues. The project鈥檚 , and the Queer Ecojustice Project .

In the same way colonialism imposed a singular idea of gender and sexual relations on populations, Raditz reflects on how a similarly narrow way of thinking has created environmental and gender inequity over the past 40 years: 鈥淎t the end of the day, how does the gender binary and heteronormativity support the extraction and moving of wealth to this handful of global elites?鈥�

Raditz is now a University of Georgia Ph.D. student and a board member of , which provides advocacy, fundraising, relationship building, and training. Raditz is inspired by civil rights-based LGBTQIA organizing, but is critical of the rise in gay pragmatism they鈥檝e seen. Raditz says members of these communities can鈥檛 stop at the legalization of gay marriage and the limited economic, social, and political power it has given them. Rather than assimilating into an exploitative capitalist system, Raditz says everyone in the queer community needs to continue to advocate for those who are more vulnerable than them, especially in the face of a changing climate.

鈥淟iberation doesn鈥檛 end with overturning the sodomy laws if we鈥檙e still living in a settler state that鈥檚 extracting resources from the planet that鈥檚 ultimately our larger body,鈥� Raditz says.

Many queer people understandably choose to be invisible during moments of disaster because there鈥檚 increased risk for violence. That鈥檚 one reason why Raditz is also creating a documentary called Fire & Flood: Queer Resilience in the Era of Climate Change about two climate-related disasters鈥擯uerto Rico鈥檚 Hurricane Maria and the wildfires in Santa Rosa, California. Raditz thinks storytelling can help: 鈥淚t鈥檚 hard to make sense of [these climate crises] until there鈥檚 a story, a narrative, a person that can help you connect these abstracts to tangible experience.鈥�

Climate Education Rooted in Intersectionality

Others have found a voice through social media. runs Queer Brown Vegan, in which he educates on environmental topics for his 100,000-plus followers. Growing up in Section 8 affordable housing in the San Fernando Valley, Hernandez realized environmental inequalities from a young age, living near a handful of toxic industries that impacted air and water quality. At school, climate change was taught as a phenomenon impacting people far away, but a 2008 wildfire near his home sparked his desire to learn about how it was happening in his own backyard.

He went on to study environmental science at the University of California, Berkeley, but realizing that much environmental education was inaccessible to those who came from diverse backgrounds, he started Queer Brown Vegan. He covers topics from his college studies and beyond, ranging from how contributes to greenhouse gas emissions, to a primer on , an anti-consumerist internet aesthetic based on nature. He also dedicates many videos to the changes individuals can make to live more sustainably, particularly for those who are just becoming interested in environmental activism: 鈥淚 believe that education is true wealth in this society. This is a space for those to get started to build their own frameworks.鈥�

What started as a side passion project has now become Hernandez鈥檚 full-time job; he cites an explosion in the past few years of people invested in climate education rooted in intersectionality. Hernandez says being vulnerable with his followers is a strong counter to the anxiety many feel toward climate change and the apathy that they can鈥檛 make a difference. Hernandez intersperses his content with videos of himself with his partner, a hobby that helps him re-center and reminds him of his work鈥檚 purpose: 鈥淲hen you make these connections and when you get personal with people, they get to get personal with you and get to build relationships with others around them.鈥�

Despite his influence, Hernandez still faces gatekeepers; he applied but was delayed in receiving a badge for the recent COP26 United Nations climate conference in Glasgow. He was frustrated to see celebrities and athletes receive theirs instantly. But he eventually got a badge and went to Scotland to prove his legitimacy as a content creator of color, an identity he says is often disregarded: 鈥淯nfortunately, the political and economic powers of these institutions have upheld a lot of the oppression of people. COP26 should be focused on community-building relationships, but at the same time, we need to take time to sit back and listen to the most effective people鈥攁ctivists that don鈥檛 have the voice to address governments.鈥�

Inclusive Spaces in Nature

Many queer environmental activists are instead choosing to build their own communities outside of existing institutions. In 2015, spouses Pinar and So Sinopoulos-Lloyd created to reclaim outdoor skills and rebuild relationships with the more-than-human world.

鈥淢y inspiration was that if civilization is in the process of collapsing, we need people to be learning these skills and teaching them to others who don鈥檛 have access to them,鈥� Pinar says.

Pinar says their queer identity was informed specifically by their Indigenous lineage from the Quechua people. As a transgender youth pathologized as neurodivergent, they found mentors and elders in cottonwood trees, sagebrush, and a creek near their Arizona home: 鈥淭hey taught me so much around queerness, specifically around fluidity and how to create refuge around rivers but also in your life.鈥�

Pinar鈥檚 partner, So, grew up in a New England town and was inspired by the rhythmic sound of their Greek mother鈥檚 wool weaving. This desire to make things with organic objects led them to study agriculture and permaculture and to work on farms. So and Pinar connected as children of immigrants who often felt like outsiders in spaces that erased queer and Indigenous identity and knowledge.

鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want to perpetuate the narrative of what most people see with survival skills, which is one person by themselves, Bear Grylls-style,鈥� So says. They started at Pride in Boulder, Colorado, with demonstrations on tracking, friction fire, and twisting milkweed to make rope. They quickly realized there was a strong desire for inclusive spaces for these activities.

鈥淚 think there鈥檚 this feeling of belonging that we come to know through learning these skills that have been truly devalued, yet are some of the oldest and most fundamental skills for our species,鈥� So says. 鈥淥ne great example is basket weaving, which people literally use as a metaphor for a topic that is superfluous, yet basket weaving is one of the oldest industries in civilization and is pivotal to our survival as a species.鈥�

A few hundred people have engaged with Queer Nature, through half-day courses or multiday excursions. Their flagship offering, Queer Stealthcraft, focuses on guardianship for the Earth and teaches camouflage as a form of shapeshifting, blending, and drag. Pinar and So have also seen the positive mental health impact of regaining this 鈥渆nchantment鈥� with nature. Trained in ecopsychology, Pinar views the mind and body as an ecology connected to the planet and believes in the power of building Earth intimacy during a time of climate chaos.

When asked about Queer Nature鈥檚 impact, Pinar brought up the closing reflection circle during a recent Queer Stealthcraft course near their new home base in Washington state. They were in a Cascadian forest surrounded by trees dripping with lichen and a thick moss blanketing the ground. One participant was moved to tears and said, 鈥淭his reminded me of dreams that I鈥檇 forgotten or didn鈥檛 know I had.鈥�

A Diversity and Plurality of Voices

Others are using artwork to encourage these profound connections with nature. Wanting to reach outside the gallery walls with more experimental mediums, sculpture, video, and social practice artist Lee Pivnik created in 2017. He says the title 鈥渋nstitute鈥� is a way to re-center artists who are often considered superfluous in discussions around important policy issues like climate.

Starting , the institute has since collaborated with around 120 artists. Pivnik says it鈥檚 built on a chosen family understanding of queer community. Projects have included guest editing the zine and an exhibit called 鈥�,鈥� featuring the work of more than 40 artists at Prairie Gallery in Chicago. The institute鈥檚 work has grown to include workshops, lectures, and even a in collaboration with the Guggenheim Museum in New York. The game, H.O.R.I.Z.O.N. (Habitat One: Regenerative Interactive Zone of Nurture), is inspired by utopian communes and encourages players to create their own 鈥渄igital commune鈥� on a remote island.

While the pandemic has limited its interactive, place-based residencies, the institute has reached an even broader audience online through 鈥淢etamorphosis,鈥� an online video series exploring how to transform the extraction-based economy into something more equitable and regenerative. The story, told through the process of a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, connects with many queer people whose identity is equally fluid and evolving: 鈥淪o much of the human has been constructed against queerness, so I think it opens your eyes back to what could be human in an expanded understanding and sense of it.鈥�

Pivnik says themes of hope and optimism run through the institute鈥檚 output, allowing art to provide an empathic alternative to a doomsday mentality around climate change. He wants the institute鈥檚 work to be disseminated widely to encourage others seeking unconventional tools to understand, and hopefully fight, climate change.

He says, 鈥淵ou can address this huge loss of biodiversity not through the same homogenizing tools of Eurocentric science, but through a diversity and plurality of voices that builds both on queer discourse and diversity more broadly.鈥�

The movement is called 鈥渄颈惫别蝉迟尘别苍迟,鈥� and it鈥檚 growing both inside and outside financial institutions鈥� walls. The idea is simple: Pull money, talent, and public approval away from banks and financial institutions that invest in fossil fuel extraction. Most often, this comes in the form of grassroots student-led campaigns at universities and colleges, as was the case with the Harvard students whose protests convinced the president and board of trustees to divest its endowment from fossil fuel-related investments.

Divestment first emerged as a strategy in the 1980s in the fight against South African apartheid.

Divestment first emerged as a strategy in the 1980s in the fight against South African apartheid. Environmental activist and founder of 350.org Bill McKibben was one of the first major U.S. figures to recycle the idea to apply to universities and financial firms, outlining the case for divestment in a piece. 鈥淭he logic went something like this: Most people don鈥檛 live near a coal mine [or] oil pipeline, but everyone is near some pot of money鈥攖heir college endowment, their church pension fund, their local pension fund in their community,鈥� McKibben says. 鈥淭hose are all sites where you could take effective action about climate change.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Some 鈥済ood-hearted鈥� universities, like Unity College in Maine, were the first to divest their assets from fossil fuels, which offered activists early momentum and evidence that divestment wins were possible. And divestment strategies have expanded and diversified since then to include disrupting pipeline construction and funding, thwarting college recruitment efforts, and organizing members of state pension boards. 

Over the past decade of climate activism, McKibben says, what鈥檚 made the divestment movement successful is how diffuse the individual, primarily student-led campaigns have been. The strategy of divestment campaigns on college campuses, in solidarity with front-line resistance efforts and organizing at state pension board meetings, are working: Extractive corporations increasingly report challenges raising capital for their projects. Investors are pushing banks to downsize fossil fuel financing, and has gotten more expensive. in fossil fuels are no longer seen as viable investments. 

Even Larry Fink, the head of one of the largest private asset managers that funds climate change, has , 鈥淲e are on the edge of a fundamental reshaping of finance.鈥�

If Money Talks, What Is It Saying?

Divesting from the banks that support extractive industries takes a multipronged approach, says Matt Remle, an enrolled member of the Hunkpapa Lakota and the co-founder of , a coalition of Indigenous people and activists that targets pipeline funders. No corporation or oil company has enough financial footing on its own to construct a pipeline without the help of multiple banks, he explains. In other words, banks are sustaining the extractive companies, profiting off their returns, and financing the debt鈥攁ll at the expense of the planet. 

Despite annual over the past decade from G-20 countries to end their reliance on fossil fuels, governments continue to provide hundreds of billions of dollars in financial support for the industry. So instead of relying on far-off targets and broken promises, Native leaders and grassroots activists are waging campaigns against the financial industry from a consumer standpoint. 

Mazaska Talks has staged direct actions to shut down bank branches, organized community groups and churches to change which institutions they bank with, and even introduced the in Seattle to push the city to cut ties with banks that fund fossil fuel extraction.

Maza means 鈥渕别迟补濒鈥� and ska means 鈥渨丑颈迟别鈥� in Remle鈥檚 Lakota language, which is a testament to the continuous nature of American capitalist violences as well as Native resistance to genocidal forces. 鈥淚鈥檓 Lakota Standing Rock, and I think we鈥檝e never been at a time of peace with the settler colonizers,鈥� Remle says. 鈥淚t just has changed forms, and the battlefield has changed, and the weapons used have changed, and that鈥檚 really about it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Now, the battlefield is financial institutions, and the weapons are public education and outrage, Remle says. The organization encouraged people to move their money out of Bank of America during the fight against the Keystone XL pipeline. Now, the fight concerns Wells Fargo and the section of a transnational pipeline called Line 3, which runs through northern Minnesota. 

鈥淭he only thing that will talk to them is the money,鈥� Remle says. 鈥淪o when we started going after [the] money, [it] was the first time corporations and banks started listening.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Who Wants to Earn a Paycheck From a Financial Institution?

Divestment 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just about moving money. It鈥檚 about fundamentally changing the companies that invest in fossil fuels, either by pushing them to consider climate change as a threat to their business or by withholding labor and workers. This part of the divestment fight often starts on college campuses, where students are demanding more from potential employers. 

鈥淲hen you think about market forces,鈥� says Sof Petros, a distributed organizing support coach at , 鈥渨hat are the things that actually get corporate targets to move?鈥� Answer: potential young employees and corporate 鈥渞ecruiting pipelines,鈥� a catchall term for the various ways banks show up at universities to attract potential workers鈥攖he future of their workforce. 

Petros helps young people on college and university campuses develop strategies to disrupt the recruitment pipelines that financial firms typically rely on to bring in young and talented employees. To push back against the neutral or positive messaging of banks and asset managers, Petros says the work begins before career day by changing how students think of banks and shifting what influence financial firms have on campus goings-on. On some campuses, that looks like pressuring boards of trustees to disinvest from fossil fuels, refusing to allow banks to open a branch on campus, bird-dogging professors who also sit on boards of financial institutions, or refusing donations from financial institutions altogether. 

Divestment 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just about moving money.

There鈥檚 a long history of divestment on college campuses, McKibben says. 鈥淥ne of the best results of the divestment campaign was that many of the students who undertook it in the U.S. 鈥� graduated from college and went on to form the Sunrise Movement and bring us the Green New Deal.鈥� The Green New Deal legislation and the swell of grassroots organizing that emerged across the country in support of it catalyzed a new generation of climate activists, leaders, and political candidates.

鈥淐orporate targets are very sensitive,鈥� Petros says, because 鈥渢hey鈥檙e used to 鈥� evading public consequences for their actions.鈥� Whether it be their from facing consequences for the 2008 financial crisis or the fact that engaging with predatory and harmful practices that led us there, financial institutions have slipped through the cracks of government accountability. Pushing back against the direct source of climate harm鈥攁nd seeing a response鈥攕hows there鈥檚 hope in the fight against climate change. 

Amber England, a community organizer and masters student at the University of Houston, piloted some recruitment disruption tactics on her campus in fall 2021. England鈥檚 current focus is on AIG, a global insurance company that invests billions of dollars in insuring fossil fuel extraction. 鈥淭hey are one of the only companies without any commitment to reduce its support for fossil fuels,鈥� England says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e facing a recruitment crisis, and they鈥檙e struggling to recruit new talent.鈥� Part of that is because are no longer willing to put up with financial firms鈥� long hours and demanding workplace culture for the pay. The other part is that young people are questioning the ethics of for financial firms more broadly.

During a virtual career fair this year, England pretended she was looking for a job at AIG in order to secure a meeting with the recruiter, and then proceeded to ask them questions about their company鈥檚 climate policies and support of the fossil fuel industry. 鈥淚 was [later] relayed an anonymous email from the [AIG] sustainability team that basically said that climate change is a complex issue and it 颈蝉苍鈥檛 in the best interest of their stakeholders to completely divest from fossil fuels.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Next semester, England hopes she鈥檒l be able to ask these questions at an in-person recruitment fair in front of other students to demonstrate that the insurance company doesn鈥檛 have answers when it comes to climate change鈥攐r the futures of its potential employees. 

Dispersed campaigns of recruitment disruption seem to be working. Petros says she and other organizers have been invited to discussions by Chase, Morgan Stanley, and Citibank, and while these meetings are tense, they 鈥渃hip away鈥� at the grip banks have on university leadership and students. The larger goal of these efforts is to push these companies to change their investment or insurance portfolios to exclude fossil fuels altogether.

What Would You Do if Your Retirement Savings Put Your Future at Risk? 

It鈥檚 not just private money and institutions that fund fossil fuel extraction; it鈥檚 also public pension funds run by elected officials. The problem is that most people don鈥檛 know their retirement savings are being used in this way, much less that there鈥檚 something they can do about it. Mary Cerulli, the director of , which trains coalitions to organize individual states鈥� publicly funded investment portfolios, says pension board treasurers and board members who are both appointed and elected 鈥渉aven鈥檛 used the muscle of these huge pension funds to mitigate the climate crisis.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But they can. 

Across the country, state and local government pension funds total . That鈥檚 public money managed both by government officials and outside asset managers, including Vanguard and BlackRock, Cerulli says. 鈥淰anguard and BlackRock are the number one investors in coal, the number one investors in deforestation companies, the number one investors in utilities,鈥� Cerulli says. She and the CFA team help other organizers build relationships with pension board treasurers to understand what鈥檚 blocking them from making changes.

Pension funds can change the asset managers they hire if constituents lobby for change and members of pension boards self-organize to shift the portfolio of investments. For instance, Cerulli explains, when the Massachusetts pension board treasurer and chair wanted to shift elements of the portfolio to exclude fossil fuel extraction, she had to organize and educate two climate deniers on the board, which CFA assisted with. Working with those who manage money or with third-party financial firms can yield different results than an outside public pressure campaign that stands in opposition to banks, like strategies of direct action protests or pulling one鈥檚 savings account from a bank. 

In the past decade alone, has been divested from fossil fuels, meaning the divestment movement is growing and, importantly, is effective. Divestment is showing in real time that everyday people can take part in the fight against climate change, and it鈥檚 demonstrating to financial firms that climate change is no longer a worthy investment.

This class is one of many hands-on environment-oriented classes that have sprung up around the world in the past decade as part of governments鈥� efforts to introduce sustainability into school curricula. But how realistic is it to expect schools to fix humanity鈥檚 environmental mess? After observing the class, I asked the teacher whether she connected her hands-on lessons to larger conversations around climate change, and she said no. The point of the class, she said, was precisely to get away from theoretical discussions about global environmental issues and to help students take tangible action.

This is not surprising if we consider how most public education systems are run. They are generally under direct control of governments, the vast majority of which are currently doing nowhere near enough to tackle the environmental crisis鈥�. Why would governments encourage their young citizens to question the states鈥� lack of action? It is simply not in their interest to do so鈥攁nd this is the major flaw in the idea that we can educate the world out of the climate crisis.

Touting technological innovation and as the central solution鈥攁nd reiterating these lessons in their public schools鈥攇overnments around the world largely , such as and . Even as countries move away from fossil fuels, they for continued economic expansion.

The mainstream political response to the crisis is, in other words, merely targeting the symptoms rather than the . Environmental education must tackle these issues head on.

What Counts as Action

As the impacts of climate change, biodiversity loss, and other environmental crises intensify, leaders across the world look to education as one of the solutions. In recent years, we have seen this idea at the highest levels of policymaking. The . Goal 4.7, for example, aims to ensure that by 2030, 鈥淎ll learners acquire knowledge and skills needed to promote sustainable development, including among others through education for sustainable development and sustainable lifestyles.鈥�

Much of what passes for environmental education uses the Sustainable Development Goals as its justification. Such education often ends up being depoliticized and limiting the agency of young people in low-income countries. Many public environmental education programs describe themselves as action-oriented, but what counts as 鈥渁ction鈥� in the context of education geared toward fulfilling the Sustainable Development Goals?

I have spent several years observing environmental education programs in Africa, Asia, and Europe since 2016, and I have come to realize that planting trees, growing food for the school canteen, or fixing a leaking tap in the school鈥檚 bathroom to reduce water waste all frequently qualify as action. But writing a letter to a politician or taking part in a march or demonstration rarely do. It is as if these programs see students as capable of influencing only their immediate physical environments rather than engaging in wider political conversations.

There was a particular view of citizenship at work in these classes鈥�. These observations led me to search for alternative ways to educate young people about environmental solutions.

The Power of Activism

In the communities where I have been working, activism has emerged as a clear contender. Activist movements often attract young people and create a space for dialogue between generations as well as opportunities to talk about and act on the politics of environmental decay.

This was very clear during one of the community meetings I witnessed during my research in South Africa. The 鈥檚 main mission is fighting air pollution caused by the petrochemical industry in the city, but over the past three decades, the organization has come to work on many other environmental and civic issues. The meeting I attended in April 2017 took place on a cloudy weekend morning inside a community hall, with perhaps three dozen residents of different generations and from many different walks of life.

In the meeting, a group of activists from the alliance asked the residents to imagine a future they would like to see for their community. In sharing their thoughts with the group, the residents expressed many different wishes, from less rubbish in the streets to tackling economic inequality. The conversation soon turned to how the community could act together to achieve change. Unlike in the environmental lessons I observed in public schools in South Africa and beyond, the young people at the meeting grappled with the politics of environmental change and thought about what they could accomplish together.

Activism does not just help catalyze social change; it is also a form of education. If we are serious about tapping into education鈥檚 potential to help us achieve a more sustainable future, we need to recognize activists as educators and help build bridges between them and schools. 

For policymakers, this means funding activist-led educational efforts and incorporating activist-inspired pedagogy into teacher training programs. For activist organizations, it means highlighting the contributions they have made toward educating young people on environmental solutions and sharing their best practices.

Beyond Greenwashing

None of this is easy. Activists and teachers often find themselves on opposite sides of the barricade. But the first step forward is recognizing that the two groups have more in common than meets the eye.

In most cases, it is not that teachers don鈥檛 want students to think of themselves as changemakers; more often, the teachers simply fear repercussions. I have met many teachers who told me they were not fully on board with the curriculum they were teaching but felt their hands were tied. The government, after all, was paying their salaries. I often heard in interviews that getting into political issues in the classroom was simply too dangerous for teachers鈥� job security.

But these are the very issues our education systems must tackle if they are to contribute to meaningful environmental solutions at scale. Otherwise, we might one day realize that tepid efforts on environmental education have been just another form of greenwashing. Ultimately, education鈥攕elf-discovery and the discovery of the world鈥攊s an end in itself, not a means to any end, including sustainability. But given the urgency of environmental decay, we can鈥檛 afford to let our education systems get in sustainability鈥檚 way.

The result? The climate crisis is now reality. Globally, due to climate change, and that number is set to increase with the higher temperatures, desertification, and more extreme weather events on their way.

But who鈥檚 at fault? The identified 90 companies, mainly fossil fuel companies, that are responsible for two-thirds of carbon emissions. Despite this, global leaders still somehow conclude that individuals are to blame.

At the COP26 conference last October, leaders regurgitated the same tired talking points about individual responsibility, insisting that the public change its consumption patterns, even as companies urge people to consume at unprecedented rates. This is unsurprising given that there were 鈥攖wo dozen more than the largest country delegation鈥攄espite fossil fuel companies being banned from participating directly. Experts argue the integrity of the talks was compromised by the presence of these fossil fuel lobbyists, whose influence led to the Glasgow Climate Pact containing commitments to rather than phasing it out. This deal gives fossil fuel companies the social license to continue business as usual. 

Writing for , columnist George Monbiot described individual responsibility as one of the most significant lies ever told by the fossil fuel industry and the PR companies that devise their messaging. And still, these messages continue to be perpetuated by leaders worldwide.

鈥淭he myth of individual responsibility has origins in 40 years of the creation of societal order fixated on individualism by the Republican Party,鈥� says Robert Brulle, visiting professor of environment and society at Brown University. The first mainstream manifestation of this individual focus, he says, was BP inventing the concept of the 鈥�.鈥� It鈥檚 a that has fundamentally reshaped how the public views the climate crisis.

Suggesting turning off the lights or driving less loses sight of the global severity of the climate crisis and shifts the focus off those with the greatest capacity and responsibility to make meaningful change.

惭别濒颈蝉蝉补听础谤辞苍肠锄测办, associate professor of media studies at Rutgers University and co-author of , describes it as 鈥渕isdiagnosing and misunderstanding the scale and scope of the [climate crisis]. It keeps [humanity] external to the environment instead of seeing us as part of the environment.鈥�

This externalization of responsibility allows fossil fuel companies to downplay their role in the climate crisis and undermine climate litigation, regulation, and activism.

Individualizing the responsibility is an insidious weapon within the fossil fuel industry鈥檚 arsenal, which includes greenwashing and woke-washing. By obfuscating the reality of the climate crisis, it has exacerbated climate consequences and caused long-term damage to climate justice efforts.

To counter this, climate action plans must place blame where it belongs and focus on the problem鈥檚 immediacy. Two main ways of achieving this are collective action and requiring the companies that caused the problems to be at the forefront of finding solutions.

Greenwashing

Greenwashing is a multibillion-dollar PR campaign run by fossil fuel companies to market themselves as environmentally friendly. It began in the 1970s and 鈥�80s.

鈥淸Fossil fuel] companies figured out that it鈥檚 not popular to be against the environment,鈥� Aronczyk says. 鈥淭丑别谤别 is no way that a company could say they are anti-environment and be legitimate.鈥�

And so the fossil fuel industry uses advertising to greenwash its ongoing contribution to the climate crisis. Companies use various messaging tactics to 鈥減osition themselves as contributing to the public interest rather than working against it,鈥� Aronczyk says. 鈥淭hey started using tactics like raising awareness and coalition-building to support their interests.鈥� For example, Shell has to reach net-zero emissions by 2050 by offering more low-carbon products and transitioning into renewable energy sources.

But according to an analysis from environmental lawyers at ClientEarth, the truth behind Shell鈥檚 greenwashing paints a grimmer portrait. According to the company鈥檚 , Shell has no intention of reducing its production by 2030 and is still committed to exploring new oil and gas sources. Shell is currently going ahead with off the coast of South Africa and plans to continue to grow its fossil gas business by 20% in the coming years.

There is no indication that Shell has aligned its investments with its reduction targets either: The company鈥檚 2020 indicates that Shell has allocated just $2 billion to $3 billion per year for investment in renewable energy while investing roughly $17 billion into fossil fuel production.

In May, the Hague District Court that Shell鈥檚 planned emissions reduction of 20% was insufficient and said the company must raise its decarbonization commitments. Under the ruling, Shell will need to reduce emissions by 45% by 2030, compared with 2019 levels. Shell is the ruling.

Woke-Washing

As ClientEarth has indicated, greenwashing is a thinly veiled attempt at reputation laundering鈥攐ne that is becoming increasingly easy for the public to see through. So companies are now engaging a new tool to delay efforts to curb emissions鈥攐ne rooted in social justice arguments.

Colloquially known as woke-washing, these marketing campaigns aim to persuade people that fossil fuel companies are fighting for the poor, the , and . Companies are pumping billions of dollars into fossil fuel propaganda that casts the industry as integral to society. This process of co-opting social justice arguments is derived from companies getting good at using the tactics of social movements to justify their actions.

The woke-washing strategy usually takes one of two forms: either warning that a transition away from fossil fuels will adversely impact poor and marginalized communities, or claiming that oil and gas companies are aligned with those communities. As an example, Chevron is one of many companies that posted 鈥淏lack Lives Matter鈥� on during the 2020 BLM protests. Ironic, considering that fossil fuel pollution disproportionately and that Chevron paid soldiers and police to shoot on Chevron鈥檚 oil platform in 1998.

Woke-washing represents a transformation point for corporate PR.

鈥淯p until recently, companies were reluctant to enter into partisan battles, as they didn鈥檛 want to alienate potential consumers,鈥� Aronczyk says. But she says that changed as the youth market grew and being political became trendy. 鈥淸Companies are] capitalizing on a market trend but also help to create it by reducing social justice movements to a commodity.鈥�

This tactic makes consumers feel like they鈥檙e achieving social justice goals by engaging with brands. For instance, buying products from Chevron is marketed as supporting BIPOC communities. This effectively compromises the original messaging of the Black Lives Matter movement as well as climate change benchmarks.

What Real Solutions Look Like

The solutions to climate change are complex. Many solutions, like implementing multilateral instruments to hold corporations liable for failures to set out realistic targets for emissions reductions, depend on policymakers enacting the appropriate policies to trigger systemic change. However, the machinations of capitalism and governance mean that meaningful change through policy is slow.

Additionally, part of the solution is to force companies to be honest about climate change. But the long-term effect of these disinformation campaigns is public uncertainty about the role fossil fuel companies play in causing the climate crisis.

The results of the COP26 talks, which United Nations Secretary-General Ant贸nio Guterres as insufficient, have further set back climate progress by entrenching the legitimacy and value of the fossil fuel industry.

The often-touted solution of changing individual consumption habits is a nonstarter. It feeds into the narrative of individual responsibility that the fossil fuel industry has manufactured. Ethically, yes, one should reduce meat consumption and use public transportation more often. However, those things will not single-handedly make a difference in the grand scheme of things: An individual can save a meager 2.6 tons of carbon dioxide by going carless, which can鈥檛 compare with the 1.38 billion tons of carbon dioxide equivalent Shell emitted last year.

鈥淭丑别谤别 is a dire need to overcome the messaging of individualism that has been ingrained within society,鈥� Brulle says. 鈥淵our individual actions, while admirable, need to be backed up against collectivism鈥攑articularly collectivism that calls fossil fuel companies to account.鈥�

He identifies practical solutions, such as urging one鈥檚 congressional representative to look into corporate greenwashing. This is particularly relevant because of ongoing investigations into greenwashing by the . Additionally, communities can support lawsuits against greenwashing campaigns, such as the one filed by the state of Massachusetts against .

Collective action has already had tangible results within the private sector. After environmental activists placed legal pressure on the U.K. government to disallow drilling, Shell recently off the Shetland Islands, citing that there was not an economic case for the project. Community organizations in Australia also caused Scott Morrison, the Australian prime minister, to announce that a controversial proposal to drill for oil and gas off the New South Wales coast .

Private equity investors, too, are ditching fossil fuel investments in favor of green assets. This is mainly due to the rise in public demand for climate accountability. Furthermore, organizations like Clean Creatives are engaging in of PR firms that work with fossil fuel companies.

Still, Aronczyk stresses the need to place companies at the forefront of finding solutions to the climate crisis. 鈥淎dvocating solutions can contribute to the problem,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t suggests that we as individuals should find the solutions. By doing that, aren鈥檛 we letting decision-makers and policymakers who need to make system-wide changes off the hook?

鈥淲e have to be careful not to suggest that individual solutions can be carried out instead of pushing the large decision-makers to develop and implement solutions,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e already diverting resources to distracting people from the larger issues at hand when they could rather use those resources to find actionable solutions.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 11:51a.m. on Feb. 1, 2022, to clarify that 惭别濒颈蝉蝉补听础谤辞苍肠锄测办 co-authored the book with Maria Espinoza. 听Read our corrections policy here.

鈥淧eople think of laws being so objective and serious, and almost separate from the social norms,鈥� says investigative climate journalist Amy Westervelt. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 really just a handful of people鈥檚 beliefs that have gotten baked into law.鈥�

Uncovering whose beliefs have shaped existing environmental law led her to report on an emerging legal arena that has been making headlines around the world: rights of nature laws. To explore the fascinating stories and characters behind some of the 200 cases currently underway, Westervelt is launching a new podcast today called , described as 鈥�Law & Order meets the climate crisis.鈥�

The idea behind the rights of nature approach extrapolates on the Western legal system鈥檚 insistence that a corporation is considered a person. If that鈥檚 legally true, then why not grant legal personhood to a watershed or a forest? For those who grew up indoctrinated by the existing legal system, Westervelt says their initial response is often delivered with a scoff: 鈥淪o, what, like, a tree could sue me?鈥�

But beyond this initial skepticism, she sees a lot of practicality and possibility to the approach. Take, for example, a polluted lake. 鈥淚t鈥檚 almost impossible to say my cancer was caused by this chemical in the water,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 super easy, scientifically, to say this chemical in this water is destroying this watershed.鈥�

And in this way, granting nature its own rights could provide an avenue to protect specific environments鈥攁nd the communities that depend on them. Because, she points out, 鈥淗umans actually need ecosystems to live a lot more than we need corporations.鈥�

The Proof Is in the Pushback

When it comes to protecting the environment, most existing laws are human-centered. They focus on the rights of people to a healthy environment. Westervelt says that well over 100 countries have these kinds of laws on the books. Still, since they require making a direct, causal connection between a pollutant and a human health outcome, winning a case in court can be difficult.

Rights of nature cases, in contrast, are 鈥減laying the long game,鈥� as Westervelt puts it. They approach legal arguments with a completely different philosophy and timescale. Incorporating the rights of nature into the constitutions of municipalities, states, and countries could shift the foundational approach to how environmental cases are litigated, Westervelt says.

And it might just be working. She says the proof is in the pushback.

鈥淲e鈥檙e starting to see pre-emptive laws get passed to block rights of nature legislation,鈥� Westervelt says. Ohio, Florida, and most recently Missouri have passed laws to this effect鈥攁 backlash she explores in Episode 5 of the podcast. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 always a key indicator that something鈥檚 working, right?鈥� Westervelt says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e not passing pre-emptive laws against calling your reps鈥攍et鈥檚 put it that way.鈥�

The other strength of this rights of nature approach to environmental protection is the surprising coalitions it creates. 鈥淭he Lake Erie Bill of Rights is not a bunch of hippies in San Francisco. This is suburban moms in Toledo, Ohio,鈥� Westervelt says. 鈥淚 think that鈥檚 actually what scares the industry folks and the right wing about the way that [rights of nature laws have] progressed in this country, is you鈥檙e seeing it really pop up in the Rust Belt, in working-class towns in the Midwest.鈥�

Take fracking, for example. A person in Pennsylvania might be upset their neighbor has a fracking well that has ruined the water in the surrounding wells, making their land essentially valueless. So, Westervelt says, you have right-wing, anti-government libertarians fighting in defense of private property alongside Indigenous leaders arguing to protect the watershed鈥檚 right to live. 

The motivations may be very different, but Westervelt says the outcomes they鈥檙e fighting for are actually quite compatible.

Take the example of the Te Urewera rainforest in New Zealand, which Westervelt examines in Episode 4. She says this case is the one that international organizations point to as a key success story for the rights of nature, because the government recognized the rainforest as its own legal entity and the T奴hoe people as its legal guardians. In a lot of ways, this is a victory, but at the end of the day, it鈥檚 still a compromise on what the T奴hoe actually want: simply the return of their land.

The idea that the government had to grant these land rights is almost offensive to those who live there, Westervelt says. Still, she sees these cases, which aim to bring an Indigenous approach to both nature and justice, as a way to 鈥済ive Western law an instant upgrade on the environmental front.鈥�

Wild Rice for the Win

One unique aspect of Westervelt鈥檚 podcast is the way it frames Indigenous science, which she says is all too often viewed as myths or 鈥渨oo-woo mystical nonsense.鈥�

Westervelt shares an example of a water protector she spoke with in Hawai鈥榠 who was working to protect his people鈥檚 sacred mountain, Mauna Kea. He told her the reason it鈥檚 sacred is because half the island鈥檚 ecosystems are affected by it. Western watershed science eventually came to the same conclusion, but centuries later, after colonization had already caused great harm.

The same goes for why wild rice is sacred to the Ojibwe: it鈥檚 an indicator species. They knew its ecological importance and therefore came to reflect that in their cultural values.

In this way, Westervelt says, storytelling鈥攂e it through Indigenous knowledge-sharing or a podcast鈥攊s an effective way to explain why it鈥檚 important to protect water.

On this note, she starts off the podcast鈥檚 first season with Episode 1: 鈥淢anoomin v. Minnesota.鈥� This case looks at the rights of wild rice to survive and thrive in local waterways, which the Ojibwe added to their 1855 treaty with the U.S. government. The White Earth Band of Ojibwe, based in present-day Minnesota, has since sued Enbridge Energy鈥檚 Line 3 pipeline, which they say will violate the rights of the rice and threaten the health of the ecosystem at large.

The reason Westervelt starts with wild rice is because of the impact this case could have on so many other potential pipeline fights across the U.S.

鈥淲hatever decision they come down with will be pretty monumental,鈥� she says. The case is currently in the 8th Circuit Court of Appeals, and if its decision is appealed, Westervelt says this could be 鈥渁nother case where the Supreme Court is deciding whether the U.S. is going to honor these treaties.鈥� And that has far-reaching implications for the treaty rights of tribes across the continent.

鈥淓very time I tell people, 鈥榊eah, wild rice sued the state of Minnesota,鈥� it helps to get people to let go of the idea that the way things are is the way they鈥檝e always been and always have to be,鈥� Westervelt says. She believes exposing people to that idea by way of a story is less threatening than arguing with them about water clarity or carbon emissions. 鈥淪howing people a different perspective and what it can look like, I think, is helpful in opening people up to other possibilities.鈥�

Plans for the Mountain Valley pipeline were first announced in April 2018. The proposed pipeline would transport fracked gas from West Virginia to a compressor site in southern Virginia, and then another 70 miles into northern North Carolina. This last section is called the Mountain Valley Southgate Extension, and it goes through the state to allow a major that already services nearly to . It is this section of the pipeline that would decimate the Haw River. 

The pipeline was originally supposed to be completed in less than a year and cost financial partners . But four years of coordinated cross-state grassroots resistance to the pipeline鈥檚 construction has thus far prevented the Mountain Valley pipeline corporation from laying even an inch of pipeline in North Carolina soil. New county, city, and state laws have a far reach in preventing pipelines that are slated to start in one state and end in another, as seen with a that impacts the North Carolina section of the pipeline. 

With the project over budget and lacking necessary permits, one financial backer of the Mountain Valley pipeline corporation says it鈥檚 its 31% investment in the now-$6.2 billion pipeline. The corporation is also facing an impairment charge鈥攁 financial term to describe when the value of a good or service drops below the cost to produce it. 

鈥淚t was determined that the continued legal and regulatory challenges have resulted in a very low probability of pipeline completion,鈥� the funder said in a U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission filing. That, along with the additional legal and financial hurdles the pipeline now has to overcome, is likely causing other investors to see the project as more of a financial risk, forcing them to reconsider their own stake.

And this cross-state collaboration is only one of many where people power is waging a concerted, and increasingly successful, campaign against fossil fuel corporations and the harmful extraction they promise. Pipeline corporations often rely on silence and intimidation鈥攕ocial ills that splice communities and convince neighbors of their isolation from each other. But organizers in Tennessee, North Carolina, and Nebraska are proving that building collective community power can successfully counter Big Oil鈥檚 moneyed interests. 

Given that oil extraction in the U.S. and that federal officials continue to despite scientific warnings to stop their sale and combustion, it鈥檚 clear to organizers that grassroots strategies are critical to fighting pipelines.

鈥淲hen a pipeline is proposed, [those impacted] either don鈥檛 know about it until it鈥檚 too late, or they don鈥檛 have the access to the information or time to dedicate to showing up to all of these meetings and giving comments,鈥� Sutton says. When it came to the pipeline threatening the Haw River, though, she says that wasn鈥檛 the case: 鈥淲e really gave the power to the people who are impacted.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

How to Stop a Pipeline

In many ways, pipeline fighting is a battle between narratives鈥攐ne of money versus people power鈥攁nd also one of priorities鈥攅conomic benefit in the short term versus generations of climate disaster. To understand the impending defeat of Southgate, it鈥檚 important to realize that wins against pipelines don鈥檛 occur in a vacuum; generational Appalachians in West Virginia have organized in tandem with water defenders and protectors in North Carolina. Organizers from different communities, even in different states, are stronger working together when they have a shared aim.

There鈥檚 a blueprint, organizers say, of what to do when a pipeline threatens already vulnerable communities. The first step is to educate neighbors and those who care about the land. The second is to make the building process as legally untenable as possible by advocating for the passage of new city and county laws, demonstrating a pipeline鈥檚 fallibility to state environmental agencies. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 hard to fight against major corporations when you don鈥檛 have money,鈥� says Crystal Cavalier, a member of the Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation. Cavalier lives in Mebane, North Carolina, and is one of the main leaders working on the Southgate resistance efforts. She says organizers and impacted residents are made to feel like if they don鈥檛 have money, they don鈥檛 have power. Cavalier鈥檚 work is to disprove that hypothesis.听

There are certainly immediate risks to the river鈥檚 ecosystem: rerouting creeks with pipe, sediment pollution from construction, and gas leaks due to breakages in the line. But there鈥檚 even more at stake. Within the Haw鈥檚 watershed, the Southgate Extension would threaten 207 streams, three ponds, and 9 acres of wetlands, as well as more than 600,000 square feet surrounding a nearby watershed, . And these threaten the river鈥檚 future as well as its past.

The word haw means 鈥渞iver鈥� in the language of the Sissipahaw, one of the Indigenous tribes that called the region home. 鈥淭his river was the lifeblood for entire civilizations,鈥� says Sutton, with the Haw River Assembly, the nonprofit dedicated to advocacy and protection of its watershed. English settler-colonizers committed genocide against the Sissipahaw peoples; the river and its name honor their existence. Surviving members of the tribe joined the Catawba tribe and the听Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation.听

The river was also a site of the underground railroad during the period of legal enslavement of African Americans in the United States, according to the Assembly. 

Even today, the Haw 鈥渟till continues to be this connecting source from people in the triad, in Greensboro, all the way down to Jordan Lake and the triangle in North Carolina,鈥� Sutton says. 

Fighting for All People, and Their River

In late 2021, three years into the battle against the Mountain Valley Southgate Extension, organizers in North Carolina were beginning to lose hope. The state permitting process looked like it was going to allow the beginning stages of pipeline construction, portending an uphill climb of legal challenges for defenders of the Haw River. 

But then, in the first week of December, organizers pushed the Virginia Air Pollution Control Board to the permit required to build a pipeline compressor station, citing a 2020 Virginia and the potential that the compressor station would contribute to ongoing environmental injustices faced by Black and Brown residents living near the site. The compressor is a key element connecting the mainline of the Mountain Valley pipeline to the extension through North Carolina. This forced the company to start the permitting process all over again and allowed organizers more time to rally impacted residents and lobby public officials.

A month later, in a brought by the Sierra Club, Appalachian Voices, and other environmental organizations, a federal appeals court overturned permits previously issued by two agencies, the U.S. Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management, that would have allowed the mainline to devastate two species of endangered fish鈥攖he Roanoke logperch and candy darter鈥攖hat live in the Jefferson National Forest, which straddles the West Virginia鈥揤irginia border. 

Moreover, officials in North Carolina have a necessary Water Quality Certification permit, mandated by the Clean Water Act, to the pipeline company. And as long as the mainline 颈蝉苍鈥檛 built, there can be no Southgate Extension. 

鈥淪outhgate doesn鈥檛 have anything to stand on in North Carolina,鈥� Sutton says. 

But these wins aren鈥檛 the product of state and federal agencies deciding to do the right thing, she says. They鈥檙e consequences of years of relationship building and storytelling by communities most likely to bear the brunt of pipeline construction and its ongoing devastation in the form of gas leaks, methane pollution, and water contamination鈥攖he critical first step in the blueprint of pipeline resistance. 

鈥淵ou have to stand up, you have to say no, and you got to start telling these people how you feel,鈥� Cavalier says. By 鈥渢hese people,鈥� she means city and county officials, representatives from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and state agencies and boards tasked with evaluating permits filed by the construction company.听

Along with other organizations fighting the extension鈥檚 construction, Cavalier coached landowners and other impacted residents in Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina to tell their personal stories in the few minutes allotted for public comment at meetings held by regulatory agencies and commissions charged with handing out permits. Cavalier says she鈥檚 working with tribal leaders and nations that steward land in what鈥檚 known as South Carolina to prevent any future plans for pipeline construction.听

鈥淲e use our traditional Indigenous values when we鈥檙e organizing, so it is kind of slow,鈥� Cavalier says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just really about gaining people鈥檚 trust.鈥�

Learning From Successful Decades-Long Battles

While fighting his own pipeline battle in Memphis, Tennessee, organizer Justin J. Pearson spent time in North Carolina with Cavalier to swap strategies and speak at actions she had organized. From October 2020 through December 2021, Pearson led a grassroots resistance against the construction of the Byhalia Connection pipeline, which would have ravaged the majority-Black neighborhood of East Memphis. The proposed 49-mile pipeline was funded by a subsidiary of Valero and Plains All American Pipeline, billion-dollar corporations with vast legal and economic resources.听

Pearson鈥檚 efforts focused on the second part of the pipeline resistance blueprint: passing preemptive local laws. 鈥淭he only way you鈥檙e gonna get legislation passed is with people power,鈥� Pearson says, explaining that the legislative process also serves as a means to educate constituents and policymakers who may not know the many threats pipelines pose. 鈥淚t 颈蝉苍鈥檛 enough to get things done; you have to have folks behind it and supportive of it to show politicians that it matters.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The 2021 passage of legislation protecting drinking water and residents鈥� homes affirmed that the pipeline鈥檚 construction company and financial backers would need the consent and participation of the people of Memphis if they wanted to build. In response, community members helped pass a countywide setback ordinance and two citywide ordinances鈥攐ne instituting a setback and another protecting the .

In July 2021, the company announced that it was , proving Pearson鈥檚 community campaign against Byhalia a success.

During this time, the Biden administration also revoked the permit for the Keystone XL pipeline, indicating to Pearson that his ultimate goal might just be attainable after all: 鈥淲e鈥檙e collectively fighting for a future 鈥� for people, especially Black, Indigenous, people of color鈥攑eople who this society has excluded intentionally. We are changing that narrative in the course of history about whose lives are deemed worthy and worth protecting,鈥� Pearson says.

It also helped that Jane Kleeb, of the Keystone resistance, called Pearson up early in his resistance work to see how she could support his efforts. Kleeb says she provided some resources, but more importantly, she connected him to a whole community of pipeline fighters鈥攐rganizers across states who share stories and swap strategies on what Kleeb refers to as 鈥減ipeline-fighter calls.鈥�

For nearly a decade, Kleeb fought Keystone by building relationships between groups who, on the surface, might appear to have little in common, like White ranchers and Native peoples. Kleeb learned that pipeline companies follow their own playbook, starting with predatorily approaching landowners and coercing them to sign easement agreements that allow the companies access to their land for drilling or pipeline construction. For instance, companies may tell landowners that all of their neighbors have signed easement agreements and that they鈥檙e the last to do so (when in reality no one else has), Kleeb explains, in an attempt to isolate, intimidate, and pressure the landowner to comply. 

鈥淭he only thing that stops these pipelines is if you lock up the land,鈥� Kleeb says. 

Today, the organization built out from the fight against Keystone XL, Bold Alliance, mobilizes communities to fight pipelines in multiple ways, particularly by creating easement action teams. In these teams, groups of landowners are represented by Bold Alliance鈥檚 lawyers, who ensure pipeline companies won鈥檛 approach or speak to the landowners without legal representation. 

鈥淚t kind of takes that power that the pipeline companies had of preying on landowners away, and puts some power back into the hands of landowners,鈥� Kleeb says. 

Not every pipeline battle leads to a win, Pearson says, nodding to the now-operational section of a tar sands pipeline known as Line 3, which runs through Native land in northern Minnesota. A more local risk is a bill being fast-tracked through the Tennessee state legislature aimed at usurping local control from cities that try to prevent fossil fuel companies from operationalizing. If passed, the legislation would become effective this summer, undoing the work Pearson and others organized so hard for. Yet each successive fight bears lessons, and that鈥檚 important, he says. 

鈥淓ven when we lose some of our fights 鈥� there鈥檚 something that has happened in our awareness and our attention and our intention and our ability to still fight on,鈥� Pearson says. 鈥淭he next fight won鈥檛 start at the same starting place; it鈥檒l be a little further. The people who are fighting that fight will be a little more ready for the next one.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 2:45 p.m. PT on March 30, 2022, to correct a misspelling of Crystal Cavalier鈥檚 last name, and to clarify that surviving members of the Sissipahaw tribe exist, and have joined the Catawba tribe and the Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation.听Read our corrections policy here.

It was once a common bird near her hometown and across the Colombian Andes, but its population had dwindled to a flock of 81 individuals. Captivated by the fate of the little bird, she abandoned her career as a civil engineer and, along with British ornithologist and her now-husband Paul Salaman and a group of other conservationists, founded ProAves to protect it.

With the help of nearby communities, especially local women, the group successfully fought for an end to the logging of wax palms鈥攖he bird鈥檚 nesting and feeding site鈥攁nd hunting of the parrot for sport. The yellow-eared parrot was adopted as a regional emblem. Soon, the population started growing rapidly. Today, there are more than 2,800 individuals, and a couple of years ago, a flock of two dozen parrots was spotted near Lara鈥檚 hometown. 

It was a huge win, and it taught Lara an important lesson: Women are instrumental in conservation. Women often , and their participation in ProAves鈥� work quickly demonstrated that they were essential to the success of community-based conservation projects. In many rural communities in Colombia, women are responsible for meeting their families鈥� most basic needs from nature, including water, firewood, and food鈥攁ll of which become increasingly difficult as the environment suffers. But the women she encountered needed support, too.

鈥淢any of the women I met were exhausted from childbearing, they did not have any food to feed their children, and they were desperate to have access to family planning,鈥� says Lara. 

In 2004, Lara founded Women for Conservation to increase access to public health, family planning, economic opportunities, and environmental conservation. The nonprofit organization aims to build the health of the communities bordering nature reserves, so they can be more economically independent and better able to protect their local environment. The organization runs workshops and trainings, ranging from environmental education to sustainable livelihoods and family planning, for women in 10 communities. It became independent of ProAves in late 2019, and reports that it has since directly reached more than 2,200 people, mostly women and young girls. 

Women for Conservation also teaches women to produce wildlife-friendly artisan crafts to replace dependence on cattle ranching and prevent deforestation. In Puerto Pinz贸n, for example, as part of a broader project to protect the blue-billed curassow, the organization , the seeds of palm trees that are known as 鈥渧egetable ivory,鈥� and to produce jewelry that they can sell on the market. Women for Conservation also encouraged the local community to ban hunting, use fuel-efficient stoves to decrease deforestation, and start a tree nursery.

Women for Conservation also runs workshops aimed at training women for careers in conservation and ecotourism. 

Ninfa Estella Carinialli was the first woman forest ranger trained and sponsored by Women for Conservation and ProAves. She , and she works in the 脕guila Harp铆a ProAves Reserve, which is located in the eastern Colombian state of Guain铆a. 

Carinialli鈥檚 first few years as a forest guard were hard. 鈥淢y son drowned and my husband passed away from COVID,鈥� she remembers. But, as it had with Lara, the forest proved a refuge. 鈥淚 felt a deep sadness, but I am thankful for the memories I have with them, and for the opportunity to work in conservation, which makes me happy and fills me with peace.鈥�

Overcoming Myths and Barriers

One of the most important鈥攁nd sensitive鈥攖asks Women for Conservation has taken on is a focus on reproduction and family planning in local communities. Lara initially had to deal with pushback from local communities. 鈥淲hen we started talking about family planning, we had a couple of incidents where women were severely beaten up for participating in our workshops,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 learned in a hard way that we need to present women鈥檚 empowerment not as a threat, but as a benefit for the family.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In partnership with the reproductive and family health organization , Women for Conservation organizes reproductive health workshops and provides family planning services. Since the beginning of the pandemic, the organization reports it has facilitated 360 contraceptive implants and 27 surgical procedures, including tubal ligations and vasectomies. 

The ability to plan pregnancies becomes vital for women and girls when they can鈥檛 depend on the natural environment for basic survival needs, says Kelly Donado, who organizes logistics for the family planning brigades at Women for Conservation.

鈥淲hen there鈥檚 ever-less food, jobs, and water, it scares me to think of bringing more babies into the world,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hat kind of situation are we bringing them into? When girls have unplanned pregnancies, they cannot be adequate carers, and often, they鈥檙e not able to provide for their babies.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Donado is leading a campaign in Zona Bananera, a municipality of Santa Marta, which suffers from water scarcity due to diversion for banana and palm growing. Her sister is a local nurse and has offered her home as a center for the clinics and workshops, as there are no medical clinics in the area. Ana Marquis, an 18-year-old from the area, is one of those who participated and decided to get a contraceptive implant. 

鈥淚t lets me decide when to have my children,鈥� she says in Spanish. She lost two pregnancies in recent years. 鈥淩ight now, I鈥檓 looking after myself so that I can study and not have to worry about getting pregnant.鈥�

In February 2022, Women for Conservation provided 72 women in Zona Bananera with contraceptive implants, in addition to offering cancer screenings, follow-ups, and reproductive education workshops. By the time the group鈥檚 representatives returned in March for checkups, more than 190 women and girls had added their names to the waiting list. Men also began requesting contraception from Women for Conservation, which resulted in the first vasectomy procedures in the Zona Bananera region in February 2022.  

鈥淔amily planning has myriad social, economic, and environmental benefits: It improves the livelihoods and well-being of people and the planet and relieves population pressures on the natural environment, as well as on food production and water scarcity,鈥� says Catriona Spaven-Donn, the Empower to Plan project coordinator for the British charity , which supports Women for Conservation.  

While Women for Conservation has made significant progress destigmatizing family planning, resistance remains. Marquis says her family forbid her from getting the implant until she was 18, as they have for her 16-year-old sister.

Some families believe that denying teenagers access to contraceptive resources will prevent them from engaging in sexual activity, . 

Women for Conservation also faced resistance from its peers in the environmental world. Lara remembers other conservation leaders telling her that working with women was nice, but it was not a priority. Whenever she spoke about the link between a growing population, increasing poverty, and environmental impacts, she was told to avoid talking about population. 

among development, environmental, and reproductive rights community groups. The focus is instead on sexual and reproductive health, choice, and rights of individuals, rather than addressing demographic factors.

鈥淚n the past, people wasted a lot of time stereotyping our planetary crises, asking whether the main problem is population or consumption,鈥� says Phoebe Barnard, professor of global change science and futures at the University of Washington, and founding director of the global , which aims to stabilize and reduce consumption and global population. 鈥淲ell, of course, it鈥檚 not either鈥搊r. It鈥檚 both. Investing in women鈥檚 education, leadership, and opportunities remains a really powerful way to bring benefits not only for women, but for families and children, nature, and the future of our whole civilization.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Still, even the issues of reproductive health and women鈥檚 rights can be difficult to raise among poor, rural Colombian women living in communities where maternity and a large number of children are often viewed positively, and where men may feel a loss of control over women鈥檚 sexuality when women use modern contraceptives. In such contexts, contraception is and is therefore not trusted or not used.

What鈥檚 clear is the close tie between women鈥檚 empowerment and environmental outcomes. Recent research found that . The , from equal access to education to family planning. 

That link has pushed Women for Conservation beyond family planning to providing basic services to ensure Colombian women are healthy and safe. , so last year, the NGO started providing mammograms and training women on how to conduct a self breast exam. With a drastic increase in calls to domestic violence hotlines during the pandemic, Lara has also started leading workshops and education on the subject.

What do these have in common? They represent the new frontier in human rights.

The  voted overwhelmingly on July 28, 2022, to declare the ability to live in 鈥溾�� a . It also called on countries, companies, and international organizations to scale up efforts to turn that into reality.

The declaration is not legally binding鈥攃ountries can vote to support a declaration of rights  those rights in practice. The  is also vague, leaving to interpretation just what a clean, healthy, and sustainable environment is.

Still, it鈥檚 more than moral posturing. Resolutions like this have a history of laying the foundation for effective treaties and national laws.

I am a  who focuses on , and much of  investigates relationships between development-driven environmental change, natural resource use, and human rights. Here are some examples of how similar resolutions have opened doors to stronger actions.

How the Concept of Human Rights Expanded

In 1948, in the aftermath of World War II, the newly formed United Nations adopted the  in response to the atrocities of the Holocaust. The declaration wasn鈥檛 legally binding, but it established a baseline of rights intended to ensure the conditions for basic human dignity.

That  the right to life, religious expression, freedom from slavery, and a standard of living adequate for health and well-being.

Since then, the scope of human rights has been expanded, including several agreements that are legally binding on the countries that ratified them. The U.N. conventions  (1984) and  (1965) and on the rights  (1989) and  (2006) are just a few examples. Today, the  also includes binding agreements on , . Eleanor Roosevelt and others read from the articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Today鈥檚 Triple Planetary Crisis

The world has changed dramatically since the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was written, perhaps most notably with regard to the scale of environmental crises people worldwide face.

Some  that the 鈥溾�� of , , and unmitigated pollution now threaten to surpass the  necessary to live safely on Earth.

These threats  the right to life, dignity, and health, as can air pollution, contaminated water, and pollution from plastics and chemicals. That is why  for the U.N. to declare a right to a clean, healthy, and sustainable environment.

The U.N. has been discussing the environment as a global concern for over , and several international treaties over that time have addressed specific environmental concerns, including binding agreements on  and . The 2015  to limit global warming is a direct and legally binding outcome of the long struggles that follow initial declarations.

The resolution on the right to a clean, healthy, and sustainable environment was approved without dissent, though : Belarus, Cambodia, China, Ethiopia, Iran, Kyrgyzstan, Russia, and Syria.

The Human Right to Water

Voluntary human rights declarations can also  in changing state policy and providing people with  to demand better conditions.

The  is one of the strongest examples of how U.N. resolutions have been used to shape state policy. The resolution, adopted in 2010, recognizes that access to adequate quantities of clean drinking water and sanitation are necessary to realize all other rights. Diarrheal disease, largely from unsafe drinking water,  under age 5 every year.

Human rights advocates used the resolution to help pressure the Mexican government to  and adopt a human right to water in 2012. While the concept still  , the idea of a right to water is also credited with  in marginalized communities in , , and .

The Rights of Indigenous Peoples

The 2007 U.N.  is another example.  the specific histories of  that many Indigenous peoples around the world have endured, and .

The resolution outlines rights for Indigenous peoples but stops short of recognizing their sovereignty, something many critique as . Within these limits, however, several countries have . In 2009,  integrated it .

The Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples discusses a right to  about development and industrial projects that would affect Indigenous people. That has been a powerful tool for Indigenous peoples to  through the legal system.

In , , and , Indigenous peoples have used the resolution to help win important legal victories before human rights courts with rulings that have led to land restitution and other legal gains.

Tools for Change

U.N. declarations of human rights are aspirational norms that seek to ensure a more just and equitable world. Even though declarations like this one are not legally binding, they can be vital tools people can  and private companies to protect or improve human well-being.

Change can take time, but I believe this latest declaration of human rights will support climate and environmental justice across the world.

This article was originally published by听. It has been published here with permission.

But since the mid 鈥�90s, Jamaica and other unique islands in the Caribbean region, according to a meta-study by , have been facing the loss of one of their most critical resources: fish. And it will take a blue economy, like the one developing along Jamaica鈥檚 northeast coast, to keep this muse alive.

Not far from the buzzing tourist center of Ocho Rios is a stunning, sequestered coastal spot accessible only by driving 25 minutes along off-road trails: the Oracabessa Fish Sanctuary. It has crystal-clear waters that reveal emerald-hued depths, and a shoreline decorated by colorful boats, small yachts, and fish pots. With waters like these, one would assume Oracabessa to be a great fishing spot. But a sign on the docks boldly warns, No Fishing.

鈥淚鈥檝e been a registered fisherman since 1975, and I鈥檝e seen the depletion,鈥� says Captain Murray, a vessel operator and warden at the Oracabessa Fish Sanctuary. 鈥淲e saw the need to put something in place, because if you have a farm and you鈥檙e always harvesting without replacing new seedlings, it will run down.鈥�

The Importance of Fish

Often, environmental conservation comes across as a philosophy, or a political or moral conviction. The human element鈥攖he fact that people are relying on these same ecosystems for survival鈥攊s generally overlooked. But a large part of the magic and beauty that remains in Oracabessa is the result of efforts by local fishers.

Rural communities along Jamaica鈥檚 coasts rely on fish. They generate employment by selling and reselling fish, crafting and repairing fishing equipment, serving as fishing crew, and assisting with other fishing traditions. And in the face of soaring food prices, they can fish for dinner.

But environmental stewardship asks for sacrifice. The endorsement and buy-in of critical stakeholders, like fishers, can make or break a conservation project. And in Jamaica, fishers tend to be independent.

鈥淭o have any kind of success, you have to centralize and organize,鈥� says Captain Murray. 鈥淔ishers don鈥檛 want to do that, because they may believe that it might cost them more.鈥�

And so fishers were invited to the table as the conservation project took shape.

鈥淔or one thing, we allowed the fishers to decide the boundaries of the sanctuary so they actually chose how much they gave up,鈥� says Travis Graham, a board member of the Oracabessa Fish Sanctuary. Second, he says, 鈥淎ll of our wardens are fishermen. We鈥檝e created a source of employment for them through that role, so they understand that they benefit in more than one way. The commitment comes from that.鈥�

In short, the group was able to create a feedback loop where nature helps support those who nurture it. For a decade now, Oracabessa Bay鈥檚 GoldenEye hotel and James Bond beachfronts have been home to the area鈥檚 185-acre resident fish sanctuary. As unofficial evidence of their success, massive tarpons float gracefully beneath the dock of the sanctuary鈥檚 office.

Thanks to a dive shop and frequent tourist customers from the GoldenEye hotel, Oracabessa鈥檚 Sanctuary has enough money coming in to support the wardens and captains who patrol the borders. Although much of the land is privately owned by the hotels, the sanctuary itself is open to the public in areas where the beaches are public, like the James Bond Beach.

With a roster of 18 people鈥攆ishers, captains, coral gardeners, supervisors, managers, and board members鈥攖he staff manages and maintains the resources and a series of programs. This sanctuary is always buzzing with activity: educational school tours, maintaining and upgrading the budding coral gardens, and the newly installed sea urchin nursery. The sanctuary has met its ambition of planting 18,000 corals annually and releasing more than 20,000 sea turtles each year.

Oracabessa continues to expand, as it looks to add more conservation education programs and a sea urchin nursery to raise more of the animals that are so essential to reef health.

Thanks to the Oracabessa fish sanctuary and those of its ilk, the abundance of fish island-wide has increased more than fivefold between 2013 and 2020, according to Jamaica鈥檚 National Environment and Planning Agency鈥檚 island-wide reef . Coupled with reports from fishers of increased fish on the outskirts of the sanctuary, NEPA鈥檚 reef survey indicates a slow but strong rehabilitation taking place.

A Model for Success

A sister sanctuary in White River, situated just half an hour up the road, has adopted a similar model of operation. Following Oracabessa鈥檚 example, this sanctuary operates under a partnership between fishing entities and the tourist sector.

鈥淚t鈥檚 community-based, so 50% of all our operations and decision-making is in the hands of the White River Fisherman Association, and the other 50% is contributed by White River Marine Association,鈥� says Reanne McKenzie, general manager of the White River Fish Sanctuary.

The sanctuary itself is housed on protected land in the Ocho Rios Marine Park. 鈥淲e have a three-pronged mandate for the sanctuary, which is protect, restore and engage,鈥� McKenzie says. To protect, fishers patrol the sanctuary. To restore, they raise two different kind of coral at two different sites. To engage, they educate nearby communities and primary schools. 鈥淚t鈥檚 important they have this appreciation of the environment from a young age,鈥� McKenzie says.

With the Ian Fleming Airport in Boscobel鈥攋ust 20 minutes from the White River Fish Sanctuary鈥� open to commercial flights, the entire northeast coast may soon experience an increase in tourist activity. This could increase the viability of White River, Oracabessa, and other future community sanctuaries.

As White River鈥檚 sanctuary enters its fourth year of operation, the organization has an enthusiastic stream of volunteers, including a local student and two foreign students as well as a reliable staff of fishers and wardens. The sanctuary is in the process of conducting its first biomass survey, and it hopes to expand its coral programs and eventually the boundaries of the sanctuary itself.

鈥淲e really want to get to a point where we have so much of the community and surrounding areas sold on this conservation idea that we won鈥檛 really have a need to police waters,鈥� McKenzie says.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 1:12 p.m. PT on September 1, 2022, to correct the size of the sanctuary and Taylor Graham鈥檚 job title, as well as to clarify the accessibility of Oracabessa.听Read our corrections policy here.

For thousands of years, the Massachusetts, Nipmuc, and Pawtucket peoples relied on the 鈥淢issi-tuk,鈥� or Great Tidal River, and the migration of the river herring to sustain their way of life. Beginning in the 1600s, European colonizers filled in surrounding marshland and built dams, shipyards, tanneries, and other industrial infrastructure, releasing untold quantities of toxins, like arsenic and polychlorinated biphenyls, or PCBs, into the watershed.

The Mystic River is cleaner today than it was 50 years ago, thanks in large part to the Clean Water Act, passed 50 years ago this month, in October of 1972. The Act was a game changer for urban waterways like the Mystic, long a dumping ground for industrial waste.

鈥淭he Clean Water Act is a foundational environmental law,鈥� says Katharine Lange, policy specialist at the Massachusetts Rivers Alliance. 鈥淗aving clean water gives us clean forests, clean agricultural products, clean recreational opportunities.鈥�

However, the Mystic River faces new threats today from stormwater pollution, climate change, and the potential for lost protections.

In the days leading up to my expedition, the anniversary project took on new urgency, as the Supreme Court heard oral arguments in Sackett v. Environmental Protection Agency. The case, brought by an Idaho couple and backed by polluting industries and represented by the pro-industry Pacific Legal Foundation, challenges the very definition of a protected waterway. A decision in favor of the Sacketts would not only jeopardize the recovery of America鈥檚 rivers, but also make surrounding communities more vulnerable to climate change.

But if the EPA prevails, rivers like the Mystic hold promise of cleaner futures.

Signs of a Healthier River

The morning I set out from the river鈥檚 headwaters in the Mystic Lakes, I see little evidence of environmental degradation. As the river winds through the suburban neighborhoods of Arlington, Medford, and Somerville, I paddle alongside swans and painted turtles sunning themselves on logs. The fall foliage reflects in the water, which is clear enough to see striped fish darting between the lily pads.

In 2021, the main body of the Mystic River earned a grade of B+ on its annual EPA Water Quality Report Card. The assessment is based on how often waters meet bacterial standards for safe fishing, swimming, and boating. This grade is up from the D the river earned in 2007, when the EPA began compiling data.

The improvement is largely thanks to the Clean Water Act, which gave the EPA authority to crack down on 鈥減oint source pollution鈥� from single, traceable sources, like factories and chemical plants. However, the key to successful enforcement has been the energy and activism of local nonprofits, residents, and volunteers.

Andrew Hrycyna is a watershed scientist at the Mystic River Watershed Association, a nonprofit committed to the protection of the Mystic and adjacent wetlands. He oversees a dedicated corps of 40 to 50 trained volunteers who are on call to monitor the river鈥檚 baseline water quality once a month. From 2008 to 2016, the Mystic River Watershed Association partnered with the EPA to organize a hot-spot monitoring program, which dispatched volunteers during heavy rainstorms to collect samples from stormwater outfalls. This real-time data has helped the EPA pinpoint contamination from leaky pipes and illicit discharges, including from the Suffolk Downs Racetrack and ExxonMobil鈥檚 Everett Terminal.

鈥淭hat was a way of our investing effort that wasn鈥檛 being done by other people, by government, using our status as nonprofit to contribute data that then got the regulators to start putting pressure of various kinds on municipalities,鈥� Hrycyna says.

Yet many toxic discharges originate far above the Mystic鈥檚 main channel, in the smaller tributaries, streams, and swamps that feed into it. This is why the impact of the Sackett case is so potentially devastating; it would narrow the scope of the Clean Water Act to apply only to navigable bodies of water, leaving adjacent wetlands open to contamination or to being filled in altogether.

鈥淣ot only are [wetlands] a source for water quantity, they also play a big role in the water quality in the rest of the river,鈥� says Lange of the Massachusetts Rivers Alliance. 鈥淲etlands in particular are really good at filtering off gross stuff from water.鈥�

According to Lange, wetlands also help build climate resilience by protecting surrounding communities from flooding associated with severe storms and rising sea levels. 鈥淪wamplands absorb even an abnormal rain or snowmelt in a way that our streets and basements cannot,鈥� she says.

Such precipitation events will only become more frequent and intense as climate change accelerates. Rainfall is already overwhelming Boston鈥檚 鈥渃ombined鈥� sewer system, which transports both raw sewage and stormwater to wastewater treatment facilities. These combined sewer overflows, or CSOs, release excess bacteria, nutrients, and other non-source pollution into the watershed, causing toxic Cyanobacteria blooms and other unsafe conditions.

A Cleaner, Post-Industrial Future

Once I pass under the Mystic Valley Parkway, the river widens, revealing the Boston skyline. I am nearing the end of my 7-mile journey from the Mystic鈥檚 source in the northern suburbs to its mouth at Boston Harbor.

Ahead of me lies the Amelia Earhart Locks, which separates the upper freshwater segment of the Mystic from the lower tidal reaches. I鈥檇 been advised to buy an airhorn to get the attention of the lock master, who is unaccustomed to small vessels like mine. But even after repeated blasts, there鈥檚 no sign of acknowledgment in the control tower. I end up carrying my 28-pound plastic kayak up and around the dike, to the astonishment of dog walkers on the Assembly Square bike path.

Prior to 1877, this lower portion of the Mystic was surrounded by saltwater marsh. The entire area was then filled in to make way for the loading docks and industrial lots now lining the broad channel between Charlestown and Everett. Above the locks, I had encountered other kayakers, but now the only other vessel in sight is a ferry from the new Encore Casino, which was built atop a former Monsanto Superfund site.

Only a few stray nips and fishing bobs litter the stony shoreline, a testament to the success of the Mystic River Watershed Association鈥檚 Trash-Free Mystic initiative. The water doesn鈥檛 appear dirty, but rather deep blue and bottomless, the reflections of smokestacks rippling across the surface. This is the Mystic River made famous by the 2003 crime-noir film starring Sean Penn, where intergenerational trauma played out in the shadow of the Tobin Bridge.

By the time I reach Boston Harbor, the sun is sinking behind the city skyline. One week earlier, Massachusetts lawmakers had gathered on the waterfront to mark the 50th anniversary of the Clean Water Act. Speaking at the event, Sen. Edward Markey said, 鈥淚 look forward to working with the EPA to continue to protect our waterways and expand access to historically underserved communities.鈥�

The new Bipartisan Infrastructure Law appropriates . That includes rain gardens and bioswales, which filter nutrients from stormwater runoff. But a decision in favor of the Sacketts could undermine these potential solutions. 

Still, more than political promises, what gives me hope for the future of this post-industrial river and so many like it is Hrycyna鈥檚 quiet army of tireless volunteers, and groups like theirs across the country, huddled over sewer drains in the rain.

鈥淐ities change rivers in a lot of ways that negatively affect the ecosystem,鈥� Hrycyna says. 鈥淏ut urban rivers are nonetheless living systems, and so they鈥檙e still filled with aquatic life. It鈥檚 a cool thing to notice when you鈥檙e out on the river in a canoe.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 11:17a.m. PT on Nov. 2, 2022 to correctly identify the bridge in the final photo as the Zakim Bridge not the Tobin Bridge.听Read our corrections policy here.

Bulus now picks up bottles and other recyclables from locations around her community and brings them to Ecobarter drop-off locations, where she exchanges the recyclables for cash. The cleanup exchange now adds 2,000 naira ($5 USD) to her monthly income of N25,000 ($64). 

鈥淚 use the money they pay me to buy ingredients to cook,鈥� Bulus says. 

Actions like Bulus鈥� aim to tackle the problem of waste in Nigeria, where solid waste management is arguably the most pressing environmental challenge faced by urban and rural areas alike. Nigeria generates an 32 million tons of solid waste annually, one of the highest rates in Africa. Nigeria is already Africa鈥檚 most populous country, with a current population of more than 鈥�200鈥� 鈥宮illion鈥� 鈥宲eople鈥�, 鈥屸�宎nd that 鈥宖igure is expected鈥� 鈥宼o鈥� 鈥宐y鈥� 鈥�2050. 

Most of the country鈥檚 waste is to be generated by households or local industries, artisans, and traders who litter the immediate surroundings. The country鈥檚 disposal, recycling, and waste-management system is and insufficient, with 70% of plastic and non-plastic waste ending up in sewers, beaches, water bodies, or landfills, where it is often burned.

Still, efforts like Bulus鈥� are a start. She is pleased not only to bring in some extra income, but also to reduce the waste she sees in the environment around her. 鈥淭he experience has been nice,鈥� she says. 

Connecting Homes to Reuse Services 

is a youth-led sustainable waste-management company that connects homes and local communities to recycling services, such as community exchange centers and doorstep collectors. 

The goal is to make responsible consumption and disposal easy. Schools and organizations can have Ecobarter install collection bins on site, where the waste is safely stored and regularly picked up. 

The company has an integrated website and mobile app to make it even more convenient for waste producers and collectors alike. Users get points for the weight of the waste they collect, either by delivering it to a drop-off location or by requesting a pickup in their community hub using the app. Plastic, for example, is 1 point per kilogram, whereas metal is 3 points per kilogram, depending on the location and the day. 

The points are converted to monetary value, which can be deposited into a bank account and then withdrawn as cash. The points can also be transferred to friends or family using the app, or users can shop at a physical Ecobarter marketplace to purchase eco-friendly household items or subscribe to basic health insurance services.

Rita Idehai is a young social entrepreneur and the founder of Ecobarter. She realized the lost value of resources like waste while researching as a geo-scientist, traveling to different rural communities to look for solid minerals like gold, zinc, and lead. In 2018, she started the social enterprise to help people transform waste into wealth. 

鈥淲ith my passion for making a positive impact,鈥� Idehai says she drew inspiration from the UN鈥檚 (specifically those pertaining to responsible consumption and sustainable waste management), which she says 鈥渨ill help people use their everyday waste and transform it into currency and value.鈥�

Blessing Ekwere, Ecobarter鈥檚 head of operations, says the company was created not only to build systems for waste transformation, but also to give hope to the people.

Some of the Nigerians who benefit most from this work are informal waste collectors, which includes individuals, associations, or waste traders who are involved in the sorting, sale, and purchase of recyclable materials. Ecobarter works with market cleaners, street cleaners, and waste pickers that gather their waste via doorsteps, vendors, or events, and bring it to community centers, where a hub manager pays for the waste.

鈥淚n Abuja and Lagos, our major operations for all the recyclables we collect from households and communities are taken to our main operations yard, where they鈥檙e properly sorted, bagged, and sent to companies that help us generate revenues.鈥�

Ekwere says recyclables, such as plastic bottles, cartons, and metals, are sold to off-takers who make them into fibers for furniture, egg crates, and new metal products, respectively. And the savings can be meaningful: If they didn鈥檛 have recycled waste to use, Ekwere says new paper and nylon cost N20 to N30 ($0.05 to $0.07), cardboard costs N35 to N40 ($0.08 to $0.09), and metal for cans costs upward of N150 ($0.35).

鈥淭he plastic bags we collect are transformed into functional lifestyle products using traditional weaving methods by internally displaced women in our communities,鈥� Ekwere says.

Other Waste-Management Efforts

Another enterprise working to tackle waste-management issues in Nigeria is . The company recently launched its Smart Mobile Bin, a waste collection cart it says keeps collectors and communities healthier. 

The cart has two wheels and is pushed by hand, which allows operators to reach communities with narrow, unpaved streets that conventional waste-collection vehicles can鈥檛 access. The cart is also airtight, which prevents the common problems of smells and leaks between waste pickup and drop-off. The bin operators themselves are trained and provided with personal protective equipment to keep themselves safer and healthier on the job. The company鈥檚 founder, climate activist Aliyu Umar Sadiq, is also working on an eco-friendly toilet project, which utilizes plastic waste to construct bathroom facilities in rural schools. The goal, he says, is to simultaneously address health, hygiene, and pollution challenges associated with open defecation. 

Another organization approaching waste management in Nigeria through its awareness-raising campaigns is SustyVibes. The group champions sustainability projects to make young people into responsible environmental stewards. Jennifer Uchendu, the CEO of and a sustainability professional with more than 10 years of experience, says the organization has been addressing issues like waste management since its founding in 2016. 

鈥淥ur street conferences usually include sanitization and advocacy sessions, where we educate community members on the importance of a clean environment and connect them to recycling hubs to ensure proper recycling of the waste generated,鈥� Uchendu says. 

SustyVibes鈥檚 team of volunteers organizes campaigns and street conferences to educate everyday people on the importance of waste management. Its Susty Marshalls project, for example, aims to empower informal waste pickers, enabling them to see the dignity in their work, and motivating them to do their work in a more organized manner.

Its 鈥淪tare Down on Pollution鈥� campaign involves visiting various communities across Nigeria to educate and enlighten local residents in their native languages about the dangers and impacts of negative waste habits, as well as the need to change the culture of littering.

From Trash to Cash 

Since Ecobarter launched in July, the company has signed on 200 users, who have collected 300,000 kilograms of waste, primarily plastic bottles and cartons. Based on the company鈥檚 modeling, that鈥檚 the equivalent of 800 metric tons of carbon. 

Abigail Andrew, 35, is a mother of two children, and she works with Laurmann and Company Limited, an indigenous professional environmental service organization in Garki, Abuja. Andrew, whose husband left years ago, earns N18,000 ($46) per month, well below Nigeria鈥檚 monthly minimum of N33,000 ($85). 

鈥淢y friend told me about Ecobarter,鈥� Andrew says. 鈥淧icking waste for them has been helping me, because I 鈥� get money to buy food for my children.鈥�

Now, when she picks bottles for Ecobarter, she earns an average of N4,000 ($10) over the course of a month to help cover the cost of feeding her children.

Juliana Garuba, 45, who works with a cleaning agency in Abuja, says seeing waste around makes her angry, which is why she signed on with Ecobarter. 鈥淭he experience is good for me,鈥� she says, and the extra income helps too. 鈥淪ometimes I don鈥檛 have money to go home after work, but now I can pay for my transport.鈥�

Ecobarter鈥檚 CEO says the social enterprise is now servicing more than 5,000 households on the platform to recycle their waste, especially within its community hubs in Abuja and Lagos. 

But there鈥檚 still room for improvement. 

Rebecca Bulus, waste picker, says, 鈥淚 want to appeal to the company to increase the money they pay us, because the place we dip our hands to get the waste from is filthy,鈥� she says.

Another challenge the social enterprise faces, according to founder Idehai, is behavioral change. It鈥檚 hard to convince people to sign on, because awareness of waste management as an issue in Nigeria is low, and because government policies backing waste disposal aren鈥檛 mandatory. Safe waste disposal, too, can be a challenge. 

Still, Ekwere, the head of operations, says the company wants to take the solution to all states in Nigeria and beyond. For Ecobarter, this vision includes instituting mini drop-off centers in semi-public areas, such as malls, markets, and estates. The company acknowledges the obstacles to this expansion, including funding, policy issues, and societal acceptance. But that鈥檚 not stopping it.

鈥淭he goal for us is to ensure recyclables do not get to the dumpsite,鈥� Ekwere says. 鈥淓very household should have access to a collection system.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But what sets some landraces in a class of their own鈥攎onumentally ahead of commercial rice varieties鈥攊s their nutrition profiles. This has been proved by the research of Debal Deb, a farmer and agrarian scientist whose studies have been published in numerous peer-reviewed journals and books.

In the mid-1960s, with backing from the U.S. government, India鈥檚 agricultural policy introduced fertilizers, pesticides, irrigation facilities, and high-yielding varieties of crops under the moniker of a 鈥淕reen Revolution鈥� to combat hunger. Instead, it began an epidemic of monocultures and ecological destruction.

In the early 1990s, after realizing that more than 90% of India鈥檚 native rice varieties had been replaced by a handful of high-yielding varieties through the Green Revolution, Deb began conserving indigenous varieties of rice. Today, on a modest 1.7-acre farm in Odisha, India, Deb cultivates and shares 1,485 of the 6,000 unique landraces estimated to remain in India.

Deb and collaborators have quantified the vitamin, protein, and mineral content in more than 500 of India鈥檚 landraces for the first time, in the lab he founded in 2014, Basudha Laboratory for Conservation. In one extraordinary discovery, the team documented 12 native varieties of rice that contain the .

鈥淭hese varieties provide the essential fatty acids and omega-3 fatty acids that are found in mother鈥檚 milk but lacking in any formula foods,鈥� Deb says. 鈥淪o instead of feeding formula foods to undernourished infants, these rice varieties can offer a far more nutritious option.鈥�

Deb and his team have also documented high levels of antioxidants and several B vitamins in more than 250 landraces of rice. Both of these compounds are essential for the functioning of a healthy human body, Deb says, but are rarely found in modern high-yield varieties.

In Garib-sal, a rice variety from a remote village in West Bengal, Deb and his co-workers discovered the in its grains at 15 parts per million. This may explain why Garib-sal was prescribed in traditional medicine for the treatment of gastroenteric infections, since .

Miraculous as these traits may appear, they are far more than happy accidents of nature. They are the result of a conscious exercise of selective breeding by ancient farmers, whom Deb refers to as 鈥渦nnamed, unknown scientists.鈥�

鈥淭hese farmer-scientists did not know anything about DNA, proteins, or enzymes,鈥� he says, 鈥測et they managed to develop novel varieties through generations of selective breeding.鈥�

Deb鈥檚 conservation efforts are not to preserve a record of the past, but to help India revive resilient food systems and crop varieties. His vision is to enable present and future agriculturists to better adapt to climate change.

Cultivating Resilience

Deb conserves scores of climate-resilient varieties of rice originally sourced from Indigenous farmers, including 16 drought-tolerant varieties, 20 flood-tolerant varieties, 18 salt-tolerant varieties, and three submergence-tolerant varieties. He shares his varieties freely with hundreds of small farmers for further cultivation, especially those farming in regions prone to these kinds of climate-related calamities. In 2022 alone, Deb has shared his saved seed varieties with more than 1,300 small farmers through direct and indirect seed distribution arrangements in several states of India.

One of these farmers is Shamika Mone. Mone received 24 traditional rice varieties from Deb on behalf of Kerala Organic Farmers Association, along with training on maintaining the purity of the seeds. Now these farmers have expanded their collection, working with other organic farming collectives in the state of Kerala to grow around 250 landraces at two farm sites. While they cultivate most of their varieties for small-scale use and conservation, they also cultivate a few traditional rice varieties for wider production, which yield an average of 1.2 tons per acre compared with the 1 ton per acre of hybrid varieties.

鈥淏ut that鈥檚 only in terms of yield,鈥� Mone says. 鈥淲e mostly grow these for their nutritional benefits, like higher iron and zinc content, antioxidants, and other trace elements. Some varieties are good for lactating mothers, while some are good for diabetic patients. There are many health benefits.鈥�

These native varieties have proven beneficial in the face of climate change too.

With poor rains in 2016, for example, the traditional folk rice variety Kuruva that Mone had planted turned out to be drought-tolerant and pest-resistant. And in 2018, due to the heavy rains and floods, she lost all crops but one: a folk rice variety called Raktashali that survived underwater for two days.

鈥淭hey have proven to be lifesavers for us,鈥� Mone says.

With extreme weather events, like droughts, floods, and storm surges, on the rise across the world, small farmers suffer damage to their farms, lose harvests, and go into debt. But small organic farmers incur less debt since they don鈥檛 depend on expensive inputs.

鈥淎bout 90% of the overall costs incurred on most organic farms in Kerala are mostly for labor costs, while only around 10% goes on manures and composts, if any,鈥� Mone says.

By expanding the cultivation of resilient crop varieties, an agricultural system can bounce back faster to its original capacity.

鈥淥ur emphasis and advice to every farmer in the world would be to foster and nurture diversity at all levels鈥攁t the species level, at the crop genetic level, and at the ecosystem level,鈥� Deb says. 鈥淭he building of complexity and diversity is essential to building resilience.鈥�

The Case for Agroecology

Many fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides (killers of life forms) and, in so doing, decimate the microorganisms in the soil. Soil microorganisms, like mycorrhizal fungi, are recognized as essential to deliver nutrients from the soil to the plants. , plants cannot remain productive, and they become more prone to pest attacks. Thus begins the degenerative cycle of spraying more pesticides while adding more synthetic fertilizers to compensate for the lack of nutrients.

Industrial farming, associated with monocultures and synthetic chemical inputs, leads to the loss of soil fertility year over year and ultimately the collapse of the farm ecosystem. Commercial hybrid seeds, dependent on costly inputs, have also proved to fall behind in climate tolerance.

鈥淲e need resilience under uncertainty and hardship,鈥� says Sujatha Rajeswaran, a farmer from Villupuram district, Tamil Nadu, who received seeds and training from Deb. She sells her produce directly to a group of friends and family members.

鈥淕rowing traditional varieties coincides with our philosophy for life,鈥� Rajeswaran says. 鈥淛ust having a lot of money is not enough. We need good physical and mental health. We need good relationships. We need good ecology, not only in a human-centric way, but for all beings to be able to live and thrive.鈥�

Deb asserts that in order to grow resilient and nutritious food sustainably, global food systems must transition to agroecology, which doesn鈥檛 introduce toxic chemicals to the environment. and many have also documented agroecology to be more productive than industrial farming, and that it leads to better soil fertility year over year.

鈥淎groecology is an essential component in the fight against climate change and [greenhouse gas] emissions,鈥� says Steve Gliessman, professor emeritus of agroecology at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and an international expert with more than 50 years of teaching, research, and production experience in the field of agroecology.

鈥淎groecology is all about farming practices that capture and hold carbon, but it is also all about how all other parts of the food system contribute to sustainability. This means more local, seasonal, and integrated food systems, where what we call 鈥榝ood miles鈥� are reduced, food waste is reduced, and local food production capacity once again plays an important role.鈥�

Gliessman applauds Deb鈥檚 conservation and participatory work with local farmers. 鈥淸His work] confronts the modern idea of 鈥榠mproved鈥� seeds when farmers already have the seed knowledge they need in their hands. Deb has rescued this knowledge, codified it, and made it available once again.鈥�

Roadblocks to Implementation

Despite a plethora of reasons to prioritize a transition to agroecology, funding for these open-source solutions is severely lacking. Public institutions and private businesses alike favor putting their money toward patented technologies and seeds.

There are two pathways to adapt agriculture to climate change, according to Rasheed Sulaiman V., director of the Centre for Research on Innovation and Science Policy, a nonprofit organization that promotes research in the area of innovation policy for agriculture and rural development. Pathway 1, he says, is the development and promotion of new climate-resilient, high-yielding varieties of seeds. Pathway 2 is to promote and strengthen in-place conservation of native, climate-resilient varieties by civil society organizations and seed champions like Deb.

in Odisha, Sulaiman says Pathway 2 can help in achieving several more of the United Nations鈥� Sustainable Development Goals than Pathway 1, without causing adverse impacts to the environment and agro-biodiversity. 鈥淯nfortunately,鈥� he says, 鈥渁lmost all science, technology, and innovation support is invested in Pathway 1, and there are practically no resources invested in strengthening Pathway 2.鈥�

Deb documents that many native varieties of crops measure more resilient and nutrient-dense than commercial varieties and patented seeds, even after the billions of dollars that have been invested in agribusinesses. For example, the International Rice Research Institute, an  and training organization that contributed to the Green Revolution, has developed an iron-fortified genetically modified rice variety, IR68144-2B-2-2-3, containing 8.9 ppm of iron. This is meant to be its 鈥渉igh iron鈥� variety. Contrast that with the approximately 80 native varieties of rice Deb has documented that contain between 20 and 152 ppm of iron.

Such knowledge becomes vital in light of government policy that favors food fortification instead of food sovereignty. The Indian government recently mandated that rice supplies be fortified with iron and other supplements in order to tackle malnutrition. This fortification process involves rice being milled into a powder form, fortified with supplements, and reshaped into rice grains. The Mandatory Food Fortification Program is now in effect across four states (Bihar, Orissa, Chhattisgarh, and Jharkhand) and counting, and all rice supply in India will need to be .

鈥淎ccording to this fortification mandate, everyone, whether you need it or not, has to consume this fortified rice. What if your child has thalassemia, a condition where excess iron is lethal?鈥� wonders Deb. So far, local news outlets have produced concerning reports: district of Orissa fell ill after consuming the fortified rice in their public school meals. In the state of Punjab, 19 samples of fortified rice out of 22 collected failed national quality control tests.

鈥淓xperts are spending billions of dollars to fine-tune genetic engineering, while these nutritious and resilient varieties already exist,鈥� Deb says. 鈥淚n the name of smarter agriculture, we are losing these climate-smart varieties.鈥�

Small-Scale Solutions

Patented and high-tech solutions have also proven inequitable for small farmers. Deb asserts that these are not for peasant countries like India, where nearly 80% of farmers operate on less than 5 acres of land. High-yielding varieties have raised the input costs (since fertilizers, pesticides, and the seeds themselves have to be bought every year), making farmers increasingly dependent on markets. At the same time, the prices farmers receive for their harvests have fallen with greater market supply.

At times, in the short run, growing fragile, high-yielding varieties can be profitable. But in the long run, only large landholders are able to weather losses thanks to their other asset classes. Small landholders, Rajeswaran says, don鈥檛 have that cushion. They go into debt and face complete ruin. In fact, today in India, , leading to episodes of farmer suicide.

On the surface, reduced drudgery and more yields may seem worth it, which is why so many farmers opt in. 鈥淣ew varieties are being created for higher yields and process mechanization鈥攆or doing well in control environments,鈥� Rajeswaran says. 鈥淏ut the real world is not a controlled environment, although we are constantly trying to make it one.鈥�

Nearly three decades since beginning conservation work, Deb remains motivated. He recognizes that some of the farmers requesting his seeds today are the descendants of his original seed sources. They come to him after losing their seeds to high-yielding varieties.

鈥淭hese ancient farmers never wrote down their discoveries or patented their work, so we are [wrongly] taught to assume they were unscientific,鈥� Deb says. 鈥淥ur task is to honor their discoveries by conserving these varieties.鈥�

Lennon is in Northern California searching for answers to big questions: 鈥淗ow do young Black land stewards in the United States negotiate the ethical and political tensions of doing antiracist, decolonial work in outdoor spaces through property ownership in a settler colony built on racial capitalism? How do you own land when you don鈥檛 believe in land ownership? How do you liberate your livelihood from a system of labor you know you can鈥檛 ever escape?鈥�

, a nascent collective on 900 acres of forest and prairie, might be the newest and largest land project on the West Coast to explore answers to these queries on the ground. Co-creators Nikola Alexandre and Layel Camargo aspire to develop a community grounded in the ecological and cultural practices of their ancestors. They bought the land in July 2021 from a Christian fellowship that used it as a camp for 75 years.

The work Shelterwood Collective has carved out includes quite literally uprooting invasive species. If the hands-on work also helps uproot structural racism, reestablishes healthy redwood along with environmental justice, and heals the land as well as the trauma of its residents, Shelterwood accomplishes its mission.

Making Space to Find Safety

Just the simple fact that the core staff defies the stereotype of the straight white American farmer sends a clear message. 鈥淲e are a queer BIPOC group,鈥� Shelterwood retreat manager Julia Velasquez says. 鈥淲hen queer, Black, Indigenous folks and people of color come with family and chosen family, and they see us on the land, they experience an overwhelming sense of safety.鈥� She recalls one young boy, who had been described as extremely shy, but when he arrived at Shelterwood, 鈥淗e got out of the car and started running and dancing, yelling, 鈥業鈥檓 free! I鈥檓 free!鈥欌��

Many of the current core staff members didn鈥檛 believe they would find a place in nature where they could truly build a home for their passions. 鈥淚 almost didn鈥檛 go into land stewardship because it was so heavily dominated by straight white men,鈥� Alexandre says with a wry laugh. 鈥淎s queer folks, as folks who are often denied a home and often denied family, we鈥檙e trying to nurture a safe space for those of us who don鈥檛 always have a safe space to return to. Look at the shooting that just happened at Club Q, look at all the trauma that comes with the kinds of holidays where a lot of us queer folk aren鈥檛 necessarily welcome at our family鈥檚 dinner table. Shelterwood is meant to be a safe haven for those communities to just exist.鈥�

He and co-founder Layel Camargo met during an immersive program at Soul Fire Farm, the upstate New York farm of Leah Penniman, author of Farming While Black and a leader in the movement to establish sustainable and equitable land ownership for historically disenfranchised communities. (Penniman has also authored several pieces for 大象传媒) They sat in 鈥渁 homemade hot tub at a Buddhist temple up the street from Soul Fire,鈥� says Camargo, when they had the idea to 鈥渨alk the walk.鈥�

Now, Shelterwood鈥檚 vision goes beyond the small farm model of Soul Fire and Earthseed, or the biocultural restorative focus of The Cultural Conservancy. Both Alexandre and Camargo want to 鈥渟hift the narrative away from the individual nuclear family type of farm approach where it鈥檚 all very individual,鈥� Alexandre explains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 about seeing nature as your kin, and people around you as part of your family, even if they don鈥檛 have direct blood ties to you. That鈥檚 at the core of what we鈥檙e trying to do, our environmental messaging.鈥�

Camargo is a transgender and gender non-conforming social activist of Yaqui and Mayo descent. They studied feminism and law and were on track to become an environmental lawyer, but then connected with filmmakers and pivoted to storytelling, especially about the climate crisis. 鈥淚ndigenous, Black, and Brown people are bearing the brunt of climate change, and yet seem so far removed when we talk about carbon trades and global greenhouses,鈥� says Camargo. 鈥淚鈥檓 really passionate about paving a new narrative and a path for people to see themselves as connected to nature, as really powerful forces on how we engage with the ecosystem.鈥�

They were able to buy the Shelterwood land in July 2021, 鈥減aying a ransom of $4 million,鈥� as Alexandre says, facilitated with a generous grant from the Wend Collective and the support of Black farmer, singer, and bestselling author Rachel Bagby. Camargo emphasizes that they believe the support would not have galvanized without the growth of the Movement for Black Lives following George Floyd鈥檚 murder, and also the pandemic crisis. Previously, Alexandre says, when he鈥檇 tried to convince investors and philanthropists of his dream, he was met with skeptical incrementalism. 鈥淓ither you鈥檙e a social justice project or you鈥檙e a conservation project; why and how would those two things intersect?鈥� he recalls being told.

The fact that social and environmental healing are intrinsically connected has since become much clearer, Camargo adds. 鈥淵ou cannot harm the planet without exploiting a group of people.鈥� Their solution: 鈥淲e have to have communities coming back together and tending the land. The American idea was built on the backs of Indigenous and Black peoples. Land as a source of power, as a source of sovereignty, needs to be returned to Indigenous communities. We need to build alliances and think through: what does true alliance between Indigenous and Black people look like in this current context?鈥�

The Work of Generations

In the summer of 2022, Myles Lennon brought five queer Brown University undergraduates to Shelterwood for a 10-week fellowship, intending to document the impact of their immersion. One of these students, Victor Beck, used his time on the land to create signs sharing the Indigenous names for many of the plant and animal species. 鈥淎s an Indigenous student who cares about responsible land stewardship and building queer communities, I wanted to do something that put theory into practice,鈥� Beck wrote in a reflection on for the university. 鈥淭he Shelterwood Fellowship gives queer people of color a way to do the hands-on work of restoring land in a place that feels welcoming and relaxing, which we sometimes struggle to find in our daily lives.鈥�

Each of the four members that currently make up Shelterwood鈥檚 core staff brings their own background, unique expertise, and individual traumas to the land. Retreat director Julia Velasquez, for instance, grew up in South Los Angeles, helped launch the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures, and organized youth work. 鈥淭he first time I held a chainsaw was here on the land,鈥� she says.

Camargo, too, realized, 鈥淎s someone who lives in California, I should have a very intimate relationship with the forest here, yet that felt so foreign.鈥�

As the lead land steward, Alexandre is in charge of the forest. He will use a recent $4.5 million grant from Cal Fire, the state Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, to thin out the overgrown forest, 鈥渄o climate-resilient work, and eventually bring fire back to the land on a scale that is unprecedented,鈥� Alexandre says. While many Californians might see 鈥渇ire as a threat, an enemy that we should be afraid of, it鈥檚 also a sacred spirit that we need to have a better relationship with.鈥�

Moncada recalls the neighbors鈥� concerns when they reintroduced cultural burns at Heron Shadow in 2020, not long after devastating area fires and evacuations. 鈥淲e spoke with every neighbor we could find and invited them to come look and experience it through our perspective. After they saw the care of the cultural work, they began to ask if we could come to their property next.鈥�

Alexandre, too, says he wants to 鈥渂ring fire back in very intentional, controlled, ceremonious ways to help reduce the fuel load risk. In this particular spot, fire is as just as important as people, as redwoods; the return of fire will be critical to keep our ecosystems healthy.鈥�

For him, creating a safe space in the woods might mean blasting Beyonc茅 while working a chainsaw, or learning the native botanical names of the flora.

When Pandora Thomas of Earthseed was asked at a about strategies to further environmental justice and end food apartheid, she mentioned environmental literacy and project-based learning. 鈥淲e want our young people to understand not just where their food comes from, where their water comes from, how their transportation system works, the clothing they鈥檙e wearing, the buildings [they鈥檙e in]. … We have found that when they get connected to the earth鈥檚 systems they get more motivated, they get inspired to share and translate that information to others.鈥�

Shelterwood Collective, too, wants to adopt similar strategies, but is currently in the initial phase of 鈥渞ooting, learning to listen.鈥� In December 2021, Shelterwood hosted a community visioning session and asked 150 people from various Brown, Black, Indigenous, and queer communities what they envisioned from this land and community. 鈥淲e learned a lot about what folks want to do out in nature when they鈥檙e allowed the opportunity to be safe, to be away from the gaze of white supremacy,鈥� Camargo says. 鈥淭hat taught us that folks want to play and rest, but they also want to learn. They want to learn their own ancestral ways, what鈥檚 rightful in the places they鈥檙e at.鈥�

Beyond appreciating volunteers who come to work, and artists who let themselves be inspired by the natural surroundings, Velasquez says, 鈥淲hat we really want is for our communities to just be. And sometimes just asking them to rest is feeling part of the safety. And we鈥檙e thinking about, also, access for folks that are disabled. Can they feel safe outdoors and navigate outdoors in a very safe way?鈥�

The collective members all agree this work to heal the land and their community will take many generations鈥攁nd they hope it will continue long after they are gone. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 want to be the only ones who do this,鈥� Velasquez says. 鈥淲e actually want to be the smallest land project, and for folks to do the work with us and along with us.鈥�

But the start has been made. In the visioning session, 鈥渆ight people cried in the first 40 minutes,鈥� Lennon says. 鈥淗ow often does it happen that youngsters cry just because they are overwhelmed by feeling at home? They said it was the first time they felt welcome.鈥�

This story is part of听, an original听大象传媒听series supported by a grant from the听, which encourages the development of burgeoning alternative economies and fresh social contracts in ways that can help artists and cultural communities achieve financial freedom. Reporting and production of this story was funded by this grant, but 大象传媒 maintains full editorial control of the content published herein.听Read our editorial independence policy.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:30 PT on Jan. 17, 2023 to remove an inaccurate reference to the maintenance of the land performed by the Christian fellowship from which Shelterwood purchased the property. Read our corrections policy here.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a fruit that people love,鈥� he says, and the single breadfruit left at his table is a testament to its popularity. 鈥淎nything you does make with it, it taste good. If I bring 200 breadfruit here, it sell out and people still coming for it.鈥�

Lucky for Ramrattam, his farm has had no shortage of the fruit this year. The 20-or-so trees on his property can produce as many as 4,000 breadfruits in a single year.

Breadfruit was brought to the West Indies from Tahiti at the turn of the 18th century as a cheap, filling, and abundant food for enslaved people. This starchy round edible, as a result, has grown prolifically in Trinidad and Tobago for hundreds of years.

Breadfruit is a perennial crop; one tree can produce fruits every year for half a century or more. The trees naturally produce as many as 300 fruits per year, without the application of chemical or synthetic fertilizers, according to Omardath Maharaj, a lecturer in agribusiness and entrepreneurship at the University of the West Indies. Plus the fruit is a good source of carbohydrates, dietary fiber, and potassium.

Today, breadfruit is a staple in Caribbean cuisine. Its association with the sinister history of slavery, for many, is no longer its defining quality. The fruit is now the subject of international research to evaluate its potential as a staple crop in a warming world. In Trinidad and Tobago, climate change, inflation, and dependence on imports are drivers of its national food insecurity, which affected nearly half of the population last year. On average, the country imports as much as 85% of its food.

Locals say breadfruit is a key crop for filling hungry bellies. It鈥檚 hearty, easy to grow, and locally abundant.

One breadfruit can feed as many as four people for dinner. It can be sliced thin, fried, and seasoned with garlic and salt to produce chips. It can be skinned, chopped, and boiled in a mixture of dasheen bush leaves, coconut milk, and pig tails to make a salty stew called oildown. Or, it can be baked into a belt-busting pie.

鈥淸Breadfruit] does stretch real far,鈥� Ramrattam says. 鈥淛ust two, three pieces, and your belly full.鈥�

A Food for Future Climates

like Trinidad and Tobago are expected to feel the brunt of climate change鈥檚 effects, such as rising sea levels, tropical storms, drought, and changes in rainfall. These could negatively impact crop yields, destabilizing already precarious food systems. Compared to existing commodity crops like rice, corn, and soybeans, experts suggest that breadfruit鈥檚 resilience and prolificacy could help create more sustainable food systems and ease global food insecurity.

In a paper published in in August, scientists modeled how different climate futures could impact breadfruit yields around the world. Under the highest emission scenario, they predicted that climate change-driven changes in rainfall and temperature could reduce the overall quality of suitable breadfruit-growing areas on Caribbean islands. The loss of suitable growing areas, however, amounted to less than 2%鈥攁rguably good odds under dire circumstances.

It鈥檚 worth noting that studies examining how climate change could impact breadfruit-growing in Trinidad and Tobago specifically have yet to be carried out. But the tree鈥檚 life history makes it a strong candidate for sustaining Trinbagonians in the long run compared to annual crops like wheat and rice. 

Research and history have proven that these trees can take a beating. Breadfruit can withstand drought for up to four months. When Hurricane Maria devastated Puerto Rico in 2017, breadfruit trees were among the few trees left standing. And while the persistent rains of Trinidad鈥檚 2022 rainy season destroyed scores of crop fields across the country, it brought good fortune to breadfruit growers like Ramrattam, who saw his trees thrive in wet conditions.

鈥淸In my opinion], in stress situations, in times of a disaster, in times of rising cost of living and all these other challenges, there鈥檚 no other competitor,鈥� Maharaj says. 鈥淎nd the fact is, breadfruit has withstood the test of time, whether it be climate change or westernization of the Caribbean diet.鈥�

Long-lived breadfruit trees can feed families for generations. At maturity, these trees also sequester more carbon than young trees, making them carbon sinks. Getting young trees to catch can be tricky, but once they鈥檙e established, maintaining them is a relatively hands-off process requiring no chemical inputs.

Despite all this, breadfruit production is considered underdeveloped in Trinidad and Tobago. Local breadfruit varieties are blended into species-rich food forests where they provide the necessary shade for crops like cocoa. The breadfruit trees on Ramrattam鈥檚 property are interspersed with the plums, cherries, mangoes, and other foods he grows.

Rarely is breadfruit produced on a commercial scale or processed to produce long-lived food items like flour鈥攖hough doing so could provide Trinidad and Tobago with a greater supply of food for tough times as well as export income.

Some Assurance in an Uncertain Future

In the face of rising food prices, Maharaj says planting trees empowers citizens to feed themselves. That鈥檚 why he and his colleague Raul Bermudez started Breadfruittrees.com, an NGO working to get more breadfruit trees in the backyards of Trinbagonians. Over the years, the team says it has donated thousands of young breadfruit trees to individuals, schools, communities, and prisons.

Maharaj sees the trees as assets鈥攚ays of ensuring intergenerational wealth 鈥渇or those of us without financial investment resources.鈥�

By that definition, investing in breadfruit is fairly cheap and generally yields a high return on investment. In Trinidad and Tobago, you can pick up a tree for around $3.50 USD, or $2.30 if you鈥檙e buying in bulk, says Fareed Ali, agricultural assistant at La Reunion Plant Propagation Station. He and his colleagues produce some 10,000 baby breadfruit trees each year. Subsidized by the government, these saplings are available for purchase by farmers, private citizens, and the folks at Breadfruittrees.com who get them into the backyards of hungry people. According to Ali, the trees they sell typically begin to bear fruit in just three years.

鈥淭he price of breadfruit and fresh food has kind of skyrocketed,鈥� Ali says, 鈥渟o people who love breadfruit would want to plant at least one tree in their backyard so that they themselves can supply their household.鈥�

Breadfruit trees can bear fruit as many as four times a year, Ramrattam says, depending on temperature and rainfall. During drier, hotter years, the fruit tends to drop early, meaning he has fewer, smaller, and less tasty breadfruits鈥攜oung fruit can be bitter鈥攖o sell at market. Things are good this year at the farmer鈥檚 property in Manzanilla, where he says heavy rains have given him bigger and better breadfruit. He expects the harvests will continue to be good in the coming years.

鈥淚鈥檓 not worried for me; I鈥檓 not worried for my wife,鈥� says the farmer, weighing a bundle of dasheen for a customer as the market鈥檚 vendors close up shop. 鈥淚鈥檓 worried for the kids鈥or them, we don鈥檛 know how it will be.鈥�

With climate change, Ramrattam expects food security to be an increasing problem in the next 20 years.

As Trinidad and Tobago prepares for an uncertain climate future, Maharaj says sustainable food sources like breadfruit should be an integral part of the Caribbean country鈥檚 food security contingency planning.

鈥淚 think that it鈥檚 time we recognize the versatility and contribution that foods like these could lend to our sustainability,鈥� he says. A breadfruit tree can 鈥渕ore than likely feed us for the rest of our lives.鈥�

There are at least 150 such bridges in the state in various stages of use and decay, and the oldest is estimated to be about 700 years old, according to Morningstar Khongthaw, a Khasi youth. He founded the Living Bridge Initiative in 2016 to preserve the community鈥檚 living architecture traditions.听

In many cases, the elders who planted the rubber fig saplings on the banks of the river, or those who initiated the construction of a bridge, would not have lived to see or use the bridge they founded. However, thanks to their long-term vision, the generations that follow get to use the bridges to reach schools, markets, farms, and other places of daily importance. 

The rubber fig trees are not only the foundation of the bridges but also help keep the surroundings cool, purify the air, prevent soil erosion, and provide several other environmental benefits that generations of Khasis continue to enjoy. 

Now in his mid-20s, Khongthaw continues working toward being a good ancestor. He, along with community members in seven locations, have constructed bamboo frameworks on which new living root bridges will be built in due course. These bridges will be sculpted and maintained by future generations. 

Knowing that the natural world provides all we need to exist, it is our job as humans to take care of it for future generations.

Dave Kanietakeron Fadden

鈥淭hese bridges are an outstanding example of a complex, intergenerational, cultural-natural system,鈥� says Ferdinand Ludwig, professor of green technologies in landscape architecture at the Technical University of Munich, who has studied the Khasi bridges for several years. 鈥淭hey are a benchmark for regenerative design, which we urgently need in order to hand over our degraded environment to our children in a better condition than we found it.鈥�

Sadly, at the present time, most decision-making by governments and corporations around the world does not even look at the immediate impact, let alone a few years down the line. President Biden to drill oil in Alaska, even as UN Secretary-General Ant贸nio Guterres referred to the ongoing climate crisis as a 鈥渢icking time bomb,鈥� speaking soon after the release of in March. 

Alongside the looming climate change catastrophe, is affecting and . Microplastic particles have also been found in human and , as well as and in 鈥攅ndangering not just the current generation, but possibly the health and development of the next generation as well.

鈥淲hy are we not capable of looking beyond five years?鈥� says Maria Westerbos, founder of the , an Amsterdam-based nonprofit that works to reduce plastic pollution around the world. 

Long-term thinking is urgently needed as humankind grapples with climate change and other burning issues, like fossil fuel extraction and plastic use, that will have huge and irreversible impacts for generations to come. Luckily, communities around the world have long shown it is very much possible.

One oft-cited example is the Seventh Generation Principle from the Haudenosaunee Confederacy (known during colonial times as the Iroquois Confederacy), which spans present-day upstate New York in the U.S. and adjoining areas in Canada. 鈥淭he Haudenosaunee believe that what we do in our lives can have either positive or negative ramifications to the seventh generation yet to come,鈥� says Dave Kanietakeron Fadden, an artist and illustrator from the Mohawk nation, one of six nations that make up the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, along with the Cayuga, Oneida, Onondaga, Seneca, and Tuscarora nations.

If your rivers, oceans, mountains, forests, and your land is unwell, then you as a human are unwell.

Dan Hikuroa

Fadden shares how the Seventh Generation Principle translates to daily life for the Haudenosaunee. 鈥淥ur traditional council of chiefs among the Six Nations deliberate every proposal with this in mind. As individuals, we also keep it in mind as we live our lives,鈥� he says. 鈥淥ur decisions as leaders and as individuals are made with a great deal of thought of how an action, or lack of an action, will affect those that are not here yet. In contemporary terms, we are transitioning to utilizing as many new carbon-free technologies in our communities, from passive home construction to solar energy.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Fadden says, 鈥淜nowing that the natural world provides all we need to exist, it is our job as humans to take care of it for future generations.鈥�

Intergenerational thinking among the M膩oris of New Zealand (Aotearoa) is rooted in the concept of whakapapa. The M膩oris believe that all living beings鈥攑ast, present, and future鈥攁s well as all non-living entities鈥攍ike rivers, rocks, and mountains鈥攁re born from sky father Ranginui and earth mother Papat奴膩nuku, and hence are related. This kinship is called whakapapa, and from it stems the responsibility of protecting nature for present and future generations. Whakapapa manifests itself at several levels in M膩ori life, including in law-making and policymaking as well as in the community. 

In 2014, New Zealand became the first country in the world to grant , and . This recognition gave the Te Urewera Forest and Whanganui River the same legal rights as a citizen, and any offenses against them can be taken to court. 

鈥淭his was an effort by the New Zealand government to take ancestral ways of knowing and being and doing in the form of whakapapa, and embedding them into the law,鈥� says Dan Hikuroa, senior lecturer in M膩ori Studies at the University of Auckland (Waipapa Taumata Rau). 鈥淎t the highest level, there are laws that are being made and passed in the country that include whakapapa.鈥�

Day-to-day decision-making in businesses like 鈥攐wned by 4,000 families descended from the original M膩ori landowners in the Nelson region of South Island鈥攊s also guided by whakapapa.

The group, which owns several companies in real estate, horticulture, viticulture, and fisheries sectors, has a 500-year plan, . The goal is to achieve intergenerational prosperity while simultaneously conserving for future generations the natural and cultural resources that have been inherited from ancestors. Wakat奴鈥檚 short-term business plans are aligned with this long-term vision and the values of the original landowners. 

鈥淜nowing your whakapapa link to a place is important both as a motivator for the work you do, and for the sense of responsibility to the place and people,鈥� Hikuroa says. 

, a nature reserve established in 1999 near the country鈥檚 capital, Wellington (Te Whanganui-a-Tara), also has a 500-year vision to restore the valley鈥檚 forest and freshwater ecosystems to its pre-human state. 鈥淥ur first 20-year strategy was completely focused on the valley itself and was all about getting a head start on restoration,鈥� says Danielle Shanahan, a landscape ecologist and the sanctuary鈥檚 chief executive. 鈥淭his included planting thousands of trees that will take the longest to mature and bringing in species like k膩k膩 [a large parrot] that were absent from Wellington city.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

These visionary efforts have led to , with several other native species of birds, insects, amphibians, and reptiles also thriving. The sanctuary is now in its second-generation strategy, which builds on the first, and is all about living with nature and helping the local community reconnect with the native wildlife. 

鈥淭丑别谤别 is an inextricable link between people and the environment,鈥� Hikuroa explains. 鈥淚f your rivers, oceans, mountains, forests, and your land is unwell, then you as a human are unwell.鈥�

So it follows that when communities keep in mind future generations as they make decisions, nature and humans can thrive together. 

De Leon is one of 25 immigrant and Indigenous farmworkers gathered on a cold December morning in Sonoma County, California, for the first-in-the-country Spanish-language intentional-burn certification program. Like de Leon, each of these firefighters-(and firelighters!)-in-training has been haunted by fire. During a massive inferno in 2017, de Leon was one of many 鈥渆ssential workers鈥� escorted by vineyard managers through mandatory evacuation zones to harvest grapes while breathing in toxic fumes from nearby blazes. 

鈥淲hen we arrived at work, there were patrol cars because it was an evacuation zone, but they waved us through to harvest. The skies were red and heavy smoke was in the air. They didn鈥檛 give us any protective equipment. No masks,鈥� de Leon says. 鈥淭丑别谤别 was so much ash on the grapes that when you鈥檇 cut the grape, it would get on your face. Our faces were black.鈥�

While she didn鈥檛 get sick, she says her co-workers struggled with asthma. De Leon recalls harvesting like this for eight hours and getting paid just $20 per hour. 

鈥淭hey should have paid us more,鈥� de Leon says. 鈥淲e risked our lives for their profits.鈥�

Today, however, de Leon and her fellow farmworkers are here to learn about 鈥済ood fire鈥濃�攁 controlled burn land stewards use to reduce underbrush in overgrown forests to prevent the spread of more destructive wildfires. Thanks to , de Leon and her fellow farmworkers are (re-)learning skills many of their ancestors knew well. And they are putting that know-how to work healing a fire-ravaged landscape and people. 

While wine producers often depict their agricultural operations as small, idyllic, and picturesque, the reality is that most are anything but. The wine industry erodes local ecological balance and accelerates climate destabilization through planting monoculture crops, intensive water use, soil erosion, and application of toxic pesticides and herbicides. 

Calling themselves trabajadores de la tierra (land workers), farmworkers like de Leon say they鈥檙e tired of having their labor used by the vineyard bosses to deplete the land. So instead, they鈥檙e fighting for the training, resources, and job opportunities to restore ecological health and mitigate the worst impacts of climate chaos already set in motion. 

Tens of millions of public dollars have already come into Sonoma County for wildfire mitigation and vegetation management since 2020, and there are many millions more on the way from both state and federal governments. As climate chaos accelerates and unnatural disasters multiply, more county, state, federal, and private dollars for ecological restoration services will become available. What remains contested is what that work will be, who will get that work, how much it will pay, and how it will be governed.

Too often, cost-cutting measures among vegetation management companies鈥攚hich clear overgrown brush to minimize the risk of wildfires鈥攔esult in low wages, lack of training, and excessive clear-cutting. Instead, immigrant and Indigenous farmworkers are positioning themselves as the leaders who have the ancestral knowledge, practical skills, work ethic, and heart to do this work, and asserting they should be fairly compensated for it. 

Their fight began two years ago, when these workers on the front lines of climate-change-fueled wildfires started organizing for safety and respect. Through their , North Bay Jobs With Justice farmworker leaders have won improved job safety and training in indigenous languages, and a first-of-its-kind $3 million disaster-insurance fund for frontline workers who lose work during disasters. They鈥檝e also secured unprecedented commitments from growers both large and small to provide hazard pay for workers who harvest when the outdoor air quality is unhealthy. 

Despite these impressive victories, farmworkers say the California wine industry remains ecologically unsustainable. The vineyards鈥� contribution to local ecological degradation, combined with global climate change, results in heat, droughts, wildfires, and floods that cause for existing agricultural workers. In short, workers know the wine industry won鈥檛 last forever.

Instead of waiting for collapse, workers are getting ahead of the impending transitions, assuring they happen justly. 

鈥淚f we鈥檙e talking about funds for capacity building, we should train the people already working on the land. These workers are the backbone of the ag sector in Sonoma County. They should get a piece of the pie,鈥� says Hannah Wilton, program associate at , a nonprofit center in Sonoma County that develops strategies for biocultural diversity and community resilience at regional scale. 鈥淔olks who are working in these industries, how does their labor get reclaimed for restoration, toward something positive for the Earth? They鈥檙e helping to bring in the new world. They鈥檙e stewarding the transition. We should be following their lead.鈥�

Last winter, the Occidental Arts & Ecology Center hosted 10 Jobs With Justice farmworker leaders for a monthlong workforce-development pilot project with some of the North Bay鈥檚 top ecologists. Workers honed their skills in restoring wildlife habitat, identifying plants, mitigating erosion, increasing the land鈥檚 drought tolerance, and reducing wildfire risk through techniques, like thinning overgrown understory plants. Workers then used the downed branches, sticks, leaves, and needles to create habitat piles for wood rats, which are prey for owls, and strategically stacked the leftover biomass to help sink and slow water on hillsides to prevent erosion. 

Those same farmworkers spent last summer and fall on an immigrant- and Indigenous-led worker team doing vegetation management, fire mitigation, and restorative land work in Windsor, Cazadero, Healdsburg, Occidental, and Geyserville, California. The work was funded by the county, through a project with the , a nonprofit organization working to restore healthy habitats in the area. For their labor, workers earned $35 per hour, a significant increase from what they were paid by the vineyards. 

Workers cleared brush, thereby breaking up 鈥渇uel ladders鈥� that can cause wildfires to spread rapidly along recreational sites and other places in which fires often start. This fuels-reduction work is of critical importance to reducing wildfires and reining in climate change. California鈥檚 recent massive wildfires are devastating to state climate goals. A recent study found the California wildfire smoke in 2020 alone put double the greenhouse gas emissions into the atmosphere as the state鈥檚 entire emissions reductions between 2003 and 2019.

Whacking through dense, 10-foot-tall carrizo (an invasive bamboo-like plant, also called arundo) with a machete鈥攐r even a chainsaw鈥攊s hard, dirty, exhausting work. A crew of 10 workers incessantly hacks at the invasive carrizo growing on a slippery bank leading down to the river鈥攕weating, cursing, and joking as they go. While some workers chop, others haul armfuls of the downed weeds up the steep embankment to a waiting wood chipper.

Despite the physically grueling nature of this undertaking, worker after worker tells me: Whereas in the vineyards their labor is wielded against land, water, and soil, here it is used to heal such harm. Whereas the vineyard bosses treat farmworkers as disposable labor, here workers are well paid, safe, self-governed, and respected for the deep wisdom and relationships with the land they bring to the work. 

鈥淚 am an Indigenous woman from Mexico. I speak Chatino. We believe that the land is sacred, that water is life. We deserve respect because of the knowledge we carry,鈥� says farmworker Maria Salinas. 鈥淗ere, with Jobs With Justice, we encourage each other to drink water and take breaks. They respect our knowledge. At the end of the day, you can go home satisfied, knowing you did something important for the Earth.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Crisp铆n L贸pez, an immigrant farmworker from an indigenous community in Oaxaca, Mexico, remembers working in Sonoma County fields as the fires in 2019 sent toxic chemicals into his lungs. When L贸pez was young, his grandfather led a project in his community of San Miguel Chicahua to repair erosion to the local farmland caused by the introduction of a highway through their community. L贸pez thinks his late grandfather would be proud of his work here.

鈥淭he wineries that have destroyed the land never say, 鈥榃e鈥檝e earned so much money this year that we鈥檒l put aside some of that money to care for the land.鈥� But they should be the ones to pay to heal the places that have burned,鈥� says L贸pez. 鈥淭hey should be hiring those of us who know how to do it, and paying us well.鈥�

The fuels-reduction work doesn鈥檛 just differ from the grape harvest in what farmworkers are doing, but how they鈥檙e doing it. Workers elect from among their ranks a responsable (person in charge for a given period of time) to coordinate the work. At the start of the day, workers stretch together. They take time to tell stories, share food and culture, and learn ecology. They strategize about how to grow an immigrant- and Indigenous-governed fire mitigation and ecological resilience workforce.

In addition to vegetation management, workers are also learning to do prescribed burns to prevent wildfires. Through a first-of-its-kind, weeklong, Spanish-language prescribed-fire training, workers learned about fire behavior, lighting and suppression, and weather patterns. They also gained relevant skills, like hand-tool maintenance and radio use. 

The training earned participants their Firefighter Type 2 certification, a federal qualification standard. But for many workers, the skills were already very familiar. 鈥淲e use this same strategy in Mexico鈥攂urning the ground鈥攂ut to plant corn. My father taught me how. If there are pests, the pests will die off,鈥� says Santos Jimenez. 鈥淗ere, we鈥檙e using it as a strategy so that if there is a drought, there will be less fuel and everything won鈥檛 catch on fire so easily.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Jos茅 Luis Duce 础谤补驳眉茅蝉, a prescribed-fire specialist with the , co-led the course. 鈥淢any times, people have knowledge of doing this in their own villages. They bring traditional and cultural knowledge of fire,鈥� Duce 础谤补驳眉茅蝉 says. 鈥淚t was really beautiful to learn from them鈥攚hat they used fire for, in what season, at what time of day, which species they鈥檇 burn and which they wouldn鈥檛.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Having traditional ecological knowledge doesn鈥檛 always translate into job opportunities for Indigenous workers.

鈥淲e鈥檙e excited to be building these skill sets in folks locally, and getting certification to people who already have this traditional ecological knowledge from their home[s],鈥� says Sasha Berleman, the director of at Audubon Canyon Ranch, which also partnered with Jobs With Justice on the training. 

鈥淭he farmworkers come from a difficult job鈥攏ot just physically hard, but one in which they have used the land,鈥� Duce 础谤补驳眉茅蝉 says. 鈥淭his is the opposite. Today is about restoring equilibrium in order to heal Pachamama.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲e learned today that fire is very important for the forest. Some plants need this type of burn in order to grow better,鈥� says de Leon. 鈥淭his work we鈥檙e doing today is very different from what we do in the fields. The vineyard owners don鈥檛 teach us this. They just tell us to tend the grapes, because at the end of the year that鈥檚 profits for the owners. Here we don鈥檛 worka for profit. We work for the benefit of the land, the animals, for us humans too.鈥�

Twenty-five more workers are now deepening their skills through a wildfire-adapted landscaping course at Santa Rosa Junior College. The question, however, is how to do this work at scale: how to transition not just small groups of workers but entire industries and economies out of extractive, exploitative work and into cooperative, regenerative labor that tends to the land and to human needs?

Or, as one of the campaign鈥檚 strategists, North Bay Jobs With Justice Executive Director Max Alper, put it: 鈥淗ow do you go from 20 workers to 50 to 100 to 1,000 workers, all having steady, well-paid, dignified ecological restoration work?鈥� 

First, Alper says, workers must organize themselves. Current worker leaders organize house meetings, bring their friends and coworkers to their homes to hear about the campaign, and then invite those contacts to join them at community meetings, pickets, and actions. 

Second, you have to physically labor together in the new work. North Bay Jobs With Justice invites its staff, board, and funders to come cut carrizo with the workers. 鈥淧eople come to work alongside the workers, even if [only] for a few hours, and it immediately changes things. Once you see arundo, you can鈥檛 unsee arundo,鈥� says Alper. 鈥淭hey say, 鈥極MG this is really hard work. If we don鈥檛 do this work, my community will be in danger. Workers should absolutely get paid $35 per hour to do this.鈥欌�� 

Third, Alper says, 鈥淭he only way we鈥檙e going to reclaim our labor is through a fight. The bosses have shown time and time again that they would be more than happy to take massive amounts of public dollars and use them to double down on their current extractive practices, just with a greenwashed image. The corporations that have exploited workers and the land now need to give workers the resources and access to land to do this regenerative work.鈥�

Sonoma County farmworkers are not alone in advocating for resources to fund worker-led ecological restoration projects. At the national level, is developing business models by and for local workers of color to lead disaster-recovery and climate-resilience workforces.

Farmworkers, like de Leon, Salinas, Jimenez, and L贸pez, are the grassroots ecologists with the wisdom and respect to tend the land; they are the voices we need to heed and the workers we need to resource and respect. They are at once on the front lines of both ecological devastation and climate justice. They鈥檝e worked for industries whose exploitation of both land and labor has fueled the fires. 

Now they are not only restoring the land and mitigating future fire risk, they are also building the model for an immigrant- and Indigenous-worker-led climate resilience. 

Quotes from de Leon, Salinas, Jimenez, L贸pez, and Duce 础谤补驳眉茅蝉 have been translated from their original Spanish. 

This story was produced as part of a Just Transition reporting fellowship with .

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:48 a.m. PT on April 27, 2023, to correct Hannah Walton鈥檚 name. Read our corrections policy here.

Seluchi runs the operation and modeling sector of the Center for Monitoring and Early Warning of Natural Disasters (Cemaden), a federal agency based in S茫o Paulo, Brazil. The center is in charge of observing vulnerable areas in about one-fifth of the country鈥檚 5,568 municipalities in which landslides and floods have the most impact. live in these high-risk zones.

Over the past decades, urbanization in Brazil has been largely unplanned and taken place at a chaotic pace. now live in cities and urban areas, according to the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics. 鈥淣obody is going to live in a risky area because they want to or because they are stupid,鈥� says Raquel Rolnik, an urbanist from the University of S茫o Paulo. 鈥淭hey are workers whose income does not allow for the purchase or rent of housing in a suitable location.鈥�

Larger populations living in high-exposure areas, combined with more frequent extreme weather events, trigger disasters. that global warming has boosted evaporation, adding more water vapor to the air, which causes more intense precipitation and unpredictable storms. This makes landslides even more common in Brazil鈥檚 Atlantic Forest, including the Serra do Mar mountains, which extend for 930 miles along the country鈥檚 coastline and reach up to 7,700 feet in elevation.

The rocks that comprise these mountains are covered by a thin layer of soil and vegetation, with a natural tendency to slide, explains F谩bio Augusto Reis Gomes, a geologist at S茫o Paulo State University. 鈥淗eavy rains make water infiltrate this soil, turning solid into liquid.鈥� On these steep slopes, some greater than 25 degrees, this liquid debris flows quickly downhill.

That鈥檚 just what happened on Thursday, February 16, 2023, when record-setting rains hit the S茫o Paulo coast in southeast Brazil. That day, Cemaden predicted a heavy rainfall and reported the dangers twice to local authorities. On Saturday night, municipalities received more specific alerts to put their contingency plans in place, having reached the maximum level of risk by midnight, according to Cemaden.

But various local municipalities responded differently to the information, and the resulting range of outcomes shows what鈥檚 at stake for communities in future disasters. 

Effective Warning Systems

While Cemaden鈥檚 forecasts predicted 7.8 inches of rain, the cities of Bertioga and S茫o Sebasti茫o received more than triple that amount. In Bertioga, 26.8 inches of rain fell in just one day鈥攖he highest amount ever recorded by a rain gauge in Brazil (not counting unmonitored areas). Since the city of Bertioga, population 65,000, is relatively flat and doesn鈥檛 have residences built in the hills, it was not particularly vulnerable. 鈥淭he biggest rain in history occurred there, but with no problems in terms of causing victims,鈥� Seluchi says.

The story was different 20 miles east, in the city of S茫o Sebasti茫o, population 90,000. Here in the early hours of Sunday morning, rain gauges recorded 24.6 inches of rain. Storms followed by landslides swept through a working-class complex on the slopes of Serra do Mar called Vila do Sahy, killing 64 people. These homes were built in the 1980s by poor families looking for jobs in the nearby beachside hot spot of Barra do Sahy, where wealthy families from big cities come for the sea-view hotels and well-equipped houses costing millions of dollars.

Despite their differences, these two worlds鈥擝arra and Vila鈥攁re closely linked. The only physical barrier between them is a single road. However, precarious housing conditions in the high-risk area ended up concentrating all the victims on the road鈥檚 poorest side, while on the opposite side, some moneyed people went so far as to hire helicopters to escape the devastation.

The city of S茫o Sebasti茫o did not release a single statement informing the public about the storms, which came in the days leading up to Carnival鈥攐ne of the most important holidays for tourism in Brazil. Preparations for the festivities were already in full swing. Normally the city receives 500,000 visitors on Carnival weekend, so ordering an evacuation would have meant losing the income potential from these tourists. Instead, lives were lost.

Twenty miles west of Bertioga, the city of Guaruj谩, population 322,000, had only infrastructure damage and no injuries in the storms, despite having more than 7,000 families living on slopes and in stilt houses. The city recorded the highest volume of rain in the past 70 years: around 16 inches. The municipality managed to avoid fatalities by listening to the warnings and not underestimating the conditions鈥� destructive potential鈥攁 lesson learned after experiencing landslides and floods in 2020 that left 34 dead.

When the 2023 storm hit, people from high-risk areas left their homes before getting impacted by the rain. The population was notified via social media, SMS, and on-site visits by the Civil Defense. (This is comparable to the United States Federal Emergency Management Agency, , but in Brazil, municipalities and states have their own Civil Defense offices too.) 鈥淭eams went to areas of geological risk on Friday and Saturday informing [them of ] the measures to be adopted in case of heavy rain, and community leaders reinforced the alert,鈥� according to an email from the City Hall of Guaruj谩鈥檚 press office.

However, an effective disaster prevention plan has to go beyond warnings.

Convincing People to Act

Across Brazil, to inform residents about possible risky situations associated with heavy rains. Some communities only have sirens, which 颈蝉苍鈥檛 enough, according to Reis, who is also a director of the Brazilian Federation of Geologists. 鈥淪ound alerts are the last step in the line, because when [a major storm] hits, many people don鈥檛 know what to do,鈥� he says. 鈥淏efore that, it is necessary to do training and simulations, mapping escape routes and shelter points.鈥�

Without an escape plan, evacuation warnings don鈥檛 do much good. That鈥檚 why Guaruj谩 Civil Defense鈥檚 ongoing work includes daily inspections in high-risk areas, climate monitoring, a geotechnical data platform, and lectures given in schools alongside simulations. 鈥淐ities are dynamic, and risk areas change over the years, so the mapping must be updated and the population informed about these changes during the training,鈥� Reis says.

The Brazilian Federation of Geologists highlights the problematic ways in which high-risk areas are often a low priority for administrations. 鈥淒isasters do not occur due to lack of technical knowledge, but mostly by negligence of local, state, and federal administrations. [The] risk management field has well-known mechanisms and tools and, whenever applied in time, they result in success,鈥� reads a released on February 24 to authorities and civil society.

Many deaths could be avoided if, for example, safe long-term housing was available and affordable for everyone.

One of the most important aspects of any safety plan is to convince the population of the danger. Even when people have the necessary information, some still refuse to leave their homes for fear of their belongings being looted, or they simply distrust the warning. 鈥淪ome residents say, 鈥業鈥檝e lived here for 40, 50 years and [no] disaster has ever happened,鈥欌�� Seluchi says. 鈥淭his is a big mistake, because today things that have never happened are happening now鈥攔ain with a frequency of every 50 years now occurs every five to 10 years.鈥�

Solutions at the Source

In the face of an evermore-threatening climate future, some communities have found their own means of raising awareness and preventing fatalities. S铆tio Concei莽茫ozinha is a century-old neighborhood on the Guaruj谩 estuary where some of the community鈥檚 6,000 residents live in homes built on stilts. Flooding was a problem for decades until the local community center launched an environmental project in 2020.

Primarily aimed at cleaning up street pollution, the project found that it could also avoid floods by reducing the garbage backing up storm drains. The project offers educational programs for families as well as janitorial services. And the cleanup works as a credit market: For each collected kilogram of recyclable material, such as plastic bottles, a person earns tickets that can then be exchanged for donated food baskets. Every month, more than a ton of recycled material is collected by the community.

鈥淩ecently, heavy rains have filled Guaruj谩 up, but not here,鈥� says Cristiane Santos de Lima, one of the women heading the project. 鈥淭he streets don鈥檛 flood anymore because you can鈥檛 find bottles covering the drains, obstructing the water evasion.鈥�

These bans 鈥渟tripped us of our culture, but [were] also an . , leaving the forests full of brush and kindling that, combined with climate-related drought and record-breaking heat, fueled the current wildfire crisis. In the 23 years since Reed was born, California has experienced 15 of its 20 on record. 

Reed is now dedicated to restoring humans鈥� relationship to fire. He鈥檚 a graduate student, Indigenous fire practitioner and wildland firefighter, and he鈥檚 teaming up with other young fire practitioners to change the way the U.S. responds to the wildfire crisis.

鈥淭丑别谤别 needs to be a continuous place for our generation in [responding to] a crisis that we鈥檙e most impacted by,鈥� said Kyle Trefny, a student at the University of Oregon and seasonal wildland firefighter.

In 2022, Reed, Trefny and two other students 鈥� Bradley Massey, a junior at Alabama A&M University, and Alyssa Worsham, who recently completed her master鈥檚 at Western Colorado University 鈥� formed the (FireGen, for short), a group that advocates for centering Indigenous knowledge and bringing more young people into the wildfire space. 

That includes diversifying the workforce that responds to wildfires, Trefny said. A recent U.S. Government Accountability Office found that the vast majority of wildland firefighters鈥攎ore than 80%鈥攊dentify as male and more than 70% of the workforce is white. Though Trefny is both male and white, he identifies as queer. He said he was struck by the lack of diversity in the ranks and described the culture as patriarchal and militaristic. 

A more inclusive and diverse workforce wouldn鈥檛 just lead to a better experience for new recruits, Trefny added, it could also help address the severe of wildland firefighters. Last year, the Forest Service told it was short more than 25% of the workforce it needed heading into fire season; the following months saw an number of wildfires, including the largest and most destructive fire on record in New Mexico.  

The FireGen cohort believes that getting more young and Indigenous people involved in developing wildfire policies can increase support for proactive tactics like prescribed burns. It鈥檚 a shift that Tim Ingalsbee, an instructor at the University of Oregon and a former wildland firefighter, said he鈥檚 noticed among his students in recent years.

鈥淵oung people want to get involved in putting good fire on the ground,鈥� said Ingalsbee. 鈥淭hirty years ago, no one asked me that. They all want to be firefighters.鈥�

In November, Ingalsbee traveled with Trefney, Reed, Massey and Worsham, to Washington, DC, at the invitation of U.S. Forest Service Chief Randy Moore. They met with Moore, Oregon Senators Jeff Merkley and Ron Wyden, and officials from the Department of the Interior鈥檚 Office of Wildland Fire to advocate for getting more young people involved in wildfire policy.  

鈥淭he collaborative is passionate about being a part of the climate change solutions of the future, including work in prescribed fire and as wildland firefighters,鈥� said Wade Muehlhof, a  spokesperson for the Forest Service. 鈥淭hey bring great insights from the best and brightest we are trying to recruit into that workforce.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The group arrived in Washington with a proposal to for young people to connect with the U.S. Forest Service and the Department of the Interior, the agencies that oversee federal wildland firefighting. Trefny said they looked to FEMA鈥檚 Youth Preparedness Council, which recruits young people to serve as and assist in other outreach efforts, as a model for bringing more young people into the field. (Muehlhof said his office was connecting the group with the Biden administration鈥檚 , which was created in 2021.)

In addition to its advocacy efforts, FireGen is working to fill a gap in knowledge about young peoples鈥� attitudes toward 鈥� and understanding of 鈥� fire. Reed, Trefny and Worsham are developing a research project that will gauge their peers鈥� interest in various fire-related activities, such as prescribed burning or fireproofing homes, to make a case to policymakers to fund workforce development programs that go beyond traditional firefighting. For Worsham, who became interested in wildfires through her graduate research in prescribed burns, it鈥檚 an opportunity to help others discover their own unique paths into this field.

鈥淲e need this base of young people who are rethinking how fire fits into bigger things, like land management and climate change,鈥� said Worsham. 鈥淲e鈥檙e aiming for fire happening at the right frequency, at the right severity, in the right vegetation and ecosystems. And that鈥檚 all going to take a lot more work on the front end than suppression, which is entirely [an] emergency or reactive response.鈥�

In a contribution to a recent Federation of American Scientists on wildfire responses, Reed and Trefny outlined ways that agencies could integrate Indigenous knowledge into their operations and invest in educating and onboarding young people. For example, they recommend shifting the hiring schedule for seasonal wildland firefighters from the fall to the spring to better accommodate students. 

Massey, who co-captains Alabama A&M University鈥檚 student-run forest firefighting team, wants to create more opportunities for students to access forest management and wildland firefighting training. The Forest Service currently partners with a of four historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs) to establish student-run fire crews; Massey, who has led prescribed burns near his school鈥檚 Huntsville campus, hopes to establish a multi-school fire crew that could take on larger land management and firefighting responsibilities.

鈥淣ot too many people from my community are familiar with prescribed fire or wildland fire, so just being able to have that knowledge to give and open their eyes to see what else is out there [is my goal],鈥� Massey said. 

Massey and his FireGen teammates have seen, often up close, the devastation of increasingly frequent and severe wildfires. But they also understand that, much like becoming an electrician who installs heat pumps, understanding wildfires, and knowing how to anticipate and respond to them, is a skill set that will only grow in demand. 
鈥淚magine if in every fire-prone community, the local community college, university or even their local high school had programs where young people can get [prescribed] burn qualifications and get experience in making a house resilient,鈥� Trefney said. 鈥淥ur generation needs to be part of a cultural shift toward living with fire and not fearing it.鈥�

This article is originally appeared in , an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow .

The park also encompasses the of , who engage in . These communities maintain no outside contact and live in very close relationship with the environment that sustains them. Yet, alongside Yasun铆鈥檚 natural wonders, the region also harbors one of Ecuador鈥檚 , creating a complex and contentious struggle between preservation and exploitation.

For the past decade, a fierce dispute has raged over the extraction of oil from Block 43, better known as ITT (Ishpingo-Tambococha-Tiputini). Approximately 100 of the block鈥檚 2,000 hectares fall within Yasun铆鈥檚 boundaries. Since 2013, the three most recent presidents of Ecuador have all campaigned to exploit the block. In response, a passionate group of young people known as Yasunidos emerged to protect it.

Yasunidos have fought for a referendum that would let Ecuadorian citizens decide whether oil extraction should proceed in the ITT block. After a decade-long battle marked by the unwavering determination of grassroots activists and environmental defenders, this August, the people of Ecuador will finally be able to vote whether to leave the oil from the ITT block in the ground indefinitely. The outcome of this historic referendum carries the potential to reshape the future of Yasun铆鈥檚 biodiversity, while offering an inspirational model for environmental movements far beyond Ecuador鈥檚 borders.

The Plan That Failed 

In , the creation of Yasun铆 National Park served as a beacon of hope for local and Indigenous communities as well as conservation organizations around the world. Its designation as a UNESCO biosphere reserve in 1989 further solidified its significance. Within its borders, a total of seven oil blocks, or leases, exist. Most of these blocks have long been subjected to extraction in order to generate resources to alleviate Ecuador鈥檚 poverty. Block 43, or ITT, however, remained tantalizingly untapped. 

In 2007, Ecuador鈥檚 then-president, Rafael Correa, unveiled a to maintain the sanctity of Block 43鈥檚 oil reserves while addressing the country鈥檚 deep poverty. Correa proposed that affluent nations compensate Ecuador with $350 million, representing half of the estimated value of the untouched oil, as a form of compensation to Ecuador for its dedication to conservation. By refraining from extracting 856 barrels of oil, the plan aimed to prevent the emission of a staggering 407 million metric tons of carbon dioxide, offering a substantial global environmental benefit.

But the plan . Only $13 million was raised, a mere 0.37% of the anticipated amount, and so the plan was canceled in 2013. Correa said, 鈥淭he world has failed us. We were not asking for charity; we were asking for shared responsibility in the fight against climate change.鈥� As a result, the Ecuadorian president for crude oil in Yasun铆. 

The Emergence of Yasunidos

In the wake of President Correa鈥檚 controversial in Block 43, a group of passionate youth, aged 16 to 30, decided to take action. Their multifaceted coalition comprised human rights advocates, environmentalists, feminists, and Indigenous people from diverse backgrounds across Ecuador. They converged with a shared mission: protecting nature and preserving human rights in Yasun铆 National Park. They called themselves , which combines Yasun铆 and unidos (united) in Spanish.

was 19 years old when he co-founded Yasunidos in 2013. Initially inspired by Correa鈥檚 plan, Bermeo鈥檚 hopefulness turned into deep disappointment when the president decided to exploit the Yasun铆 instead. Determined to make a difference, he connected with like-minded activists. 鈥淥ur common objective was to safeguard Yasun铆,鈥� Bermeo recalls. This shared purpose served as a unifying force, and the group was bound by its unwavering dedication to preserve one of the world鈥檚 most biodiverse places and defend the territory of voluntarily isolated communities.

Antonella Calle, another of the founding members, was only 16 years old at the time. She emphasizes that Ecuador, as a country of immense diversity, faced imminent threats鈥攁n alarming reality that served as her inspiration to take action. 鈥淲e are a kaleidoscope of faces united by the imperative need to prioritize life over the pursuit of wealth,鈥� she says.

Yasunidos aimed to raise awareness among Ecuadorians in order to propose a popular referendum to determine the fate of Yasun铆鈥檚 Block 43, the national sanctuary that belongs to all Ecuadorians. For the referendum to take place, they needed to collect 583,000 signatures. More than 1,400 volunteers joined the activists鈥� efforts, and the message resonated across the nation. As of April 2014, the team had collected 757,623 signatures, far exceeding the requirement.

However, the anticipated victory was marred by the National Electoral Council鈥檚 invalidation of approximately 400,000 of those signatures, claiming they were fraudulent. Through peaceful protests, press conferences, and campaigns, Yasunidos expressed their dissent in the following years, demanding justice, signature validation, and respect for public opinion.

Overcoming Adversity: Trials and Perseverance

Since the group鈥檚 inception, Yasunidos has been confronted with several challenges. In 2014, the members against alleged persecution by the Correa government. Regardless of the threats they faced, they embarked on the to COP 20 (the twentieth session of the Conference of the Parties) in Peru that year to spread the word about the imminent perils threatening the Yasun铆 National Park. However, their journey was beset by obstacles as they confronted numerous instances of harassment, and even found themselves detained at times. 

In response, the group with the Attorney General鈥檚 Office. The gravity of the situation was further revealed when a leaked intelligence report in May 2015 exposed the meticulous that Yasunidos had been subjected to by the Correa government since 2013.

In reflecting on the challenges they faced during their activism, Bermeo emphasizes its profound impact on their lives at such an early age. 鈥淚t was incredibly tough to witness intelligence reports, the surveillance, the threats and intimidation I personally faced鈥攁ll because we were demanding our rights and the rights of Mother Earth,鈥� he recounts. For David Fajardo, a member of Yasunidos who is now an attorney focusing on environmental law, the biggest challenge has been preserving their lives while pursuing a cause that appeared to offer no immediate tangible results. 

Amid these challenges, the indomitable spirit of the movement has not only persevered but also strengthened significantly. Over the past decade, a wave of new movements dedicated to environmental and human rights issues has surfaced throughout the country. Yasunidos has continued to oppose extractivist policies implemented by subsequent governments, irrespective of their political affiliations. Fajardo says, 鈥淥ur work has never ceased. We have persistently supported all environmental struggles in our country.鈥�

A Global Message of Resilience

In 2021, a journalistic exposed that the verification process led by the National Electoral Council (CNE) had been marred by fraud, and that it was designed to discredit and disqualify a significant number of signatures collected by Yasunidos. Former CNE councilors were accused of forgery and the use of counterfeit filed with the Attorney General鈥檚 Office. After recognizing the severity of the situation, the Constitutional Court issued a landmark ruling on May 9th, 2023, declaring that the signature verification process violated the rights of Yasunidos and the people who signed.

paved the way for an extraordinary development toward Yasunidos鈥� original goal. In September 2022, the National Electoral Council granted authorization for the convening of a historic referendum. The question asked to Ecuadorians will be: 鈥淎re you in favor of the Ecuadorian government keeping oil from the ITT, known as Block 43, indefinitely underground?鈥� The vote is scheduled for August 20th, 2023, and it holds immense weight, for its outcome will determine the future course of oil operations within the ITT block. 

According to Ecuadorian sociologist Gregorio P谩ez, 鈥淭his upcoming referendum carries profound consequences for Ecuador and serves as an inspiration for all Ecuadorians to have the agency to decide over our natural resources, and to empower people to see that grassroots activism really can have changes in policies.鈥� He emphasizes that the efforts of Yasunidos have played a vital role in shaping the trajectory of Ecuador鈥檚 history while 鈥渋nspiring social movements on a global scale.鈥�

For Antonella Calle, the referendum 鈥渉as the potential to lead the way in the global ecological transition.鈥� In the face of the current climate crisis, she believes that leaving fossil fuels in the ground is crucial. 鈥淲e are confident that this will inspire alternative approaches in other countries too, and together we can contribute to combating climate change.鈥�

Throughout these past 10 years, Yasunidos has been characterized by resilience, constant learning, and unwavering commitment. Now, the members eagerly await the decision of the population, hoping for a positive outcome. For them, saying 鈥測es鈥� in the referendum is not just a vote in support of Yasun铆; it is a resounding 鈥測es鈥� to life itself, encompassing their own lives and the well-being of humanity as a whole.

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How can climate reparations play a role in fighting for climate justice and potentially addressing historic injustices committed against the most marginalized members of our societies?

No fear鈥� is here to help cut through the noise, with help from five climate activists from across the Global South.

What exactly are climate reparations?

Climate reparations refer to a call for money to be paid by the Global North to the Global South as a means of addressing the historical contributions that the Global North has made (and continues to make) toward climate change. 鈥淚t is important that the Global North own up to that responsibility of paying what they are due to the Global South,鈥� says Nomhle Senene, a climate activist from South Africa organizing with  MAPA (鈥渕ost affected people and areas鈥�).

Indeed, countries in the Global North are responsible for . Despite this, countless studies have shown that countries across the Global South are facing the sharpest end of the consequences when it comes to climate change鈥攆rom  to  and .

鈥淐limate reparations are also about the need for acknowledgment and accountability for the loss of land and culture鈥攁nd how that has affected us in the Global South鈥攁s a result of climate change,鈥� Farzana Faruk Jhumu, a climate activist organizing with Fridays for Future Bangladesh, adds.

Acknowledgement and accountability for the destruction caused by the Global North are inherent to the nature of climate reparations. This element of accountability is what differentiates climate reparations from 鈥渃limate aid.鈥� 鈥淗颈storically, the Global North has this debt to us, and that鈥檚 why they have to pay,鈥� Farzana tells gal-dem.

What could climate reparations look like in practice?

There are different forms that climate reparations can take. Mimi Sheller, dean of The Global School at Worcester Polytechnic Institute, , referring to a negotiation between governments internationally.

Under a corrective justice model, the moral responsibility of those most responsible for the climate crisis (the Global North) paying compensation to those least culpable (the Global South) forms the legal basis for payments to be made. 

Sheller describes one proposed practical mechanism鈥攁n 鈥渋nternational compensation commission,鈥� which would receive claims from countries affected and provide money that could be used for things like disaster risk reduction, insurance, and adaptation.

She also outlines a second form, which would involve suing multinational corporations responsible for climate destruction鈥攕uch as oil companies鈥攗nder international law, with the money recouped being channeled into similar initiatives as above.

Irrespective of the mode in which climate reparations are given, those most affected by climate change in the Global South should have autonomy over how funds are spent. 

鈥淭丑别谤别 are countries within the Global South that have regimes and military rule,鈥� Ili Nadiah Dzulfakar, co-founder of Klima Action Malaysia (KAMY), says. 鈥淲e need systems of monitoring and evaluation; otherwise, the money will go into the deep pockets of corruption.鈥�

Why do climate reparations matter for climate justice?

The call for climate reparations is one of the key elements within demands for climate justice鈥攁 framing that places justice and the movement toward an equitable world at the core of climate activism. 

鈥淐limate reparations directly benefit those affected by systems of oppression, such as colonialism and racism鈥攊.e., those who are also the most affected by the climate crisis,鈥� Regina Cabrera, a climate activist with Fridays for Future Mexico, says. 

鈥淲e can鈥檛 talk about reparations if we don鈥檛 also talk about inequality and how the economic system destroys communities all around the world, and marginalize鈥攆or example鈥擨ndigenous communities, racialized communities, and queer people,鈥� fellow FFF Mexico activist N谩me Villa del 脕ngel adds.

鈥淔or example, Haiti [was] destroyed economically for centuries by France because of systems of debt. Right now, we are seeing the same stuff over and over again in Latin America. 

鈥淎rgentina is a country that has been deprived over and over again by debt in the last 20, 30 years. Mexico is another example of a country where a large percentage of our exports go directly to the United States.鈥�

鈥淩eparations are a way of understanding our political context through the framework of decolonisation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Climate reparations are not a panacea but are better understood as one key part of a system of wider measures鈥攊ncluding , a just transition away from fossil fuels, and ending corporate impunity鈥攖o achieve climate justice globally.

Climate reparations can be a starting point for radically reorienting our world toward climate justice. By speaking of reparative justice, we bring the wider injustices inherent to capitalism and neocolonialism into sharp focus.

How can we ensure climate reparations are truly in the service of justice for the Global South?

Currently, the majority of climate finance given to the Global South by the Global North is in the form of loans鈥�. 鈥淲hen we take on loans, we have to pay interest鈥攚hich means paying extra money,鈥� Farzana explains.

鈥淭he emitter countries should be paying us, because they are the ones causing this climate crisis,鈥� she says. 鈥淣ot the other way round, as it is currently due to interest rates.鈥�

Indeed, the use of loans simply accrues profits for the Global North as it collects interest while exacerbating the already sizable debt of the Global South鈥攆urther entrenching global inequity between the North and South. 

that low-income countries鈥攎any of which are located in the Global South鈥攕pend five times more on external debt payments than on projects to protect their citizens from the impacts of climate change.

So, how can climate reparations work to be a just alternative?

鈥淐limate reparations should not be given in loans; they should be grant based,鈥� Nadiah says. Grant-based climate finance would help to avoid further ensnaring Global South regions within these deeply unfair systems of global debt.

What is the role of debt cancellation in the context of climate reparations?

Debt cancellation also plays an important role in the context of climate reparations and justice, and this extends beyond just the debts accrued through climate finance. 鈥淚f we do want to cancel debt, it should not only be the ones related to climate鈥攚e need to look at debt as a whole,鈥� Nadiah says.

鈥淲hen we talk about debt in the Global South, we need to understand that it will not be canceled just by asking politely,鈥� N谩me adds. 鈥淸Debt] is intended by the Global North, via the IMF and the World Bank, for dependence from the Global South on the Global North.

鈥�. So, they are not democratic institutions. They are colonial.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

We need to stop listening to the Global North, says N谩me, and instead actively organize to disrupt its way of controlling our places. This will also mean having to rethink economic policies in the Global South. In addition, she adds, there has to be 鈥渃ommunity solidarity economics between Global South countries,鈥� which will 鈥減ut pressure on the Global North to cancel the debt.鈥�

The call for climate reparations must be paired with debt cancellation to achieve a truly equitable climate justice for all. Without radically transforming the economic conditions that keep the Global South indebted to the Global North structurally, reparative justice cannot be realized. 

What is some of the activist work happening in the Global South to support the call for climate reparations? 

鈥淚 work with a lot of Indigenous communities here in Malaysia as a grassroots organizer, and I do some policy work too,鈥� Nadiah tells gal-dem.

鈥淲e get [the communities] to document as much as they can about what they鈥檝e been losing due to climate change. I think it鈥檚 really important to document this, and some of the ways that we show it to the world is 鈥�

Nomhle鈥檚 work, too, in South Africa involves creating spaces in the conversation for those most affected by climate change to be heard, and empowerment through education around issues of climate justice.

鈥淚 work in an education alliance, talking about climate change. We have poverty, hunger, a water crisis鈥攕o sometimes climate change 颈蝉苍鈥檛 recognized as the most pressing issue, because there鈥檚 so much going on,鈥� she says.

鈥淥bviously, it is a serious issue, and it is affecting countries like South Africa. We need to see that these issues are connected to climate change and wider socioeconomic issues as well.鈥�

How can we show solidarity here in the Global North to support the call for climate reparations? 

Creating change starts with reflecting on your positionality and place in the world. 鈥淵ou need to acknowledge your privilege to show solidarity,鈥� Farzana says. 鈥淒on鈥檛 have a savior complex, and adopt a mindset of learning and relearning.鈥�

Organizations such as , , and the  have a wealth of resources and do campaigning work around these issues that you can get involved with.

The  also had an exciting array of fringe events and actions鈥攂oth in-person and virtually鈥攁cross the duration of the COP26 conference. 

鈥淚t is important for us to form alliances between people who have been historically oppressed and marginalized from the Global North and the Global South,鈥� Regina says. 鈥淏ecause we are the people who can create change.鈥�

Crucially, we must continue to center the voices of people and communities in the Global South when talking about climate action.

鈥淭he Global South are not voiceless鈥攚e are just not heard,鈥� says Nomhle. 鈥淲e can use our own voices; we don鈥檛 need anyone to speak for us.鈥�

This story originally appeared in and is part of Covering Climate Now, a global journalism collaboration strengthening coverage of the climate story.

鈥淲hen you have any kind of storm event, it disrupts life totally,鈥� says Michael Taylor, co-director of the Climate Studies Group in Jamaica鈥攁 consortium of researchers from universities in the West Indies that aims to better understand the workings of local, regional, and global climate. 鈥淐limate is linked so strongly to our ability to develop and achieve the goals we aim for as a region.鈥�

Many people and organizations are dedicated to developing and enacting solutions, including Jamaica鈥檚 budding blue-green economy鈥攖he informal network of sustainability entrepreneurs, regenerative ocean farms, and sanctuaries incubating on the island. Among them is the Portland Bight Protected Area (PBPA), that, since achieving its designated protected area status in 1999, has been an anchor for communities on the edge鈥攏ot just of the island but also of the looming climate crisis.

Down by the Bay

鈥淏ight鈥� is an old nautical term to describe a concave coastal landmass that has a shelf and a shallow bay. Back in the 16th century, these characteristics allowed the Portland Bight to receive the first shipment of African slaves to Jamaican shores. The area long served as a health retreat, and one of its beaches, Hellshire, became the country鈥檚 premier tourist spot (until its shores receded dramatically in recent years). The Portland Bight has a rich ecological history too, and an array of unique natural resources like Salt River (the island鈥檚 only saltwater river). The area鈥檚 value to the country鈥檚 ecosystems is irreplaceable.

Today, the Bight spans a massive 1,872 square kilometers (723 square miles), including nine islands and cays. It holds 80% of Jamaica鈥檚 mangroves. All this biodiversity is contained within just 2 of the island鈥檚 14 parishes鈥擲t. Catherine and Clarendon. So while it is the largest protected area in the country, what makes the Bight鈥檚 protected area special is its intimate connection and commitment to the local community.

The PBPA is run by its own dedicated foundation, the Caribbean Coastal Area Management Foundation (CCAMF), which operates three fish sanctuaries with the aim of developing job opportunities that don鈥檛 involve fishing or burning dry forests. The foundation has a policy whereby all hired work鈥攔esource protection, water quality testing, project management, etc.鈥攇oes to people living in the community.

鈥淭he founding members of CCAMF came up with the idea of selecting an area with an environmental uniqueness and a cultural uniqueness,鈥� says Troy Franklin, the tours and events coordinator for the foundation. 鈥淭hey wanted somewhere where they had both the environment and the people together to sustain it.鈥�

But then in 2004, hurricane Ivan and subsequently hurricane Dean did major damage to the mangrove forests along the Bight. This major blow to the coastline鈥檚 protective barrier allowed waves to come further inland during the storms, which destroyed homes as well as property along the coast. Community members who had their own small farms lost crops, and the land became difficult to farm because of the excess salt left behind.

Recovery in the aftermath of climate change-induced disasters is very difficult for small islands and developing states like Jamaica. A decade is often not enough time for full recovery.

Still, the CCAMF and the community continued to come together. On World Wetlands Day, February 2, 2011, the foundation, along with community members, launched a replanting project. Ten years later, the project is considered a success story by many who live along the Bight. This section of coastline now has the largest and densest mangrove forest in the country. 鈥淚 think the forest is offering more protection now,鈥� says Antonette Davis, a fish vendor in Old Harbor Bay. 鈥淲e might have less rainfall these days, but whenever it does, it doesn鈥檛 affect us as much.鈥�

Communities along the Bight have also found other ways to bounce back from the storm damage. 鈥淚t was a lot of people that lost their livelihoods. People are still recovering, slowly but surely. People are rebuilding, and some are moving away from the coast,鈥� Davis says

People who have decided to stay in the Bight have been able to benefit from more sustainable income streams such as harvesting wild shellfish, which has increased since the regrowth of the forest.

The water- and wave-absorbing power of wetlands and the salt-absorbing power of the mangrove forests have also provided a kind of economic security for communities. People know their homes and farm fields are less likely to get washed away with the next storm. This has empowered these communities to invest in dry-forest conservation in the Bight as well, which creates income opportunities from things like apiculture (beekeeping).

Alternative Livelihoods

The CCAMF鈥檚 alternative livelihoods project has partnered with the National Environment and Planning Agency (NEPA) to impact communities for the better. The partnership has led to an apiculture and honey production support initiative in the Bight, as well as an ecotourism program that will employ community members as guides and boat operators in the mangrove boardwalks and on the Salt River.

鈥淗ere in Salt River, we have a couple of people who are bee farmers. Selling honey not only serves as a way to make money outside of fishing, but the extra bees pollinating in the area increase the yield of certain crops,鈥� says Marine Campbell, longtime resident of the Salt River community. 鈥淭his year, the mango crop was more plentiful, and I believe it was because of the bees.鈥� Even residents in Portland Cottage, one of the more remote communities along the Bight, report a similar but more modest interest in apiculture as a sustainable income stream.

Through efforts like the mangrove replanting, Jamaican communities have proven that commitment and teamwork are critical climate resilience measures. The dry-forest cutting and coal burning that used to be a means of income for many is being discouraged and phased out, with bee farming presenting as a more sustainable option yielding more benefits.

These days cutting down mangroves in the Bight is absolutely illegal and a punishable offense. Still, it鈥檚 not only police enforcement that has kept the area protected; an increase in public education plays its own role. According to Campbell, 鈥淚 remember at one point they had a training by our church and we were invited. They taught us some of the importance of the mangroves and the different types. I would say people are more alert now when it comes to that.鈥�

Community members are vigilant in their protection of the mangroves because they know what they stand to lose without them. The bond between the environment and the community remains strong, and the addition of management entities and government agencies such as NEPA helps to provide additional legitimacy to ensure these efforts continue.

The Caribbean Coastal Area Management Foundation鈥檚 director, Ingrid Parchment, is optimistic about the Bight and the work the organization has in store for it. She expects that the collaboration with the community will continue to grow as they welcome the participation of more community members and donors, as well as government and the private sector. She hopes that more and more people will visit the Bight, not only to learn about Jamaica鈥檚 natural history and resources, but also to understand more about climate change adaptation actions鈥攁nd, critically, to meet the people who continue to call Portland Bight home.

This story was produced with the support of the Pulitzer Center.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 the gas odors, and then there鈥檚 the garbage odors coming from when they open the landfill and are actually dumping, or the trains unloading from New York City,鈥� Gary McNeil  City, a local news site. 鈥淭hat gets a little worse in the summer, you鈥檒l smell a much more pungent waste odor.鈥�

McNeil heads , a nonprofit that has been organizing against the landfill, which residents say emits foul, . The organization  the town in which the landfill resides as well as the waste management company that runs it.

But in January 2022, the group took a new approach. It filed , claiming the site violated residents鈥� newly enshrined constitutional right to 鈥渃lean air and a healthy environment.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Just two months earlier, after years of advocacy, New Yorkers had voted 2-to-1 in favor of  to add a green amendment to the state constitution, making New York the third state to do so. (Pennsylvania and Montana passed green amendments through their own political processes in 1971 and 1972, respectively.)

Advocates say these amendments can be a powerful tool in advancing environmental justice. 

鈥淭he green amendment necessarily refocuses the government,鈥� said Maya K. van Rossum, an environmental lawyer and founder of Green Amendments For the Generations. 鈥淚t鈥檚 no longer [a question of] accepting pollution as a foregone conclusion and deciding what permit to issue for it. Government actually has to refocus its efforts to ensure they鈥檙e not infringing on this constitutional right.鈥�

In June, the U.S. Supreme Court issued  that limits the Environmental Protection Agency鈥檚 ability to restrict emissions. The court鈥檚 decision drives home the urgency of such constitutional protection, van Rossum said. 

Organizers and lawmakers are currently advancing green amendments in at least a dozen states across the U.S., including New Mexico, Maine, Hawai鈥榠, Washington, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland. 

New Mexico State Sen. Antoinette Sedillo Lopez, who introduced a resolution to adopt a green amendment in her state, agrees with van Rossum. 鈥淲ith the recent West Virginia v. EPA decision, I鈥檓 worried about the Supreme Court gutting our federal agencies,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 important that the state step up, and this is one of the tools that we can use.鈥�

In order to be most effective, van Rossum said legal rights to a healthy environment need to be included in states鈥� Bills of Rights. 鈥淚f you have an amendment that says the people have a right to clean water and clean air, as determined by the State General Assembly, you haven鈥檛 changed anything. You just put in place pretty language,鈥� she said. Inclusion in the Bill of Rights would make clean air and a healthy environment an inalienable right, like freedom of speech. (These amendments do not include  defining or quantifying what it means for air to be clean or an environment to be healthy.)

The push to secure the constitutional right to a healthy environment comes amid a growing awareness that pollution and climate change do not affect all communities equally. Black, Hispanic, and Native communities are exposed to higher levels of  than the general population and suffer higher rates of childhood asthma. They are also more likely to live in areas more vulnerable to  and .

In New Mexico, mining, fracking, and drilling operations, such as those taking place in the , are typically sited near communities of color, Sedillo Lopez said. 鈥淚 actually had a colleague say, 鈥榃rite off the Permian Basin, just call it a sacrifice zone and walk away.鈥� Well, the [communities near the] Permian Basin are ,鈥� she said, adding that another  facing similar issues is majority Native American.

Sedillo Lopez said a green amendment would obligate the state legislature to assess the potential health and environmental impact of certain activities鈥攆or example, installing a fracking pipeline鈥攂efore they begin. 鈥淭he state, before granting the permits for a pipeline, would have to examine, is this pipeline strong enough?鈥� she said. 鈥淲here is it going through? Is it near schools? Is it near farms? What is the impact if this were to leak? What [would be] the impact if this didn鈥檛 just leak, it exploded?鈥� 

In January 2020,  near Carlsbad, New Mexico, contaminating the water on at least one family farm, sickening members of the family and their animals. Sedillo Lopez said a green amendment might have prevented the pipeline from being installed near the family鈥檚 water source in the first place.

Like green amendments around the country, New Mexico鈥檚 faces a difficult path forward. Sedillo Lopez  the legislation in 2021, and opponents have voted it down twice.

New Mexico鈥檚 prominent oil and gas industry poses a challenge to the proposed amendment, said Sedillo Lopez. 鈥淯nfortunately, oil and gas revenue is very important to the state. And that鈥檚 the headwind we鈥檙e facing,鈥� she said, adding that the power of such special interests underscores the importance of transitioning to wind, solar, and other cleaner sources of energy and employing people in those fields.

Sedillo Lopez said she expects the legislation to go before the state legislature again when the next session starts in January.

As in New Mexico, environmental justice advocates in Maryland have been pushing for a green amendment of their own for years. In April, opponents of the proposed Environmental Human Rights Amendment prevented the legislation from advancing beyond committee for the fourth time,  broad language used in the amendment would 鈥渦nleash a flood of litigation.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Del. Kumar Barve, the chair of Maryland鈥檚 Environment and Transportation Committee,  about the amendment to Maryland Matters, a local news site.

鈥淚t鈥檚 better to have environmental regulations and enforcement handled by the executive and legislative branches of government, rather than the court system and juries decide these things, because these are complex issues that are not absolutist in their nature,鈥� Barve said. 

Supporters of the legislation, like  of the South Baltimore Community Land Trust, say they are undeterred. 鈥淔or people, especially communities of low income and of color, [a green amendment] is a way to say, 鈥榊ou鈥檙e not crazy,鈥欌�� Campbell said. 鈥淵our right to clean air is just a basic, bare minimum.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Like New Mexico, Maryland鈥檚 proposed green amendment could be brought before the state legislature again when the next legislative session begins in January.

New Jersey鈥檚 proposed green amendment has faced similar challenges, with opponents there also saying such legislation could open companies up to frivolous litigation. 

There, advocates like Kim Gaddy of Clean Water Action are pushing to get enough legislative support to put a green amendment on the ballot in the state鈥檚 .

鈥淲hen you think about how we want future generations to be protected, we can鈥檛 have environmental sacrifice zones where, just because it鈥檚 Newark or a community that is low income or people of color, we can鈥檛 protect them,鈥� Gaddy said. 鈥淲e need a green amendment in the state of New Jersey to bring some relief to these communities who have suffered for too long.鈥�

Montana and Pennsylvania show what is possible when citizens are given inalienable rights to a safe and healthy environment, van Rossum said, adding that those states have not seen a deluge of frivolous lawsuits. In those states, the law has been used, for example, to  and . Youth climate activists are currently , arguing that the state鈥檚 energy policy, which relies on fossil fuel exploration, infringes on their constitutional right to a clean and healthy environment. The trial of  is scheduled to begin in February of next year.

(According to van Rossum, advocates in Montana and Pennsylvania have only begun to effectively use green amendments to address environmental injustice in the past decade or so.)

Enacting a green amendment is only a first step to ensuring citizens actually enjoy their newly enshrined rights, supporters say. 鈥淲e can look at the right to free speech and freedom of religion, and we will still see abuses,鈥� said van Rossum. 鈥淏ut because the constitutional right is there, we have a check on that misuse of power.鈥�

Van Rossum said she plans to organize state by state. 鈥淸Eventually,] we鈥檙e going to reach a tipping point. That鈥檚 when we鈥檒l go for the federal green amendment.鈥�

This article originally appeared in and was made possible by a grant from the Open Society Foundations. is an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow .

On Feb. 3, 2023, a headed to the Pedricktown plant in Southern New Jersey derailed and spilled hazardous materials鈥攊ncluding vinyl chloride, a colorless gas that is used to produce PVC for garden hoses, toys, and water pipes鈥攊n the small rural town of East Palestine. Though Norfolk Southern cleaned up the site, industrial-size blue tanks still lined the pastures holding millions of gallons of toxic runoff, a stark reminder of the ongoing crisis.

East Palestine is a glimpse into our dystopian neoliberal futures鈥攚here a sleepy, rural town of 4,681 (as of 2022) with a median household income of $44,000 can turn into a disaster zone due to corporate negligence. Though most run through historically marginalized communities, any geographic region鈥攔ural or urban, middle class or impoverished鈥攃an become a sacrifice zone or 鈥渃ollateral damage鈥� for big businesses.

Our activist group traveled to East Palestine to meet with the various community members attempting to hold Norfolk Southern accountable for the train derailment. We were there to connect those fighting Chessie, Seaboard, X (CSX) coal trains in South Baltimore to those holding Norfolk Southern accountable.

We gathered in a local community center, where East Palestine residents shared their experiences on a stage. They described the area before the disaster as 鈥渢he best in small rural town life,鈥� with streets lined with trees and charming houses and kids playing in well-maintained parks and little creeks.

Over pizza and salad, our activist groups learned from one another, strategized across borders, and mapped future plans for collaboration. It was an opportunity to solidify demands around universal access to health care, which could set a powerful precedent for other overburdened communities.

Disaster Response or Negligence?

Within hours of the derailment, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) deployed a team of trained emergency response personnel to East Palestine to aid state and local emergency and environmental response efforts. The Department of Transportation also arrived within hours to support the National Transportation Safety Board in their independent investigation of the derailment. The Department of Health and Human Services worked alongside state and local health departments to conduct public health testing and offer technical assistance.

However, East Palestine residents say the government response has been inadequate at best and negligent at worst. In our meeting, they often spoke about wanting more government involvement and attention. 鈥淲e are tired of waiting for the Environmental Protection Agency and federal government to do something,鈥� a weary resident explained.

Shortly after our gathering, in May 2024, Robert Kroutil, a scientist who spent four decades helping to create the ASPECT program, a high-tech plane the EPA uses to detect chemical compounds in the air, became a whistleblower. He argued that the deployment of was the 鈥渕ost unusual鈥� he鈥檚 ever seen.

Though EPA Chief Michael Reagan praised the work of his agency, giving specific credit to the high-tech plane they used to detect chemical compounds in the air, Kroutil offers an alternative narrative. Typically, is to have the ASPECT plane in the air within hours of a chemical disaster. Instead, it was deployed five days after the chemical spill.

An East Palestine resident even told reporters that the person in charge of the flight that day had their for several hours, making her unreachable. Once EPA finally did arrive on the scene, residents were told that everything was fine and they could return home even though it still smelled like 鈥渟weet bleach.鈥�

To Burn or Not to Burn

Shortly after the derailment, Keith Drabick, East Palestine鈥檚 fire chief, said the consensus in the command center was to in order to avoid a massive explosion. A month later, in National Transportation and Safety Board hearings, Norfolk Southern revealed that the real reason for the burning was that they wanted to as quickly as possible.

Ohio residents living within the area of the controlled burn were urged to evacuate and told they might risk death if they stayed. However, residents living 20 miles over the border in Pennsylvania weren鈥檛 notified of the upcoming burn or given information to help them make informed decisions about how best to protect their families.

The 鈥溾�� had adverse impacts on community residents in different ways. The health impacts range from skin lesions to cancers. 鈥淯nfortunately, the people it impacted the most were usually folks who had chronic health conditions, preexisting health conditions, women, and children,鈥� says Hilary Flint, who lived about four miles away, in Enon Valley, Pennsylvania. While she wasn鈥檛 in the evacuation zone, she still decided to be cautious and spend the night in a hotel farther away. 鈥淚f you looked in the rearview mirror, you could see the black plume from the vinyl chloride tankers,鈥� Flint recalls. 鈥淚t was very postapocalyptic.鈥�

Flint could not afford to stay in a hotel for more than one night, so she was forced to return home. As she walked through the front door, she said, her eyes started to water and her skin turned red. 鈥淭o this day, if I鈥檓 in my house, I am like a lobster,鈥� she says. Flint later experienced , nosebleeds, headaches, and continuous flare-ups of her preexisting autoimmune disease. The only advice her doctor has been able to give her is to 鈥渘ot be in that home.鈥�

For the first six months after the derailment, Flint worked an extra job so she could afford to occasionally stay at a hotel. Her boss at the time said her clothes smelled, and she would have to shower before she spent time with her boyfriend, who has chemical sensitivities. She calls this time 鈥渄emoralizing.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Flint, who is a cancer survivor, was afraid that being in her home could impact her remission. A few months ago, Flint鈥檚 doctors found non-cancerous spots on her lungs, which weren鈥檛 present during her previous scans. Flint now owes $15,000 in medical bills. 鈥淚 never plan to pay them because it should be on Norfolk Southern,鈥� she says. 鈥淚f you do have a health symptom, and you don鈥檛 get an answer, and you keep getting referrals, it just keeps adding up.鈥�

Flint is not the only person near East Palestine who鈥檚 experiencing medical difficulties after the derailment: Zsuzsa Gyenes, who lived about a mile from the derailment site, began feeling ill a few hours after the accident. 

鈥淚t felt like my brain was smacking into my skull,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 got very disoriented and nauseous. And my skin started tingling.鈥� Her 9-year-old son, who has asthma, also became sick. 鈥淗e was projectile puking and shaking violently,鈥� she continued. 鈥淗e was gasping for air.鈥�

Gyenes鈥� family relocated to a hotel, which Norfolk Southern reimbursed for a time. The company also covered the cost of food and other expenses, including the remote-controlled car Gyenes bought to cheer up her son, who was devastated because he missed the Valentine鈥檚 Day party at his school. 

However, after several months, Norfolk Southern stopped reimbursing her expenses. Gyenes was continuing to cover the cost of a hotel while looking for a new home, but if she was unable to find a new place, she and her son would likely have to move into a homeless shelter. 

鈥淓very rental application gets rejected due to my lowered income/credit from the mess of the past year,鈥� Gyenes said in an email. 鈥淚鈥檝e never been in this kind of position before, and I鈥檝e been extremely depressed and overwhelmed about it.鈥�

Gyenes now has a new apartment. She crowdfunded some of the costs and Norfolk Southern helped with the rest.

Doctors, Debt, and Settlements

On May 23, several weeks after we gathered in East Palestine, Norfolk Southern agreed to a Department of Justice (DOJ) settlement of $310 million. Norfolk Southern will be required to take measures to improve rail safety, pay for health monitoring and mental health services for the surrounding community, pay a $15 million civil penalty, and take other actions to protect nearby waters and critical drinking resources.

The DOJ settlement also allotted $25 million for a that includes medical monitoring for impacted individuals and mental health services for individuals. A separate class-action lawsuit was settled with Norfolk Southern for $600 million. The agreement will resolve all within a 20-mile radius of the derailment and, for those residents who choose to participate, personal injury claims within a 10-mile radius, court documents show.

However, residents feel this settlement is not enough. 鈥淚 just think that it鈥檚 too soon to settle on such a low number, no matter how you were impacted, because you really don鈥檛 know what the future holds,鈥� Jessica Conard, the Appalachia director for Beyond Plastics, told . 鈥淲e really do need Norfolk Southern to take care of this, but also the federal government.鈥�

Flint agrees, noting that the settlement doesn鈥檛 cover the debt accrued by families in and around the disaster zone. 鈥淐ommunity residents have medical bills well over what they would receive in a class-action settlement,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his is a miserable settlement.鈥�

Gyenes will not settle for medical costs yet because, as she said, 鈥淲e got sick and still don鈥檛 have answers about the future.鈥� She said she had no access to proper specialists or testing. The routine blood work Gyenes requested will not be covered, and she cannot afford the upfront costs. Norfolk Southern said they will not help offset these costs.

The next phase of relief is still up in the air: In February 2023, Ohio Senator Sherrod Brown called upon the state鈥檚 governor to declare East Palestine a and authorize assistance for , which is essential for public health incidents. 鈥淚鈥檓 grateful for all that the Ohio Environmental Protection Agency, U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, Ohio Emergency Management Agency, local fire fighters, and local law enforcement have done to respond to this unprecedented disaster, but it鈥檚 critical we act quickly to supplement those efforts,鈥� Brown wrote. 鈥淎dditional federal resources can and should play a critical role in helping our fellow Ohioans get back on their feet and ensure that their community is a safe place to live, work, and raise a family.鈥�

For more than a year, East Palestine residents have also been pushing for President Biden to issue a disaster declaration for the area, which would, in turn, invoke . This would unlock a whole suite of federal resources that residents desperately need and immediately guarantee every resident emergency health care in the larger disaster zone.

鈥淭he people of this community had their lives overturned by 53 train cars and the negligence of a corporation that cut safety to enrich its bottom line,鈥� Brown said in an . 鈥淚t鈥檚 our responsibility to do everything possible to help them recover,鈥� he continued. 鈥淣ow it is your time to step up and provide the support that only FEMA can.鈥�

In February, a year after the derailment, Biden visited the site, where he praised for their courage and resilience and called out Norfolk Southern for not taking proper precautions. However, his administration has still not invoked . Instead, in September 2023, Biden issued a different that directed the Federal Emergency Management Agency to appoint a federal disaster recovery coordinator to oversee community cleanup.

鈥淣ow it鈥檚 more about the long-term systems that we need to rearrange so that no other community has to go through this,鈥� Flint says. 鈥淗ow do we make sure there鈥檚 great health testing in the very beginning of things? How do we make sure there are good checks and balances? How do we make sure that other communities don鈥檛 have to look at the person who harmed them and beg them for money?鈥�

Residents have formed the Justice for East Palestine Residents and Workers Coalition, a coalition of nearly 80 people who are mobilizing to pressure Biden to invoke the Stafford Act. Labor unions are also demanding Biden open up the Stafford Act to provide universal health care coverage to the entire impacted area, setting a precedent that would also open up possibilities for other communities impacted by environmental injustice to receive health care.

More Than Lip Service

The same corporate negligence Norfolk Southern displayed in East Palestine is happening in South Baltimore. Since a at the Coal Pier in Curtis Bay in 2022, the (a group of which I am a part) has been working with residents to organize against CSX open-air coal trains and piers that are compromising the health of the community of South Baltimore. We are utilizing , qualitative research methods, and other tools to hold CSX accountable for negligent practices.

Since our trip to East Palestine, Baltimore activists have been holding weekly meetings with the Justice for East Palestine Residents and Workers to discuss the settlement and collective responses. The group plans to travel to Washington, D.C., on October 8 to continue demanding the federal government step in and provide fully funded health care to those who have been affected by the derailment.

Justice is not simply a payout; that is charity. Justice is working together across borders to envision new localized economies that protect human health and lay the framework for a transition away from fossil fuels and plastics.

After a year of feeling sick and searching for answers, Flint is not done.

鈥淚鈥檓 delusionally hopeful,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 think it really helps to surround yourself with people who fight for the common good instead of what鈥檚 good for them [individually]. We, the people, in the end, will change the systems that hold us back right now.鈥�

鈥淚t kind of looks like the end of the world at times,鈥� said Elida Castillo, program director of Chispa Texas, a Latinx grassroots organizing program. This apocalyptic scene from 2021 plays out regularly in San Patricio County in Texas at a plastics manufacturing plant operated by Gulf Coast Growth Ventures, a joint venture between ExxonMobil and Saudi Basic Industries Corporation. 

The Growth Ventures plant is the largest ethane steam cracker facility in the world, making nurdles鈥攕mall plastic pellets鈥攖hat are the building blocks for plastic manufacturing. Gulf Coast Growth Ventures did not respond to a request for comment, but , these ground flares are compared to 鈥渁 giant barbecue鈥� used to burn off excess gas whenever nurdle production is started or stopped.

Castillo says the flares usually last about two days, during which time local community members have reported their windows shaking. Community members see a correlation between the plant and worsening health, too. 鈥淲e have people who are dying from all types of cancer, cardiovascular disease, kidney disease, lung disease,鈥� Castillo says. 鈥淭he amount of kids with asthma in our communities 鈥� it鈥檚 always been high, but it just seems to increase every year.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

That鈥檚 in addition to the environmental impacts of plastic manufacturing. Castillo says most of the nurdles produced at the Texas plant are exported to China, where they are turned into plastic products. But in the past four years, in the Gulf of Mexico after having leaked from production facilities like Gulf Coast Growth Ventures. 

Gulf Coast Growth Ventures alone consumes to operate in the region, which has been under for the past two years. In March 2024, the region advanced into , which limit residential use of water sprinklers to one day every other week. Meanwhile, industries use up in Nueces and San Patricio Counties, according to the Texas Water Development Board.

The harmful intersection of environmental justice and plastics is keenly felt in communities of color like Castillo鈥檚, where these industries are disproportionately concentrated. Around the world, frontline communities like this one are paying the price for plastics every step of the way: the production, manufacturing, purported recycling, pollution, and ultimate disposal of single-use plastics. 

of plastic is produced from chemicals that come from fossil fuels. In addition to nurdles, San Patricio County is also a major exporter of liquified natural gas, . , in the name of energy security, locking countries into an even longer term commitment to fossil fuels (and their emissions and pollution).

, but its contents are still murky and hotly debated. 

Marce Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧 is the founder of , a grassroots organization that works with Latinx communities to protect coasts and oceans. She has participated in the plastics treaty talks and says that has become a symbol of the plastics crisis in the public鈥檚 mind, but the problem is much, much more pervasive.

鈥淭he fact is, by the time that straw gets stuck in that turtle鈥檚 nose, it has left a wake of destruction in its path,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t is very sad, but that is only the last part of it.鈥�

Can Countries Agree on a Solution?

Nearly 500 miles east of San Patricio County, between Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and New Orleans, an industrial corridor along the lower Mississippi River has come to be known as 鈥淐ancer Alley鈥� because of the concentration of petrochemical plants and refineries鈥攁bout 150 industrial facilities鈥攁nd the resulting , including cancer.

鈥淭hose communities are 47 times more likely to have cancer. So for them, what they need is for us to produce less [plastic],鈥� says Erin Simon, vice president of Plastic Waste and Business at the World Wildlife Fund and 鈥攖he fourth of five rounds of treaty discussions, which took place in April 2024 in Ottawa, Canada.

The talks have been taking place since 2022, when the United Nations adopted a to develop a legally binding instrument on plastic pollution. Confoundingly, the talks in Ottawa and were afforded more access than journalists. By the end of the negotiations, there was : reducing new plastic production. .

鈥淲hen you walk into a bathroom and a tub is overflowing, you don鈥檛 start mopping. You have to turn off that tap,鈥� says Jackie Nu帽ez, the founder of The Last Plastic Straw and advocacy and engagement manager for the Plastic Pollution Coalition.

Activists see any form of recycling without reducing production as deeply ineffective at addressing the underlying injustices of plastic. Chemical recycling, for example (which is being touted by in Washington), breaks down plastic waste and can potentially remake it to the same quality as virgin materials鈥攁n arguable material improvement over . But critics the process is just , creating more toxic output鈥攁long with all the negative health effects that accompany it. 

Many advocates say there is no place in a circular economy for single-use plastic, decrying plastic recycling as the recirculation of toxic chemicals, which then accumulate and exacerbate the problems. 

Recycling can only be a small part of the solution鈥攊f at all鈥攂ecause it is premised on magical thinking, according to Vivek Maru, founder and CEO of Namati, which aims to advance social and environmental justice through the law. 鈥淭he U.S. has such an outsized influence on the global economy, and so I think it鈥檚 absolutely crucial for justice for communities here, and for communities abroad, that the U.S. take a bold stance and support a strong plastics treaty that is about reduction.鈥�

鈥淚 want to see everyone on the same page鈥濃�攚hether that鈥檚 banning plastics, or putting fees on plastic bags, or otherwise regulating them out of the picture鈥斺�渂ecause then we can see a real shift in the market-side dynamics of those materials,鈥� says Trey Sherard, the Anacostia Riverkeeper, who leads advocacy and outreach work to restore the Anacostia River in Washington D.C.

Maru and other environmental justice advocates, as well as environmental groups like Greenpeace, are calling for a strong treaty that will cut plastic production by by 2040. That means going a lot further than chemical recycling, which Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧 says 鈥渋s wishful thinking at best and predatory at worst.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Global South Impacts

On the other end of the plastic process, countries in the Global South have long borne the brunt of plastic waste. The World Wildlife Fund that low-income countries incur a total lifetime cost of plastic 10 times higher than that of rich countries, despite consuming almost three times less plastic per capita. 

Another pressing question in the ongoing treaty negotiations is whether higher-consuming countries will take commensurate responsibility for the plastic they create, consume, and throw away. Despite accounting for only 15% of the world population, consumers in the Global North account for

鈥淥ne of the things we hear a lot is that we have to get this [treaty] done very quickly,鈥� says Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧, who attended all four sessions of negotiations to date鈥攊n Uruguay, Kenya, France, and Canada. 鈥淎nd I understand that it is a crisis, but I think that we have to do it the right way. Are we actually listening to the voices that are the most impacted? We have to look at the whole context of鈥擨 don鈥檛 like to say life cycle鈥攖he death cycle of plastics. We don鈥檛 want to be here 30 years from now looking at what could have been.鈥�

The last day of talks in Ottawa went until 3 a.m. Many hours of deliberation were spent in working groups on particular issues so the following plenary, where decisions can be made, started late and ran long.

鈥淲e were all very tired and very hungry. But, at the same time, there鈥檚 a lot of excitement,鈥� says Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧. 鈥淎ll options are on the table. We can still鈥攁nd we should鈥攄o right not just by our current generations but our future generations.鈥�

Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧 remains optimistic for a binding treaty that could put a cap on plastic production. At the same time, she is concerned that the process requires a consensus, not just a majority vote. 

鈥淲e have 170 parties, and we can have one or two that are just very vocal and throw a wrench in the work of everyone else,鈥� she says. 

With the last round of treaty discussions scheduled to take place in Busan, Korea, in November, the UN aims to have an agreement in place by the end of 2024, but there is a long way to go. It remains up in the air whether the treaty will include provisions to drastically reduce plastic production and address calls for distributive justice within and among communities disproportionately impacted by plastic.

Maru is advocating for a just transition, including a 75% reduction in plastic production that involves countries most burdened by plastic waste.

鈥淭丑别谤别 could be a real flourishing of industries that are more harmonious, more sustainable, to rise up and take the place of this toxic disposable industry that is poisoning all of us,鈥� Maru says, pointing to the examples of raffia bags and gourds informed by his work in Sierra Leone.

Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧 continues to work toward solutions to the plastic problem in her community, including by advocating for a reusable bag initiative. She recounts the mock concern, the 鈥渃ondescension and paternalism鈥� she and her fellow activists faced as lobbyists and pollsters told her that 鈥減eople are too poor to care.鈥� But these are the same people most affected by plastics, and

Back in San Patricio County, Elida Castillo and her community are fighting for more of a commitment to environmental justice. She said she is fighting against decades of misinformation and manipulation from the oil and gas industry, and now the petrochemical industry.

And the pushback is becoming more sophisticated everywhere, says Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧. 鈥淚n our everyday lives, we need to question things. Why are they speaking? What are they profiting? Where is this coming from? From me to you to everything we see, we have to become very critical and well-versed citizens and people.鈥�

The imperative of persisting through pushback to make solutions happen is universal. That鈥檚 true for everyone, not just those in communities feeling the harshest effects of these plastic injustices.  鈥淛ust because we have these facilities where we live doesn鈥檛 mean your voice can鈥檛 also help us,鈥� Castillo says. 鈥淲hat is happening where we live is impacting the world.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 4:06 p.m. PT on July 23, 2024, to clarify that Guti茅rrez-Graudi艈拧 has attended all four treaty talks, not just two.听Read our corrections policy here.

Officials feared runoff from the toxic ash could pollute local creeks once the rainy season hit, potentially tainting the drinking water supply for the region’s 700,000 residents.

In the aftermath of the fires, federal and state workers . But then, in Sonoma County, a coalition of fire remediation experts, local businesses, and ecological activists to cleanse the foundations of burned-out buildings with … mushrooms. The Fire Remediation Action Coalition placed more than 40 miles of wattles—straw-filled, snakelike tubes designed to prevent erosion—inoculated with oyster mushrooms around parking lots, along roads, and across hillsides.

Their plan? The tubes would provide makeshift channels, diverting runoff from sensitive waterways. The mushrooms would do the rest.

The volunteers, led by Sebastopol-based landscape professional Erik Ohlsen, are advocates for “mycoremediation,” an experimental bioremediation technique that uses mushrooms to clean up hazardous waste, harnessing their natural ability to use enzymes to break down foreign substances.

In the last 15 years, fungi enthusiasts and so-called “citizen scientists” have deployed mushrooms to clean up in the Amazon, in Denmark, in New Zealand, and polychlorinated biphenyls, more commonly known as , in Washington state’s Spokane River. Research suggests mushrooms pesticides and herbicides to more innocuous compounds, remove heavy metals from brownfield sites, and . They have even been used to heavy metals from contaminated water.

It’s the root mycelia that do all the work, says Daniel Reyes, founder of the Austin, Texas-based science and education company MycoAlliance, referring to the threadlike network of roots that connect species of fungi. “Compared to an apple tree, the mushroom we see growing above ground is the apple, and the mycelium is the tree itself. Mycologists focus on the mycelium,” he says.

Mycelia consume their food externally, by secreting powerful enzymes that break down molecules. In other words, they “digest” whatever substrate, or surface, they’re growing on, converting it to nutrients and—depending on the substrate—edible mushrooms.

Proponents say it’s a natural, more benign, and potentially cheaper alternative to the “scrape-and-burn” approach to environmental cleanup, which involves digging up contaminated soil and incinerating it.

The problem with that traditional approach is that it can remove potentially fertile topsoil, says Theresa Halula, who teaches mushroom cultivation at Merritt College in Oakland, California. Mycoremediation, on the other hand, she says, can help clean up toxic sites while actually improving soil fertility.

So why isn’t mycoremediation a more common practice?

Current mycoremediation solutions simply work too slowly to be embraced on an industrial scale.

One reason, Halula says, is that federal regulations require the removal of 100 percent of targeted contaminants within a short time frame. Current mycoremediation solutions simply work too slowly to be embraced on an industrial scale. “In nature, mushrooms break down all kinds of substances, and we’re just beginning to look at this more closely in the lab and in field studies,” she says. “But we don’t yet know the speed of the breakdown, and how effective that breakdown is.”

As a result, most mycoremediation projects are undertaken at the local level, like the Sonoma County project.

“Mycology is very neglected as a science, and mycoremediation is currently very site-specific,” says Peter McCoy, a self-trained mycologist viewed by many of his adherents as a founder of the . (His book, Radical Mycology: A Treatise on Seeing and Working With Fungi, helped give the movement its name.) McCoy says there’s no one-size-fits-all method for applying mushrooms to biohazard sites. Reactions vary depending on species of mushroom, contaminants present, and local growing conditions, which means treatments must be customized and that further exploration is likely necessary.

“Hopefully, we’ll develop enough anecdotal evidence for certain common pollution scenarios that we can build off-the-shelf protocols. But we’re not there yet,” McCoy says.

Like other subfields of bioremediation, mycoremediation has failed to attract much investment. “This is an inherent problem in the bioremediation industry,” says William Mohn, a microbiologist at the University of British Columbia who specializes in microbial degradation. “We are not producing a product that people want to buy. We are producing something that companies are sometimes forced to do. It’s hard to make a great business case for it. Or, quite frankly, a case for academic research.”

Funding is so hard to come by, Mohn says, that he left the bioremediation field. “It’s easier to find funding for other types of research,” he says.

That means, as McCoy puts it, “it falls on citizen scientists and garage researchers to do the work.”

Some of those citizen scientists are recruited by Tradd Cotter, a microbiologist who travels the country spreading the gospel of mycoremediation. “I tell people that the first thing we have to do is find mushrooms that break down the stuff we want to break down. And when we find mushrooms doing extraordinary things, we want to clone them,” he says.

During one of his presentations, a participant said he had seen a mushroom growing on a bowling ball. Cotter asked the class, “Is this a mushroom we want to study, and why?” A young boy piped up to say, “Yes! Because it eats plastic!”

A DIY spirit of informality pervades mycology culture, in part by disposition and in part because there is no other choice. 

Cotter, who runs Mushroom Mountain research lab in South Carolina, says he receives packages almost every week—usually dried mushrooms along with letters describing where they were found—from people hoping to contribute to his research. “There are thousands of people out looking for mushrooms doing strange things. People really do want to help. It gives them a sense that they are contributing, even if they’re not a microbiologist.”

He likens effective mushrooms to janitors with giant sets of keys—enzymes—that break down molecules. “If you have one key, you might be a mushroom that will only grow on a very specific type of wood. Another mushroom from the same species could have a huge key set—perhaps it can grow on oak, plastic, or oil,” Cotter says. “We want to screen the fungi with huge key sets to see what they can eat: oil, herbicides, insecticides, and synthetic compounds.”

Beyond the work being done in these independent labs, enthusiastic amateurs are conducting their own projects in the field. According to Cotter’s lab partner, Leif Olson, “It’s happening out of necessity. People see all these environmental issues, and they want to do something about it. They hear that oyster mushroom mycelia can clean contaminated water, and they are eager to practice this knowledge.”

McCoy founded the Radical Mycology Mycelial Network, an online community of so-called “mycoevangelists,” in an attempt to harness that enthusiasm. Members exchange information, uploading geotagged photos of mushrooms taken in the wild for public research. While the decentralized nature of the group makes it difficult to gauge the size of the community, McCoy’s Mycelial Network contact page lists groups in California, North Carolina, and Washington state; “nodes” in the U.S., Canada, and United Kingdom; and “hyphal tips” of individual mycoevangelists in 14 states. Sometimes, they even get together in person. This past summer a group of over 600 radical mycologists gathered in the hills of rural Oregon to talk mushrooms, share knowledge, and, as New Food Economy contributor Doug Bierend it, generally “let their fungus flags fly.”

Despite their zeal, many fungi enthusiasts treat empirical design and data collection as an afterthought. In its December 2018 progress report, Fire Remediation Action Coalition’s Ohlsen said that the team didn’t take the time to implement scientific design principles, such as setting up control areas, measuring pretreatment toxin levels, or developing and following protocols like measuring and controlling the amount of mycelia in each wattle. Furthermore, the volunteers were not trained scientists, and the coalition didn’t have the resources to design and conduct a scientifically valid study.

In other words, a DIY spirit of informality pervades mycology culture, in part by disposition and in part because there is no other choice. But if the movement is going to realize its potential, its loose community of adherents may need to find ways to formalize their work.

Ohlsen expressed the hope that more scientists will bring empirical design expertise to future mycoremediation projects and encouraged nearby communities to start planning now for the next wildfire season so that data collection can be cemented into future fire remediation protocols. Unfortunately, he predicts, coming fire seasons will provide plenty of “tragic opportunities” to do so.

This article was originally published by . It has been edited for 大象传媒 Magazine.  is a nonprofit newsroom covering the forces shaping how and what we eat.

It was 2007, and the fracking industry was just beginning to take hold in southwest Pennsylvania. The then-fledgling industry was not really on Lynch鈥檚 radar; between raising a daughter and working full-time as a therapist, she had her hands full. Things got even busier when she had her son in April 2009 and he began suffering from frightening wheezing spells when he was 6 months old, requiring periodic medical attention.

鈥淗onestly, I really had very little understanding of what was going on in the region,鈥� she says.

Just before her daughter was set to start kindergarten, Lynch and her family moved half an hour away to Indiana Township to be close to a good school and have more space to play outside. The neighborhood had everything the growing family could hope for, with a park to play soccer and softball and a creek for summertime wading.

A couple of years later, however, she learned via a neighbor鈥檚 Facebook post that the fracking industry had quietly placed a in her community, just above the local park. Infuriated and inspired to act, in 2018, Lynch joined up with the local chapter of the national environmental advocacy group , where she now works as a part-time organizer.

Lynch and her fellow organizers were not able to shut down the well pad, but they did win more protective ordinances for the township, shielding approximately 85% of its land from future drilling.

Now, though, there鈥檚 another threat lurking at Lynch鈥檚 door: a plastics manufacturing plant that Shell Oil is constructing just an hour away, on the banks of the Ohio River.

Shell鈥檚 ethane-cracker plant, which it began building in 2017, is set to open later this year, but the company has not yet announced a firm date and did not respond to a request for comment. The first facility of its kind in Appalachia, it will use extreme heat to 鈥渃rack鈥� ethane, a byproduct of fracked gas, into ethylene, a building block for manufacturing plastic.

The facility will produce more than 1 million tons of plastic pellets per year, which will be used to make products ranging from phone cases to auto parts. As it does, the facility will spew hundreds of tons of dangerous compounds into the air while also emitting . And it will be fed by the fracked gas from thousands of wells peppered across Appalachian communities鈥攃ommunities like Lynch鈥檚.

From Gas to Plastic

The fossil fuel industry is a powerful political and economic force in Pennsylvania, and Lynch鈥檚 organizing has been an uphill battle. In recent years, though, the market has been on her side.

In the roughly 15 years since fracking first came to Appalachia, gas has become a far riskier investment. Until Russia鈥檚 recent invasion of Ukraine, growth in global demand was on the decline, especially amid the spread of COVID-19. One even found that Appalachian gas may never be profitable again.

In plastic, however, the fossil fuel industry sees a chance to turn itself around, solidifying demand for fracked gas in the region for decades to come. Local officials are on board with the scheme鈥攖hey awarded Shell one of the in national history.

Advocates are particularly concerned because the Shell cracker plant 颈蝉苍鈥檛 meant to be the sole plastic plant in the region. Rather, it is part of a plan to transform Appalachia鈥檚 Ohio River Valley into a plastic and petrochemical hub, with cracker plants, storage facilities, and gas pipelines erected across Ohio, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Kentucky.

鈥淭hese plants don鈥檛 stand alone, and they require a high volume of natural gas to do the work that they do,鈥� Lynch says. 鈥淪o when you think about the Ohio River Valley and the potential for these sorts of very large polluters to become more and more common, it really does become a more concerning story.鈥�

Health Impacts

In Lynch鈥檚 township, gas companies are currently extracting gas from . But six more are permitted for future use if the industry decides to develop them, and as demand for ethane increases to supply the cracker plant (or plants), she is concerned that the number could rise. 

Nearby areas, many of them more economically depressed, are far more open to drilling than hers. The most fracked county in the state is Washington County, where the poverty rate is higher than it is in . But as demand grows, Lynch says, fracking is expanding.

鈥淸Washington County] is where fracking really started in southwest PA, so it鈥檚 the most concentrated,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hat we鈥檙e finding is, as they鈥檙e looking for places to expand, we鈥檙e the next generation of areas that they鈥檙e coming to.鈥�

Since emissions don鈥檛 respect borders, pollution from nearby municipalities could spread across the region. The air in the area is already : A found that Allegheny County, which comprises the greater Pittsburgh area, including Indiana Township, is in the top 2% of areas in the U.S. for cancer risks from air pollution. 

Fracking鈥攕horthand for 鈥渉ydraulic fracturing鈥濃�攊nvolves pumping chemicals, such as benzene, antifreeze, and diesel, deep underground to fracture shale deposits and release the gas stored within them. The process releases airborne benzene, formaldehyde, particulate matter, and ammonia, which have been to respiratory ailments and other illnesses.

There is no way to determine whether fracking contributed to Lynch鈥檚 son鈥檚 lung issues due to his proximity to fracking operations, but the practice has been to shortness of breath, worsened asthma, and other respiratory ailments.

There are other health impacts to worry about too. Used fracking chemicals often get 鈥攁 concern that some and authorities have ignored. 

Drilling into shale for gas can also release radioactive materials, like , that have been buried for millennia. In recent years, of children have contracted rare cancers, including Ewing sarcoma, in southwest Pennsylvania. Researchers exposure to radiation could be responsible.

鈥淔racking makes people sick. It makes people very sick,鈥� says Ned Ketyer, a retired pediatrician and board member of Physicians for Social Responsibility, a physician-led organization focused on environmental health.

With the imminent opening of Shell鈥檚 cracker plant, Ketyer says there will be even more risks to health on the horizon from the plant鈥檚 emissions, including nitrogen oxide, ozone, and volatile organic compounds, as well as the increased demand for fracked gas.

Ketyer has spent years raising the alarm about the dangers of fossil fuels, but despite the evidence that gas is harming locals, he鈥檚 found that not everyone is interested in pushing back.

鈥淭his is an area where people have lived for generations, extracting fossil fuel and supporting the industries that extract fossil fuels,鈥� he says.

Challenges

Growing up in the Pittsburgh suburbs, Lynch didn鈥檛 think much about pollution. Neither, she says, did her family members鈥攅ven those who were exposed to it each day at work. Her grandfather, for instance, was an electrical engineer in the steel industry.

鈥淗e used to tell a story about how when he would get up in the morning, he would put on his white shirt to go to work, and when he would come home in the evening, the shirt would be gray,鈥� she says.

Polluting, fossil fuel-based industries鈥攃oal, steel, and now gas鈥攈ave long formed the backbone of the region鈥檚 economy. The resulting public desensitization to pollution has posed difficulties in local environmental organizing. So have Shell鈥檚 claims that the plastic industry will put people back to work. In southwest Pennsylvania, the unemployment rate is significantly .

鈥淲e are often prepared to trade our health for jobs,鈥� says Lois Bower-Bjornson, field organizer for Clean Air Council, who lives in southwest Pennsylvania鈥檚 Washington County.

Amid , local unions have been overwhelmingly supportive of the cracker plant. But while Shell once claimed the facility would create of jobs, that projection later dropped to . 

Matt Mehalik, executive director of the Breathe Project, a coalition of environmental and public health groups focused on the Pittsburgh region, says that even some residents who are skeptical of the fossil fuel industry鈥檚 expansion plans are nervous to publicly take a stand. They fear backlash not only from their neighbors, but also from the industry or its government allies.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a cultural history where people have learned through multiple generations that it鈥檚 better to just go along and get along and not raise up these issues鈥攖hat if you want to be able to survive in this county, you keep your mouth shut,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what we run up against. That is a legacy of [the region鈥檚] industrial past.鈥�

Resistance

Despite the challenges, a small yet vibrant movement in southwest Pennsylvania is fighting plans for gas and plastic expansion: holding , and , and mobilizing of people to testify at hearings.

They have achieved some wins, including the fact that the cracker plant will on-site.

taken emissions tracking , using both naked-eye observations and low-cost monitors to track pollution to ensure Shell is complying with regulations.

Beyond fighting the Shell plant itself, Lynch has also been advocating for a fairer regulatory environment, pressuring the federal government to keep its promise to instate and advocating for the state of Pennsylvania to join a , two measures that could lessen local pollution.

Activists are also working to boost public awareness of the dangers of fracking and plastic. Bower-Bjornson of the Clean Air Council, for instance, tours to introduce the public to the human impacts of fracking, showing attendees well pads and compressor sites and introducing them to people impacted by their pollution. 

Like the planned petrochemical hub, the movement for a healthier and safer environment . This varied opposition is necessary, since there鈥檚 no single policy that can take down the fossil fuel industry, says Dustin White, a senior campaigner on plastics and petrochemicals with the Center for International Environmental Law.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 no one thing that鈥檚 absolutely gonna stop it all,鈥� he says, instead calling for a 鈥渄eath by 1,000 paper cuts鈥� approach.

White, who lives in West Virginia, says this approach also includes thinking bigger by advocating for a total ban on a petrochemical build-out. Just as important is helping people envision more just and sustainable systems, where neither communities nor materials are treated as disposable: 鈥淎 more regenerative economy,鈥� he says.

It鈥檚 clear the current economic system for most working-class people in Pennsylvania. It may not even be sustainable for the fossil fuel sector. and alike have predicted that, due to a variety of market factors and increasing concern about the climate crisis, the petrochemical build-out is far from a safe financial bet.

Rather than pouring public money into projects that put Pennsylvanians鈥� health and the climate on the line鈥攁nd that could be doomed to collapse anyway鈥攁ctivists say officials should invest in more sustainable industries. Research shows that investments in renewable energy, for example, could create each year in the state.

Lynch fears that if her local economy doesn鈥檛 change quickly, the region鈥攁nd the planet鈥攕he calls home could become unlivable by the time her kids are grown. But she gains motivation from knowing there鈥檚 another path.

鈥淚 think about the oil and gas industry in Pennsylvania, but I also think about all the amazing opportunities we have to protect this region and to remind people that our health and our well-being [have] value,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the project of a lifetime.鈥�

The Byhalia Pipeline planned to run through my childhood neighborhood鈥攁 predominantly Black community. We are already suffering from 17 toxic facilities and have a . Both of my grandmothers, who lived in southwest Memphis, have died of cancer. 

The pipeline company鈥檚 spokesperson went on record saying that they chose my home for a pipeline because it was 鈥渢he point of least resistance.鈥� Or, in other words, they believed my community鈥攂ecause it was predominantly Black鈥攚ould not have the power to fight.

I had never fought a multibillion-dollar crude oil pipeline company, let alone two. I had never even called myself an activist before. But I had to do something. And so I galvanized, organized, and mobilized resistance, along with my family, leaders of the southwest Memphis Black neighborhood associations, and two landowners who refused to sell their property to the pipeline company: Clyde Robinson and Scottie Fitzgerald. 

We launched our movement to breathe clean air and end the reign of corporate power and pollution amid the Movement for Black Lives chanting 鈥渨e can鈥檛 breathe鈥� and a pandemic disproportionately killing Black people and lower-income people. After months of multiracial and multi-socioeconomic coalition building across the country, fierce pipeline opposition from Memphians, negative national press coverage about the pipeline and environmental racism, legislation being proposed at the county and city level, and court cases challenging eminent domain, the companies canceled the project. 

This cancellation sent shockwaves through the oil and gas industry. There was, in fact, strong resistance to pipelines and fossil fuels in Black and Brown communities.

This story is not just about me or my community. Yes, we care a whole lot, because it was our hometown at stake. But we aren鈥檛 the only ones who live on planet Earth. We did it because we care about everyone. The Byhalia Pipeline win is about a bigger pattern happening across the country: Everyday people, who had no plans to become activists, are securing wins to keep oil and gas pollution out of their communities and our climate.

Take for example, local and Indigenous groups, like 7 Directions of Service, POWHR, Appalachian Voices, and West Virginia Rivers, who have formed massive opposition to the proposed 304-mile Mountain Valley Pipeline (MVP) that would cut through the heart of their homelands in Appalachia. If approved, the pipeline would carry annual emissions equivalent to . These protesters have been organizing for eight years, and the pipeline has had the backing of one of the most powerful men in Washington in 2022: Sen. Joe Manchin. 

In late September, Sen. Manchin of his proposed permitting reform bill, which would have allowed the MVP to go forward. The bill also would have gutted the National Environmental Protection Act (NEPA) and made it easier for other oil and gas infrastructure to be built.

Sen. Manchin is not known for giving up easily. It took months to get him to reverse course and support the Inflation Reduction Act, the largest piece of climate legislation in the country鈥檚 history. And that was only agreed to on the condition that permitting reform would follow. So what caused him to abandon the permitting reform bill so quickly? 

Within weeks of a leak of his proposed bill, local and Indigenous groups had mobilized their powerful multiracial and economically diverse regional and national coalitions fighting the Mountain Valley Pipeline. Leaders organized from the front lines, and we were joined by some of the biggest environmental, progressive, and climate justice groups in the country.

Bold leaders, like Sens. Sanders (a Democrat from Vermont), Merkley (a Democrat from Oregon), and Kaine (a Democrat from Virginia) and Reps. Grijalva (a Democrat from Arizona), McCollum (a Democrat from Minnesota), and Cohen (a Democrat from Tennessee), had our backs. MVP is now on a lifeline thanks to thousands of people participating in dozens of public rallies, direct actions, lobbying and advocacy, coordinated sign-ons, and media traction. Together, we forced Sens. Manchin and Schumer (a Democrat from New York) to remove their dirty side deal from the Senate floor for a vote, and renewed our fight to end the Mountain Valley Pipeline.

Some commentators have argued that environmentalists made a mistake by forming opposition to the MVP, because the permitting reform could have also helped clean energy infrastructure. But the National Environmental Protection Act doesn鈥檛 impact the vast majority of renewable energy projects. Instead, activists just showed the world that Manchin鈥檚 bill was a false choice. We don鈥檛 have to build more pipeline infrastructure to expand clean energy infrastructure. We can secure responsible permitting reform that ensures communities of color and poor communities are not sacrifice zones. At the same time, we can rapidly build the clean energy infrastructure we need in America. 

The Byhalia Pipeline win and successful setbacks to MVP鈥檚 development show that frontline groups are gaining against oil and gas companies. We all have power. When we work together, combining forces鈥攖he grassroots and big greens, East Coast and Deep South, Black and Indigenous鈥攚e all win. And that brings us closer to building a livable climate and an environmentally just future. 

But make no mistake: Fossil fuel companies will ensure this permitting reform bill will rear its ugly head again. Some Democrats and Republicans are already planning to reintroduce it later in the year. 

We will not be their path of least resistance. We will be ready.

The Om Sleiman farm in the village of Bil鈥檌n is part of a growing agroecology movement in the occupied West Bank that is turning to sustainable farming as a way to resist the Israeli occupation and stay rooted to the land. Established in 2016, Om Sleiman鈥擜rabic for 鈥渓adybug鈥濃�攁ims to connect Palestinians to the produce they consume and to promote food sovereignty.

鈥淲e share the yield of the farm with 20 to 30 members, depending on the season,鈥� explains Loor Kamal, a member of Om Sleiman, as she prepares raised beds where eggplants, tomatoes, watermelons, peppers, and beans will be sown. The farm operates on a community-supported agriculture, or CSA, model in which members pay for their share of the produce at the beginning of each season, sharing both the yield and the risks of production.

One day in April, Kamal shows us around the property, which is located in Area C of the West Bank, under full Israeli military control. Here vegetables are grown alongside olive and fruit trees, but Kamal, who works at Om Sleiman with a team of five other women, mentions that a part of the land is inaccessible. 鈥淚n March, we were walking around the farm, checking the carob trees inside our land, and suddenly soldiers started shooting at us,鈥� she recalls.

Growing food under military occupation has become increasingly dangerous as settler violence and repression escalate. Even with the world鈥檚 attention focused on the war in Gaza, Israeli soldiers and settlers have killed since October.

Despite the dangers, Om Sleiman鈥檚 team is determined to continue their work. 鈥淲e have to go on, even when there is fear, because our presence here is important,鈥� says Kamal as she picks eggplants, apples, and mulberries from the farm.

The land on which they grow organic produce has special significance. The concrete wall that cuts through the West Bank expropriated hundreds of acres of Bil鈥檌n鈥檚 agricultural land in 2005. After years of protest and legal action, residents managed to regain about half of the lost farmland, a victory that turned the village into a symbol of popular resistance.

A part of the reclaimed land was donated for the establishment of this agroecology farm. For members of Om Sleiman, growing food in defiance of the encroaching wall and settlements is a way of continuing the struggle for freedom.

Agroecology As a Tool for Liberation

鈥淚f we want to be free, we need to plant our own food,鈥� says Angham Mansour, who is from Bili鈥檌n and joined Om Sleiman two years ago. The farm aims to promote independence from the occupier鈥檚 economy but also to reconnect Palestinians with the land. 鈥淔arming is part of our heritage. Going back to the land is going back to our roots, to our identity,鈥� she says.

Palestine is part of the historical region of the Fertile Crescent, seen as the birthplace of agriculture, where people started cultivating grains and cereals as they transitioned from hunter-gatherer groups to agricultural societies.

For Saed Dagher, a farmer and agronomist who started working with agroecology in Palestine in 1996, sustainable farming is a crucial tool for liberation. 鈥淎s a farmer I am free when I don鈥檛 depend on outside inputs, when I produce the food in my land the way I see fit, with my own seeds, and the inputs that are locally available. I am not dependent on seed and chemical companies. And I don鈥檛 depend on the occupation,鈥� he says.

Dagher is one of the co-founders of the Palestinian Agroecology Forum, a volunteer group aiming to spread ecological farming in Palestine. In the past decade he has noticed a growing interest in, an approach that tries to minimize the environmental impacts of farming by using local, renewable resources. This method reduces dependency on purchased inputs and prioritizes soil health and biodiversity.

According to Dagher, Palestinian farmers have practiced forms of agroecology long before the term was invented. 鈥淭raditionally, Palestinian farmers would plant olive trees with wheat, barley, beans, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. In the same field, we would have fig trees, grapes, almonds. It was diverse,鈥� he says. Palestinian farmers used to rely mostly on local resources and rain-fed agriculture, helping preserve local varieties in the fields, orchards, and terraced hills.

The establishment of the state of Israel in 1948鈥攖hrough a violent process that entailed the destruction of hundreds of Palestinian villages and the forced displacement and dispossession of Palestinians鈥攎eant farmers lost most of their lands and livelihoods.

Since the occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip in 1967, the remaining Palestinian territory became a for Israeli products. The local food system was transformed from a food-producing to food-buying one, deepening Palestinian dependence on the occupying forces.

In the decades since then, Palestine鈥檚 diverse agricultural heritage has been in decline, as Palestinian growing traditions have been increasingly displaced by monocultures and industrial agriculture, which are reliant on agrochemicals and genetically modified seeds, particularly after the Oslo accords signed in 1993.

鈥淚srael wants to destroy Palestinian agriculture, so [Palestinians] become dependent on them and on humanitarian assistance,鈥� says Moayyad Bsharat, project coordinator at the Union for Agricultural Work Committees, or UAWC, an organization supporting Palestinian farmers. 鈥淚f Palestinians are food secure and don鈥檛 depend on Israeli products and Israeli markets, they will dream of freedom, and Israel doesn鈥檛 want it. It wants Palestinians as slaves working for them.鈥�

The importance of food sovereignty has been highlighted by the catastrophic situation in Gaza over the past 10 months. According to human rights reports, Israel has been using starvation by deliberately blocking the delivery of food and by destroying farmlands.

As dependence on Israeli produce and agribusiness grows under occupation, so does the land grabbing. This year, Israel has 2,743 acres of land in the occupied West Bank to be state-owned鈥攁 move that paves the way for continued settlement construction.

鈥淭he occupation keeps trying to take the land from us, to restrict our access to it, and prevent farmers from reaching it,鈥� Mansour says. 鈥�The goal is to make our lives here impossible, to make us leave. They want to uproot us.鈥�

The systematic appropriation of land and water resources by expanding Israeli settlements, the separation wall, and the military have all alienated Palestinians from the land and caused the loss of native seeds and traditional practices. 

But despite farmers鈥� continuous dispossession and the widespread destruction of agricultural land, Bsharat says farmers haven鈥檛 been defeated. 鈥淲e will rebuild again. We will support farmers with local seeds and continue our projects to build food sovereignty. We will use all our efforts to dismantle the colonial project by sowing local seeds, taking care of the land, and teaching our children not to forget.鈥�

The Union for Agricultural Work Committees is collecting and distributing 60 varieties of heirloom seeds and is working on the rehabilitation of agricultural land in Gaza and the West Bank. In recent years, it has helped establish agroecology projects and trainings in some of the villages most affected by settler violence.

鈥淲e are still present in the land, despite the restrictions imposed on us and the violence of the settlers,鈥� says Ghassan Najjar, who manages an agroecology cooperative in Burin, a village surrounded by extremist Israeli settlers who regularly attack Palestinian farmers, burning orchards and uprooting olive trees.

鈥淎griculture is resistance,鈥� says Najjar, standing in a greenhouse where members of the cooperative grow cucumbers and tomatoes using agroecology techniques.

Despite the growing settler violence and repression, Dagher says he is motivated to 鈥渄o more and more.鈥� He considers the fact that many Palestinian workers have lost their Israeli jobs since last October to be 鈥渁n opportunity to encourage more people to work in agriculture.鈥�

The farmers at Om Sleiman will keep sowing the land, spring after spring. 鈥淭hese days when the situation is so difficult, we feel this project is even more important. We feel we have to continue, we have to be present,鈥� Mansour says.

鈥淓very day we come and we work the land because we have hope,鈥� adds Kamal. 鈥淏ecause we believe that we will be free.鈥�

These centers, which are used by cities such as New York to provide air conditioning for residents who don鈥檛 have it at home, are the result of a decadeslong fight against 鈥渆nvironmental racism,鈥� a term which refers to environmental injustice that occurs both in practice and policy. Factors like rising temperatures and a pandemic affect how comfortably people can live in their communities, and more often than not discomforts fall disproportionately on communities of color.

Young people have advocated for an intersectional approach to the climate crisis that addresses the realities of environmental racism. Here鈥檚 what to know about the unexpected effects of discriminatory environmental policies.

1. Living amid industry can affect mental health.

While it is acknowledged that living near landfills or toxic dump sites can disrupt physical health, less research is available on how this affects mental health. However, a 2007 study from Social Science Research found 鈥渟ociodemographic, perceived exposure, objective exposure, and food consumption variables are significant predictors of physical health and psychological well-being,鈥� and that there was 鈥渁 significant relationship between physical health and psychological well-being,鈥� specifically in low-income, Black communities near a hazardous waste site.

A 2005 study published in the Journal of Health and Social Behavior also found that perceived exposure can affect the mental well-being of communities of color. 鈥淩esidential proximity to industrial activity is psychologically harmful because many individuals perceive industrial activity negatively, as a potential health threat or a sign of neighborhood disorder,鈥� the authors wrote.

2. Areas with higher temperatures within cities are the same areas that were segregated decades ago.

Neighborhoods with higher temperatures are the same areas that were subject to the racist practice of redlining, in which banks and insurance companies systematically refused or limited loans, mortgages, or insurance to communities of color.

According to NPR, in a study of 108 urban areas nationwide, the formerly redlined neighborhoods in nearly every city studied were hotter than those not subjected to redlining. The temperature difference in some areas was nearly 13 degrees.

In fact, according to analysis by the Union of Concerned Scientists, 鈥渃ounties with large African American populations are exposed to extreme temperatures 2 to 3 more days per year than those counties with smaller African American populations.鈥� Those same counties are projected to experience about 20 more extreme-heat days per year by around 2050, according to the analysis.

鈥淸Formerly segregated communities] tend to have less green space鈥攆ewer trees along the street, less access to parks,” Gerald Torres, a professor at Yale Law School and the Yale School of the Environment, tells Teen Vogue. “Urban areas tend to be hotter, in general, just because there鈥檚 more concrete that stores heat. But where they store heat and they don’t have the mediating environmental amenities, the places just get hot.鈥�

This phenomenon explains the 鈥渦rban heat island effect,” meaning areas are much hotter with fewer places to cool down. In 2019, Los Angeles hired the city鈥檚 first forest officer to increase the amount of shade in underserved areas by planting more trees. L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti has described shade as 鈥渁n equity issue.鈥�

3. Environmental racism is a leading cause of death in communities of color.

Many factors threaten the well-being of minority communities, such as discriminatory policing and housing availability, but environmental discrimination is actually a main cause of mortality for these residents.

鈥淎ir pollution and extreme heat are killing inner-city residents at a higher rate than almost all other causes,” Scientific American reported. “And as average temperatures continue to rise鈥攃ontributing to what scientists call the 鈥榰rban heat island effect鈥欌�攄eath and illness from the effects of climate change are expected to rise further.鈥�

4. It is cheaper for a corporation to pollute communities of color than white communities.

鈥淩esearch has shown that if you have a corporation who has violated environmental laws, the corporation is going to be fined. The fines tend to be lower in communities of color, especially Black communities and poor communities,” Dorceta Taylor, professor at the Yale School of the Environment and author of Toxic Communities: Environmental Racism, Industrial Pollution, and Residential Mobility, tells Teen Vogue. “Corporations, they鈥檙e not idiots鈥攖hey can see this difference.鈥�

Lower fines lead to more pollution, which often decreases the land value of existing homes near a factory or landfill. As a result, more industry moves into the area, creating a vicious cycle. Left with little opportunity for mobility and sparse political clout, the remaining residents are subjected to continually worsening living conditions.

鈥淥ne factor that might be playing into this is whether or not the communities are able to organize and mobilize to push for the cleanup that they should be getting,” Taylor says, “or even know when these [cleanup] cases are going to court.鈥�

5. Many environmental conservation organizations have racist founders or namesakes.

Some of the best-known environmental conservation groups have racist histories. For example, John Muir, known as the 鈥渇ather鈥� of the national parks system and founder of the nation鈥檚 oldest conservation organization, the Sierra Club, used offensive slurs and called Indigenous people he encountered on a walk 鈥渄irty.鈥� John James Audubon, namesake of the famous bird conservation group, was a slaveholder. Henry Fairfield Osborn, a founder of the Save the Redwoods League, supported eugenics.

6. A lack of government and organizational diversity perpetuates the problem.

In a similar vein, many argue that a lack of diversity at climate conservation organizations and in government sectors affects whether or not an entity will rightfully put communities of color at the forefront of the conversation about climate change.

Larger environmental, nongovernmental organizations (ENGOs) typically receive the most funding. These same organizations, across the board, are predominantly white.

鈥淲here you have people from marginalized communities [in leadership], they’re going to cause you to ask questions you might not have considered,” Torres says. “You can think of it as, essentially, improving information flows so that decisions are better.鈥�

7. Environmental racism doesn鈥檛 affect only low-income communities.

鈥淓ven if you are a middle-class, highly educated Black person in this country, you’re more likely to still be living beside or close to communities with hazardous waste sites than if you are white, working-class with low educational attainment,” Taylor says. “So, however we slice it, there is a ratio that is more correlated with exposure to toxics and hazards with race than with the class.鈥�

In the notable 1978 court case Bean v. Southwestern Waste Management Corp., a Black neighborhood of homeowners in Houston sued a waste management company, arguing that a permit for a new facility violated their constitutional rights. A judge ruled in favor of the waste management company. According to sociologist Robert Bullard, who collected data for the lawsuit and has since been dubbed 鈥渢he father of environmental justice,鈥� of the plaintiffs in the case, 85% of the people owned their homes and were considered middle-class.

8. Minority communities often live in affected areas before hazardous facilities are built.

A study by University of Southern California sociology professor Manuel Pastor reviewed data for minority populations and move-ins before and after the arrival of toxic storage and disposal facilities in Los Angeles County from 1970 to 1990. Areas scheduled to receive waste factories were mostly minority communities; after the facilities arrived, there were no significant increases in the minority population.

A 2003 United States Commission on Civil Rights report also concluded: 鈥淚t appears, therefore, that minorities attract toxic storage and disposal facilities, but these facilities do not attract minorities.鈥�

According to Bullard, in Houston during the time of the Bean v. Southwestern case, all of the city-owned landfills and 75% of the city-owned incinerators were in Black neighborhoods, even though they made up only 25% of the population during that period of time.

鈥淭丑别谤别 is a deliberate attempt to move into people of color communities. So that path of least resistance tends to run through people of color communities鈥攊f you look in the South, you’ll find Black communities, Latinx communities, Native American communities that were there before,” says Taylor. 鈥淭hat big polluting factory came just before the waste dump was put beside their neighborhood.鈥�

9. Environmental racism can also be expensive for people of color.

Energy and utility bills are a more subtle indicator of the ways that environmental policies can affect people unequally based on race. A paper from the University of California, Berkeley鈥檚 Energy Institute at Haas found that, when controlling for year, income, household size, and city of residence, Black renters paid $273 more per year for energy than white renters between 2010 and 2017.

Additionally, an American Public Radio report found that residents in Detroit and other cities near the Great Lakes with large Black populations pay a lot more for their water than those in a city like Phoenix, which pumps its water from 300 miles aways.

鈥淸Communities of color] get higher bills because their houses are not as weather-tight and therefore use more energy to heat a similar space [as their white counterparts],” says Torres. “To reduce [energy] bills to marginalized communities, you would put in new weather stripping around the doors or double-glaze windows鈥攖hings that are really low-tech. But [without these measures], the course of a year [can] generate enormous costs because of the loss of energy.鈥�

10. United States policies aren鈥檛 just a United States issue.

Discriminatory environmental policies within the U.S. extend far beyond the borders of our country. According to reporting from Mother Jones, in Ipoh, a city in Western Malaysia, only half of the waste found at a dump site appeared to have originated in the country. The other half came from a variety of other countries, including the U.S. Much of the overseas waste was comprised of items collected for 鈥渞ecycling.鈥�

Other countries, such as Indonesia, Vietnam, India, Thailand, and Taiwan, are subjected to similar waste dumping. Without a coordinated effort to combat dumping in the Global South, marginalized communities overseas are disproportionately affected by the polluting practices of the United States and other countries.

This story originally appeared in  and is republished here as part of , a global journalism collaboration strengthening coverage of the climate story.

鈥淲orking in a garden develops your relationship to the land,鈥� says Aubrey Skye, . 鈥淥ur ancestors understood that. Look at the old pictures. It鈥檚 etched on their faces. When you understand it as well, a sense of scarcity and insecurity transforms into a feeling of abundance and control鈥攕omething we all need these days.鈥� For several years, Skye ran a on Standing Rock, a reservation that straddles North and South Dakota. He created hundreds of productive plots, large and small, for fellow tribal members.

Tribes鈥� food-scarcity problems developed after signing treaties with the United States in the 18th and 19th centuries. Under these agreements, tribes typically transferred land to the federal government in return for education, health care, and other services. The diminished tribal homelands that resulted, along with continual federal efforts to decrease Native land holdings, severely restricted the hunting, fishing, and other activities with which tribes had fed their people since time immemorial. To force tribes onto reservations, Skye adds, the United States purposely destroyed critical food sources, such as the huge buffalo herds that once roamed the Plains.

were decimated. Starvation and death ensued. Massacres, such as Wounded Knee and Sand Creek, killed additional American Indians, as did forced removals from homelands, with the Cherokee Trail of Tears and the Navajo Long Walk among the best-known. The injustices continue today. Oil and gas pipelines, mines, industrial animal farms, and other projects may be sited to imperil tribal lands rather than those of other peoples. Poverty, limited health care, and, in some areas, lack of running water for frequent anti-virus hand-washing, means the COVID-19 pandemic has hit certain tribes, notably the Navajo Nation, hard.

Growing Strength

Incessant disasters have created economic and social burdens, including hunger, that fall heavily on children. 鈥淭hese tragedies are so hard on kids,鈥� says the Cheyenne River Youth Project鈥檚 director Julie Garreau. The project is on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation, in South Dakota, just south of Standing Rock. 鈥淒on鈥檛 ever let people tell you children don鈥檛 know what鈥檚 going on,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he pandemic is creating enormous additional stress, beyond what they were already struggling with.鈥�

Her program works to make up the difference. With its 2.5-acre garden, caf茅, gym, and library, the organization has long provided children with good food and a safe place to learn and have fun. Now that tribal children are sheltering at home, the youth project鈥檚 garden and the sack meals her organization delivers ensure that, at the very least, they have healthy food each day, says Garreau, who is a tribal member.

鈥淚鈥檓 so grateful,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e a nonprofit, and our funders contacted us鈥攚e didn鈥檛 go to them鈥攁nd gave us support for meals with a hot entr茅e, juice, and a healthy snack like fruit or nuts. We started driving around in our pickup with food for 35 kids, then 50, then 75.鈥� The youth project is working to get the word out. 鈥淲e hope to reach 250 kids,鈥� Garreau says.

Dream of Wild Health also focuses on youth as it restores the multitribal urban-Indian community of Minneapolis and St. Paul to physical well-being and a spiritual relationship to the Earth. 鈥淲e grow leaders and seeds,鈥� says Community Outreach and Culture Teacher Hope Flanagan, who is Seneca. 鈥淎n urban upbringing can mean our youth lose track of our old way of walking on this Earth.鈥� Dream of Wild Health helps the children relearn this knowledge, she says.

In the process, the group鈥檚 activities help the community reclaim food sovereignty鈥攔eady access to healthy, affordable, culturally appropriate food鈥攁ccording to Executive Director Neely Snyder, a St. Croix Chippewa tribal member. Dream of Wild Health meets this need by distributing crops that it grows on its nearby 30-acre farm: It participates in a farmers market, delivers household shares of farm produce to locations in Native neighborhoods of both Minneapolis and St. Paul, and partners with other community organizations, such as the Minneapolis American Indian Center.

鈥淕ardens represent so much more.鈥�

Since the COVID-19 challenges began, innovation has been key. To continue to offer chef-led cooking lessons for youth, yet maintain social distance, Dream of Wild Health delivers ingredients to the children鈥檚 homes and runs the program via a video link. Virtual activities have proven popular. When a seed-saving and sacred medicines moved online, the typical 40- to 50-person audience for a live event burgeoned to some 220, Snyder says.

To grow real crops in a real garden requires getting out on the land鈥攚ith a difference nowadays. This summer, Skye anticipates, reservation gardeners will either work alone or in groups practicing social distancing. Dream of Wild Health farmers are figuring out how student interns, whom they call Garden Warriors, can work on the group鈥檚 farm and maintain distance.

While gardening, Skye says, tribal gardeners will put into action traditional practices that arise from close observations of nature and the belief that humans, plants, animals, and other aspects of the natural world form a mutually reliant community. We are all related, Skye says. 鈥淕ardening and eating food you鈥檝e raised give you a direct connection to Mother Earth.鈥�

Gardeners are necessarily optimists. At a time when our world is so dangerous, the garden is a place of refuge. 鈥淲e will come out of this crisis,鈥� Garreau said in an email. 鈥淭o do so, we must not stop planning and planting.鈥� Taking cues from Native gardening practices can help even novice gardeners get growing in these difficult circumstances.

Follow Indigenous gardeners鈥� advice to grow your own plot, however small or experimental. At a time when stay-at-home orders continue to try and keep populations healthy, Garreau sums up the importance of sinking your hands into the soil: 鈥淕ardens represent so much more,鈥� Garreau continued. 鈥淔ood, yes, but a belief in our future. Gardens represent resiliency, strength, wellness, culture.鈥�

1. Plot Your Success

Experienced gardeners may be comfortable planting big fields of their favorite crops. Skye has a nearly 1-acre plot just downhill of his Standing Rock home. But if this is your gardening debut鈥攁s it was for some tribal members he provided with gardens through the CDC project鈥攅nsure success by starting small. Try a few pots or raised beds, or perhaps a small in-ground plot, with easy-to-grow plants, he says. Good options might be tomatoes, peppers, green beans, radishes, summer and winter squash, onions, or leafy greens. 鈥淒on鈥檛 bite off more than you can chew!鈥� Skye quips. 

2. Cultivate Plant Friendships

Many American gardeners know about the Three Sisters鈥攊n the celebrated trio, cornstalks serve as trellises for beans, which in turn fix nitrogen (fertilizer), while big, flat squash leaves conserve soil moisture and keep down weeds. Such plant groupings, also called , are expressions of cooperation and sharing, says the Mohawk director of the Traditional Native American Farmers Association, Clayton Brascoup茅. 鈥淵our garden should be like a healthy forest, which has trees of various sizes,鈥� he says. 鈥淟ook at nature, and figure out combinations that mimic it.鈥�

In his gardens at Tesuque Pueblo, north of Santa Fe, you can see peas twining up corn plants and basil rising above the broad, flat leaves of watermelon. 鈥淓xperiment!鈥� he says. 鈥淧lants can surprise you. One year, we discovered that garbanzos and corn really enjoy each other.鈥�

3. Make Room for Hard-working Beauties

Embellish your garden with colorful flowers, particularly . 鈥淭hey attract bees, butterflies, hummingbirds, and other pollinators,鈥� says Skye, adding that pollinators are an integral part of a plant鈥檚 life cycle. 鈥淲ithout them, the harvest wouldn鈥檛 happen, and we would be looking at extreme food shortages, not just occasional gaps. By giving pollinators flowers they like, we support them, just as they support us.鈥�

4. Keep Crops Cozy

Got a plant that鈥檚 struggling? Give it a rock! Brascoup茅 explains that in Southwest Native gardens, rocks are commonly set next to seedlings or plants that need help. They act as heat sinks, smoothing out day-night temperature variations as they soak up the sun鈥檚 heat and release it in evening鈥檚 chill. The practice may have been more widespread, he says, appearing as far north as Iroquois gardens in the U.S. Northeast. It makes sense, he says; in a cold region, rocks protect seedlings from unexpected early-season frost.

5. Source Materials Locally and For Free

For no-cost drip irrigation, Brascoup茅 uses a fine needle to poke a hole in the neck of clean soda-pop bottles or milk jugs. He then fills the containers with water, replaces their caps, and pushes their pierced necks into the soil.

Conserve soil moisture and keep weeds down by surrounding the plants with mulching materials that would otherwise have been discarded. People spend time and money getting rid of cardboard, shredded office paper, lawn clippings, and leaves, Brascoup茅 says. 鈥淭ell neighbors, 鈥業 can take that off your hands.鈥� Build human relationships.鈥�

6. Embrace Dandelions

Don鈥檛 banish dandelions. Welcome these supposed weeds! Their leaves are delicious and nutritious, and their taproots break up hardened soil, I learned from Native gardeners. My New York City backyard used to be so compacted, little grew there. I tried scattering dandelion seeds around the yard. They grew and blossomed, and soon earthworms moved in. The soil became soft, friable, and plant-friendly. Earthworms are at it 24-7, working on your behalf, according to Skye. 鈥淲hat more could you ask for?鈥� he says.

7. Include Healing Herbs

Skye has a small medicine-wheel garden by his home, where he delights in growing echinacea, chamomile, comfrey, and other medicinals from seed he saves from one year to the next. Such circular plots are traditionally places to grow herbs, thereby experience their delectable flavors and the .

8. Save your Seeds

At the end of the season, of plants that thrived鈥攁nd that you enjoyed鈥攊n your garden. You can help ensure your future food supply and, if you include unusual or heritage varieties, do your part to sustain biodiversity.

Seed-saving preserves history as well, Skye says. He called seeds time capsules. 鈥淲e Native people have always saved them. As we plant, and save, and replant, the seeds go through all we are going through, the good times and the bad.鈥� The Dream of Wild Health seed collection, for example, includes a Cherokee family鈥檚 gift of corn that survived the tribe鈥檚 deadly Trail of Tears, a forced march that displaced their ancestors from their original homelands.

Today, danger confronts all of us on this Earth. 鈥淲e were already facing climate change, and now there is the pandemic,鈥� Skye says. The seeds will always be there, to provide both food and a spiritual connection to the Earth, he says. 鈥淭hey are how we will survive.鈥�

Garreau echoes this sentiment: 鈥淲hen we come out of this terrible pandemic, we will have learned to be stronger. We will be invincible.鈥�

Once the bison settles, Thomas approaches again with caution and determination. She closes her eyes and dips her chin, her lips slowly moving as she whispers an Aaniiih prayer over the bison鈥攖he animal with a deep cultural connection to her roots as an Indigenous woman. A tear slowly rolls down her cheek before the machine operator nods that the bull is ready to be released. 

鈥淲orking with the buffalo really pulls at my heartstrings,鈥� Thomas says. 鈥淚t is such a healing experience, especially for people living here on the reservation. It just makes me feel reconnected.鈥�

Thomas is an intern visiting the American prairie in north central Montana, from the Aaniiih Nakoda College on the nearby Fort Belknap Indian Reservation. This bull is one of the more than 200 bison from the surrounding prairie getting hair and blood samples collected and tags put in their ears. 

This internship is associated with the newly created Buffalo Center at the Tribal college, which offers students the opportunity to work alongside visiting and local scientists to learn the skills necessary to manage the land and wildlife on their reservation. The hope is to train the next generation of stewards for this recovering ecosystem鈥攊ts land, animals, and people.听

鈥淏efore colonialism, buffalo were our life source. They鈥檙e powerful and they gave us food and shelter,鈥� Thomas says. 鈥淭hey were taken away from us and we are still trying to heal from that.鈥�

鈥淭he buffalo have that trauma too. The buffalo almost went extinct, like us.鈥� But now, she says, people and bison are recovering together. 鈥淲e鈥檙e thriving. We鈥檙e emerging out of that difficult time.鈥�

The Necessity of Landscape Connectivity

Fort Belknap is located along Montana鈥檚 Northern Hi-Line, which runs parallel to and about 50 miles south of the Canadian border. The militant rows of wheat and dusty cattle lots are evidence of the agricultural revolution that enabled humans to move away from hunting and gathering, toward farming and ranching practices. But it does not reveal the holistic ecosystem-wide food management that Indigenous peoples practiced in the region for tens of thousands of years. 

With the Dawes Act of 1887, the federal government subdivided Tribal lands and tried to force Indigenous people to assimilate into an increasingly industrial United States economy. With this came the destruction of the prairie ecosystem, creating inhospitable environments for the species that once called the landscape home. Government-sanctioned poisoning campaigns decimated prairie dog colonies, subsequently driving the black-footed ferret to near extinction. 

As more prairie was plowed for agriculture, the wild landscape fractured, and ecosystems became more and more fragmented. The grizzly bear, who once wandered the Northern Great Plains, retreated into the mountains, adapting to an entirely new way of life. The far-ranging swift fox, who relied on landscape connectivity to thrive, disappeared from Montana entirely.

And, most notably, the bison vanished. There were once an estimated 20 to 60 million bison roaming across what is now the contiguous U.S., and Plains Indians lived in harmony with the animals. They relied on the bison for every aspect of their lives, including food, shelter, and tools. 

During settler colonialists鈥� Westward expansion, between 1820 and 1880, millions of bison were massacred. 鈥淚t was a military strategy to eliminate the buffalo,鈥� explains Mike Fox, director of fish and wildlife for the Fort Belknap Tribes. 鈥淸General Phillip] Sheridan famously said if they take away the buffalo, then they can starve the Indians into submission. They saw it as a solution for dealing with the Tribes.鈥�

Beyond viewing the animals as 鈥減ests,鈥� the U.S. military recognized the profound connection that Plains Indians held with the bison, and that by significantly reducing the animals鈥� population, the Tribes would be severely weakened. The U.S military sanctioned bison slaughter as part of the war effort against the Tribes. This, along with the introduction of European disease and competition from cattle, caused bison numbers to plummet to fewer than 1,000.

鈥淚t was devastating to the tribes for many reasons. We used to follow the buffalo and relied on them as our primary food source,鈥� Fox says. 鈥淭hen we had to transition to a sedentary lifestyle full of fat and beef. It鈥檚 had long-term health effects, and that鈥檚 why we鈥檙e trying to get them back.鈥�

Today, thanks to tribal reintroductions and efforts from organizations like American Prairie, there are approximately 20,000 Plains Bison in conservation herds, managed as wildlife. Another 400,000 bison live in commercial herds across the country, managed as cattle. According to the guidelines set by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, only the bison in conservation herds function as wildlife and are considered ecologically restored.

鈥淲e are morally responsible to bring back such an important part of the landscape,鈥� Fox says. 鈥淭o let something as important as buffalo go extinct is unthinkable. And to bring them back to their homelands, it鈥檚 something that we have to do. And for Tribal members it鈥檚 something that has to be a part of our daily lives.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Students As Future Stewards

In 2021, the Aaniiih Nakoda College received a $3.5 million grant from the National Science Foundation to create the 蕯铆铆taan蓴虂蓴虂n蕯铆/Tatag 虂a (鈥渂uffalo鈥� in Aaniiih and Nakoda) Research and Education Center. The goal was to offer students the opportunity to study the relationship between the Fort Belknap Indian Community, the Tribal bison herd, and the prairie ecosystem. By providing opportunities for ecological research on the bison herd, paired with academic training to increase community knowledge of sustainable land management practices, the center鈥檚 goal is to create a sense of connection for students. 

The Buffalo Center not only provides unique educational opportunities to local students but also paid internships to work alongside employees in the field. Partnerships with World Wildlife Fund, Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute, and Little Dog Wildlife LLC offer students the opportunity to learn from working scientists. 

World Wildlife Fund biologist Kristy Bly says 12 years ago, before the inception of the Buffalo Center, her team was unsuccessful in recruiting individuals to assist with fieldwork. 鈥淣ow more students want to help than there are spotlights and GPS units,鈥� she says.

In 2013, after years of fighting against anti-bison legislation in Montana, the Fort Belknap Tribes welcomed 31 genetically pure Yellowstone bison to their land. These animals were at risk of slaughter if they wandered beyond the national park鈥檚 boundaries. Despite opposition from nearby ranchers concerned about disease transmission and anti-bison bills in Montana seeking to prevent the transportation of the animals, the Tribes ultimately succeeded. The 31 bison became the foundation of a genetically pure herd on Aaniiih and Nakoda land. The herd has since thrived, growing and roaming freely across 3,500 acres of prairie grasslands.

They are one of two separate herds the Tribes now manage. Bison were originally returned to the reservation in the 1970s, but the animals were not descendants of the original bison that used to roam the Great Plains, meaning they are not genetically pure. The Snake Butte herd contains genes from European cattle and therefore are kept in a separate pasture to prevent genetic crossover with the Yellowstone bison.  

In addition to successfully reintroducing bison twice, the tribes are also reintroducing other prairie species to their land in hopes of re-creating an intact prairie ecosystem. Fort Belknap is now the only place in Montana where bison, critically endangered black-footed ferrets, and swift foxes have all been successfully restored. The Buffalo Center is working to ensure that the younger generation receives the opportunity to learn from these partnerships in order to foster a sense of passion and responsibility for the prairie, as future stewards of their land. 

鈥淚 think the biggest enjoyment for me is seeing the students on the prairie, making a difference,鈥� says Teri Harper, buffalo research coordinator at the college. 鈥淭hey are able to tell fellow Tribal members about what they are doing. They鈥檙e the ambassadors of the prairie for our Tribes.鈥�

Saving Prairies From Habitat Destruction

In the northeast corner of the reservation, Snake Butte stands proud within a sea of golden prairie grasses. The 22,000 acres of the sacred site are now home to more than 1,800 buffalo introduced in the 1970s and at least 40 black-footed ferrets. The site offers an example of what can be achieved with community support and determination: a nearly intact prairie ecosystem in the land of conventional agriculture.

The World Wildlife Fund鈥檚 annual Plowprint Report found that 32 million acres of grasslands have been plowed for agriculture since 2012, and 1.6 million acres were plowed in 2021 alone. Prairie destruction is happening at a rate faster than deforestation, the effects of which will include increased carbon in the atmosphere, increased pollution, flooding, and loss of wildlife habitat.

Intact North American prairie is often referred to as the 鈥淎merican Serengeti鈥� because of the abundance of biodiversity found on the landscape. As a keystone species, bison are integral to creating habitat for other prairie animals. Bison鈥檚 saliva, feces, and urine all contain important nutrients necessary for grassland health. Their hooves evolved with the landscape, so rather than trampling the prairie grasses their footprints help break up the soil, creating a healthy environment for new plants to grow. 

Driving through the Snake Butte pasture, the barks of prairie dogs and sparrow songs fill the air. Antelope prance on the horizon while bison stand stoically along the butte鈥檚 ridge. The area buzzes with activity even after the sun goes down. As the prairie dogs retreat into their burrows, badgers, coyotes, and black-footed ferrets emerge to hunt in the moonlight.

In late October, long after sunset, six students from Aaniiih Nakoda College gather in the Snake Butte pasture as they await their instructor. Teri Harper鈥檚 headlights illuminate their outlines as she pulls up in a white truck. She hops out of the driver鈥檚 seat with her toy-sized blue heeler, Kingston, in tow, and points to some of the students: 鈥淵ou three are coming with me,鈥� Harper says.

Dawn Thomas climbs into the back of Harper鈥檚 truck with her fellow students Colten Werk and KateLyne Goes Ahead. Thomas reluctantly rolls down her window, letting in the cold air in order to get a view of the nighttime prairie. As Harper drives along the bumpy dirt road, the students shine spotlights out their respective windows, scanning for emerald green eyes shining in the darkness.

They are hoping to see a black-footed ferret, an unfortunately rare opportunity given the animals鈥� status as extremely endangered.

Then Werk hollers, 鈥淚 see one!鈥� Harper quickly stops the truck and everyone cranes their necks to see the shape in question. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not a rock!鈥� Werk asserts. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a ferret! It鈥檚 moving!鈥� Goes Ahead and Thomas giggle in the back seat as Harper slowly drives toward what indeed turns out to be a rock.

Over the course of the night, Harper and the students do correctly identify four black-footed ferrets, an exciting feat considering the rarity of the animal. This is a unique experience available to students at Aaniiih Nakoda College through the Buffalo Center. And one that the students do not take for granted. 

鈥淭he black-footed ferrets and the swift fox, they are so important to us,鈥� Thomas says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a slow process, I know, but they are slowly growing. We are all slowly growing and reconnecting.鈥�

Disclaimer: The author was interviewing for a position with the Aaniiih Nakoda College while this story was being produced.

The book is also a window into the radical potential of parenthood鈥攁nd nurturing more broadly鈥攆or bringing us together into the future. Raboteau writes, 鈥淚t was my ambition, in gathering our voices, to suggest that the world is as interconnected as it is unjust.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

While some chapters bring the reader along with Raboteau to Palestine and the Arctic, Lessons for Survival: Mothering Against 鈥渢he Apocalypse鈥� (Henry Holt and Co.) focuses most intently on the author鈥檚 shifting perspectives and interpretations of her home environment in New York. When Raboteau and I spoke on the phone in March鈥攐n the momentous day when she birthed her latest book into the world鈥攕he tells me she did not always identify as an environmental writer. The professor of creative writing at City College of New York in Harlem says she began to reconsider the notion after reading . This and other works of 鈥渘ature鈥� writing by authors of color helped her see that nature is not limited to forests and grasslands and wild places. Her urban neighborhood, too, cradles wildness and life in abundance.

Raboteau tells me her teaching鈥攁nd her parenting鈥攏ow include climate change explicitly. 鈥淚t no longer felt appropriate to just teach creative writing without making space for this thing that is of great concern to my students,鈥� she says.

Each of Raboteau鈥檚 identities鈥攚riter, photographer, professor, mother鈥攕hapes her perspective as she explores the changing nature of her relationship with her environment. Early in the book she describes how, when she was single, she got a used bike and developed a cyclist鈥檚-eye view of New York. 鈥淭he bike lanes became a network in my mind, a nervous system. Manhattan was an island whose spine I could navigate in a day, with bridges poking off it like ribs,鈥� she writes. 鈥淢y rides were epic, and seemingly endless.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I read this section with intense, bittersweet feelings. I, too, thrived on two wheels when I lived in New York. I actually looked forward to my daily commute, riding from my fourth-floor walk-up in Crown Heights over the Manhattan Bridge and up to my office on Park Ave. I would weave my bike around the cars stopped in traffic, feeling like my quads could take on the world (and save it from a fossil-fueled demise in the process). 

But Raboteau ends that section with a brief sentence that fells me: 鈥淭hen I traded that ride for a stroller.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Parenthood shifts Raboteau鈥檚 perspective from a cyclist鈥檚-eye view into a parent鈥檚-eye view of New York. As she maps the city now using playgrounds rather than bike lanes, the environment around her again changes. It shrinks to the size of her neighborhood. 

鈥淚 felt at first a little bit stuck … by the condition of motherhood,鈥� she tells me. And I get that. I often struggle with the label of mother and all the things that society (and my children) expect of me as a result. For me, the book鈥檚 most resonant metaphor is that motherhood is a cape with two magical but contradictory powers: invisibility and power. 

As we commune over the ups and downs of this shared role, Raboteau tells me her children are now 11 and 10. Mine are 5 and 2. 

鈥淵ou鈥檙e in it!鈥� she offers with empathy. Parenthood is many things, simultaneously 鈥渢edious as hell,鈥� Raboteau writes in the book, but also tender and so, so sweet. She tells me she misses having a 2-year-old and recalls with fondness how her son used to call his bathing suit a 鈥渂athing soup.鈥� In much the same way, I can鈥檛 bring myself to correct my daughter when she asks for 鈥渕ac and roni鈥� for dinner. 

Raboteau describes her heart and hurt in searingly beautiful detail in the book. She writes, 鈥淢y spine was either the sum of my moods, a barometer of the era, or a vertical timeline of historical abuse.鈥� The relentless pain she was experiencing, while seemingly impossible to diagnose, in some ways came as no surprise considering the roles she played and the ways they aligned with the health and body of her relationships: 鈥淚 am the backbone of my family … I am the backbone of my community,鈥� she writes. 鈥淚 birthed two babies at home without drugs because I trusted my own body to be a mammal more than I trusted in a healthy outcome from the medical machine.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

To navigate feelings of depression and despair, Raboteau writes that she started seeing public art pop up along the 2-mile stretch of New York between her apartment and her office. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like a gallery, actually, if your eyes are open to it.鈥� She chose to layer on a photographer鈥檚-eye view of the city, bringing her camera with her as she walked the streets. 

鈥淢y gaze shifted,鈥� she writes, and that feeling of stuckness eventually gave way. She fell in love with the world in a whole new way, one that no longer relied on her former freedom of movement. She realized that she could live hyperlocally with just as much joy and curiosity.

Raboteau explores murals about knowing your rights, co-opted road signs about climate futures, and birds. The opening section is a guided birdwatch unlike any I鈥檝e encountered. She introduces readers to a burrowing owl in Harlem and a glossy ibis in Washington Heights. These birds alight on walls and storefront gates across the boroughs of New York. And she would document how they do (or don鈥檛) interact with passersby. Raboteau says she would explore the city in search of these wild beings, 鈥渢o balance my sorrow.鈥� She writes, 鈥淚 needed the birds because I was in pain.鈥�

The intensity Raboteau elicits through the written word stops me in my tracks again and again while I鈥檓 reading the book, because she puts words to stark realities with incredible tenderness. 鈥淚 am the mother of Black children in America,鈥� she writes. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not possible for me to consider the threats posed to birds without also considering the threats posed to us.鈥�

Raboteau writes with equal poignancy in describing solutions. Across her essays, she repeatedly comes back to the ways we might collectively move forward: political will, communal action, and care. The last is a quality she says is attached to motherhood, but not necessarily in a biological sense. 

鈥淚 feel hope whenever I witness or participate in even small acts of care,鈥� she tells me. She says taking care of each other is something she views in a broad sense: both a stance and a way of being. Raboteau, like so many caretakers, knows firsthand that nurturing is not remunerated and it鈥檚 not supported by our social safety net. But that doesn鈥檛 diminish its importance to her. 鈥淚t鈥檚 really revolutionary,鈥� she tells me. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a lot of revolutionary potential.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

And a revolution is necessary because Raboteau is also extremely tuned into yet another map overlain on the city: One of public health, environmental damage, and social injustice. She points to the neighborhood of Washington Heights in uppermost Manhattan, where she birthed both her sons, as a case in point. Raboteau describes the neighborhood as vibrant and wonderful. 鈥淚t鈥檚 known as the second biggest city in the Dominican Republic, which I love,鈥� she tells me. Here, her children were able to attend Spanish-English immersion schools, but they developed asthma too. 鈥淚t鈥檚 also a neighborhood that鈥檚 really choked by poverty and also by highways,鈥� she explains.

This poisoning infrastructure is often placed in poor Black and Brown neighborhoods like hers by design. And this is top-of-mind in her parenting. 鈥淢y kids aren鈥檛 so little anymore,鈥� she tells me. 鈥淚 can speak with them a little bit more honestly and truthfully about these kinds of threats.鈥�

But knowing how to talk about climate change and the related injustices 颈蝉苍鈥檛 always clear or easy. 鈥淚鈥檓 still learning because we weren鈥檛 taught this,鈥� she tells me. 鈥淢y husband and I, to a degree, we were prepared for racial trauma by our parents. We were given 鈥�,鈥� right? But they couldn’t have prepared us for this, because it wasn鈥檛 part of their reality.鈥�

I am a white woman who grew up in a white family, and my parents didn鈥檛 discuss racial trauma with me, nor did we broach climate change. But the subject has already come up with my young kids, I tell Raboteau. Last year, we visited family in Wisconsin over the holidays, and the landscape was strangely devoid of snow. My daughter asked worriedly, 鈥淢om, what happened to winter?鈥� The inquiry cut to the core of the issue I spend my days trying to address as a climate journalist. It really brought to the forefront, for me, the responsibility of nurturers, caretakers, and parents like myself to address these existential questions.听

鈥淵ou can鈥檛 really lean on an answer that was given to you by your parents, because you didn鈥檛 ask them that question,鈥� Raboteau tells me. 鈥淏ecause we had winter when we were kids. We were born at whatever parts per million of carbon in the atmosphere that it was. It鈥檚 just accelerating so fast that even within your own 5-year-old daughter鈥檚 lifetime, she鈥檚 either witnessed that shift or knows from the culture that that鈥檚 not what it鈥檚 supposed to look like at Christmastime.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Raboteau points to a similarly gutting exchange in her family, in which her husband remarked that they didn鈥檛 have to wear jackets at Halloween anymore because it鈥檚 no longer seasonably cold like it was when they were kids. Raboteau says her son responded frankly, 鈥淵eah, that鈥檚 because of climate change.鈥� And Raboteau could only agree. 

Neither Raboteau nor I have figured out the answers to these crushing questions from our children. But we鈥檙e both actively trying to find them. And Raboteau鈥檚 book is a resonant meditation on her efforts. 

In so many ways, the situation we are in is unprecedented: We have added so much CO2 to the atmosphere that our are higher than ever before in human history. As a result, we have put so many communities in incredibly precarious situations, and forced them to adapt. And yet they鈥檙e still here.

鈥淧eople have lived through existential crises before and come out the other side of them,鈥� Raboteau reminds me. And she emphasizes that those experiences鈥攁nd the people and communities that survive them鈥攈ave lessons to impart. That鈥檚 why she鈥檚 a strong believer in intergenerational friendships and intergenerational justice. She invests in it deeply in her life, including through her participation in a group called the .

The small group is led by two septuagenarians鈥攁 Buddhist and a moral philosopher鈥攁nd Raboteau says they mostly just ask questions that don鈥檛 have answers. The tenor of the inquiries is 鈥淲hat are we being called to do at this moment of great uncertainty and change?鈥� This shared space on Zoom offers Raboteau a practice of reflecting and deep listening. And that is something she holds dear as she navigates how to have 鈥渢he climate talk鈥�: balancing the wisdom of elders with listening deeply to children. 

鈥淚 think that鈥檚 what we鈥檙e being called to do,鈥� Raboteau tells me. 鈥淩eally listen to their questions, take them very seriously. Have them participate in the solutions.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She shares the example of efforts to as an act of climate mitigation. 鈥淣ew York is a city of buried streams,鈥� she tells me. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 really know that before we bought this house that鈥檚 sited on top of the buried stream.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Raboteau makes clear that the city 颈蝉苍鈥檛 prepared for what鈥檚 to come: She describes how the infrastructure can鈥檛 handle the increased rainfall that has resulted (and will continue) from climate change. The subway system can鈥檛 handle it, nor can the sewer system. And the same goes for wastewater treatment plants, which get overwhelmed and end up releasing raw sewage into the rivers, especially in Black and Brown neighborhoods like the ones her family has called home. 

Raboteau says she鈥檚 excited about daylighting the brook, but she worries what will happen if it comes to pass. If the brook beautifies the neighborhood, welcomes more wildlife, adds a waterfront bike path, and boosts the property values, are her neighbors going to be able to afford to stay here and enjoy it? In many ways, birds and people are both endangered by climate injustice in New York. 

But she doesn鈥檛 stop there. 鈥淥r is that question even short-sighted?鈥� Raboteau asks me, rhetorically. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 know how fast and how soon the waters are going to rise and overtake this part of our coastal city, which is quite low-lying. Does it even make sense to spend many, many millions of dollars unburying a brook that maybe, sooner than any of us would like to conceive or imagine, is going to be underwater anyway?鈥�

We can鈥檛 know the answers to these questions. Not elders. Not parents. Not nurturers. Not children. But each one of us is implicated in the outcomes and therefore should be striving to find our own ways of coming to some sort of clarity about how to move forward. We can shape our responses. And we can find solidarity in asking these questions in good company, as I was privileged to do with Raboteau. 

For her part, Raboteau says, 鈥淚 feel deeply invested in trying to learn the names of things right now, whether that鈥檚 the names of endangered birds, or the name of Mosholu, the original name of this brook that our house sits on.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In her commitment, I see the confluence of climate and racial justice bubbling back up to the surface: Saying their names has always been an important part of doing the work.

What Nieuwjaer couldn鈥檛 eat right away, she preserved鈥攁s fig marmalade, apricot jam, pickles. Reaching into the depths of her refrigerator in September, past a jar of diced beets she鈥檇 preserved in vinegar, she tapped a container of chopped pineapple whose shelf life she鈥檇 extended with lemon juice: 鈥淚t鈥檒l last all month!鈥� she exclaimed. Just a few inches away, two loaves of bread that a nearby school was going to get rid of lay in a glass baking dish, reconstituted as bread pudding. A third loaf was in a jar in the cupboard, transformed into bread crumbs that Nieuwjaer planned to sprinkle on a veggie casserole.

With everything she鈥檇 stocked up, Nieuwjaer was all set on groceries for the next few months. 鈥淚鈥檓 going to eat for free all winter,鈥� she said, beaming.

Nieuwjaer is part of a worldwide movement known in French as z茅ro d茅chet, or zero waste. The central idea is simple: Stop generating so much garbage and reap the many intertwined social, economic, and environmental benefits. Rescuing trash-bound produce, for example, stops food waste that can release potent greenhouse gasses in a landfill. Making your own shampoo, deodorant, and other beauty products reduces the need for disposable plastic bottles鈥攑lus, it tends to use safer ingredients, meaning less danger for fish and other wildlife.

But Nieuwjaer didn鈥檛 just decide to join the movement one day; she was drawn into it as part of a local government experiment in waste management. In 2015, Roubaix launched a campaign to reduce litter by teaching 100 families鈥攊ncluding Nieuwjaer鈥檚鈥攕trategies for cutting their waste in half. Similar efforts may soon be repeated across France as cities and regions strive to meet (and exceed) the country鈥檚 ambitious waste-reduction goals. A fundamental question is at the heart of their efforts: How do you get citizens to change their behavior?

France is famous for its fine wines and cheese. However, among a more niche audience, the country is also known as a zero-waste leader. Besides producing one of the world鈥檚 most famous zero-waste influencers, 鈥攖he 鈥減riestess of waste-free living,鈥� according to 鈥擣rance has passed some of the developed world鈥檚 most ambitious waste-reduction policies. It was the first country in the world to ban supermarkets from throwing away unsold food and one of the first to enshrine 鈥溾�� into law, making big polluters financially responsible for the waste they create, even after their items are sold.

In 2020, France passed a landmark anti-waste law that laid out dozens of objectives for waste prevention, recycling, and repairability, including a national goal to eliminate single-use plastic by 2040. The law banned clothing companies from destroying unsold merchandise, required all public buildings to install water fountains, and proposed . At the time, the law was praised as 鈥�,鈥� and several of its provisions were hailed as the first of their kind. 

According to France鈥檚 , finalized in March by the administration of President Emmanuel Macron, cutting waste will yield a myriad of co-benefits, from boosting biodiversity and improving food systems to mitigating climate change. One from the nonprofit Global Alliance for Incinerator Alternatives says that a comprehensive zero-waste strategy that includes better material sorting, more recycling, and source reduction鈥攊n essence, producing fewer unnecessary things鈥攃ould reduce waste-sector greenhouse emissions by 84% globally.听

Achieving all these benefits, however, will require more than proclamations from Paris. According to France鈥檚 Ministry of Ecological Transition, the national anti-waste plan is meant to filter down through the levels of government before ultimately manifesting at the local level. The national plan requires regions to develop their own sub-plans and asks small-scale waste management authorities to 鈥渆nable the implementation鈥� of France鈥檚 bigger-picture waste agenda. 

However, the transformation France鈥檚 zero-waste advocates envisioned requires even more granular action鈥攆rom boutiques, supermarkets, and restaurants. Keep peeling back the layers, and you end up with individual people like Nieuwjaer, who must be nudged, incentivized, or told to change their behavior to accommodate waste reduction鈥攅ven if they鈥檙e not all as enthusiastic as she is. As the country鈥檚 2021 to 2027 action plan says, 鈥淩educing our waste requires everyone,鈥� suggesting that an all-encompassing culture shift will be needed to achieve the national government鈥檚 goals. 

This is the task that many French cities and waste-collection authorities are now confronting鈥攈ow to change individual people鈥檚 behavior so that it conforms with France鈥檚 vision for waste reduction. Some of the most ambitious places have become incubators, notably Roubaix, whose voluntary, education-based approach has drawn international attention. Last year, the European Commission named Roubaix as one of the top 12 places in the European Union with the ,鈥� a term referring to systems that conserve resources and minimize waste generation. 

There鈥檚 also the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region north of Bordeaux, where a regional waste-management authority called Smicval is experimenting with more structural interventions like moving garbage bins and charging people differently for waste collection. Pauline Debrabandere, a program manager for the nonprofit Zero Waste France, called Smicval one of the country鈥檚 鈥渂iggest pioneers.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The projects illustrate the need for complex behavior-change strategies that both educate people and alter the social and environmental contexts in which they make their decisions. And they hold lessons for communities across the globe looking to implement their waste-reduction programs. Debrabandere put it this way: While you need rules and incentives to 鈥渃reate the conditions鈥� for waste reduction, you also need to convey its benefits and ensure widespread participation. 鈥淵ou have to raise awareness.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

When Alexandre Garcin dreamed up Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet as a candidate for city councilor in 2014, it wasn鈥檛 so much sustainability that inspired his vision; it was cleanliness. Roubaix鈥檚 litter problem was top of mind for everyone that year, and Garcin鈥檚 big idea was to address it through waste reduction. Rather than cleaning up more and more trash off the city鈥檚 streets, why not produce less garbage in the first place?

This was easier said than done. Roubaix is a famously that belongs to the M茅tropole de Lille, a network of communities organized around the major city of Lille in northern France. This superstructure coordinates infrastructure that crosses town lines, such as public transit and waste management. According to Garcin, the m茅tropole wasn鈥檛 interested in funding and implementing his zero-waste initiatives. To cut down on waste generation, Roubaix would have to get creative鈥攂y asking residents to volunteer.

Once he was in office, Garcin mailed leaflets to Roubaix residents seeking 100 volunteers to participate in a free, yearlong pilot program that would teach them how to live waste free鈥攐r, at least, with less waste than usual. These familles z茅ro d茅chet would receive training and attend workshops on topics like making your own yogurt and cleaning with homemade products, to halve their waste by year鈥檚 end. Volunteers weren鈥檛 offered any direct financial incentives to participate鈥攐nly the promise of helping solve the litter problem and protecting the environment. Using a luggage scale鈥攁 鈥渞eally, really, really important鈥� part of the program, according to Garcin鈥攖hey would periodically weigh their weekly trash and report it back to the city.

The luggage scale forced people to recognize the impact, and literal weight, of their consumption choices, Garcin explained. 鈥淧hysically, you have the sense of how heavy it is.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The program Garcin designed exemplified what behavioral scientists call an 鈥渋nformation-based鈥� approach to change, which builds understanding and awareness through unambiguous instructions, forums, meetings, training, and feedback. Philipe Bujold, behavioral science manager for the international environmental nonprofit Rare, described this as a 鈥渢ell them鈥� strategy, in contrast with other tactics to induce behavior change, including through incentives (鈥減ay them鈥�) or rules and prohibitions (鈥渟top them鈥�). Josh Wright, executive director of the behavioral science consulting firm Ideas42, also lauded Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet for creating an identity around zero waste and assigning families quantitative waste-reduction targets鈥攕trategies that have proven effective in other contexts. 

Much of what Roubaix told residents to do was actually pretty straightforward鈥攆or example, 鈥淒on鈥檛 buy more food than you can eat.鈥� But that was the point. According to Garcin, it鈥檚 actually 鈥渘ot that difficult鈥� to halve a household鈥檚 waste production. Composting alone is enough to get you most of the way there, since organic waste makes up about of the average French family鈥檚 municipal waste by weight. Another third is glass and metal, a significant chunk of which can likely be kept out of the landfill through recycling, and 10% is plastic, much of which can be avoided by finding reusable alternatives to plastic grocery bags, cutlery, packaging, and other single-use items. According to the , half of all the plastic produced worldwide is designed to be used just once and then thrown away.

鈥淭he idea was to help everyone change his consumption at the place where he鈥檚 ready,鈥� Garcin explained, whether that meant eating fewer takeout meals or switching to homemade laundry detergent. Through these minor lifestyle changes, the earliest participants in Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet鈥檚 family program saved an average of 1,000 euros per year, according to Garcin. Seventy percent of them cut their waste generation by , and one-quarter reduced it by more than 80%.

Of course, some participants embraced zero-waste more enthusiastically than others and therefore reaped even greater rewards. Nieuwjaer, for example, would eventually cut her landfill-bound waste by so much that nine months鈥� worth would fit on her kitchen scale. All told, Nieuwjaer says she saves about 3,000 euros a year because of her zero-waste habits. 

One drawback of an information-based strategy for behavior change, however, is that it tends to have limited reach while working very well on a small slice of the population鈥攖he 鈥減ioneers,鈥� as Garcin called them, in this case referring to people who are exceptionally attentive to their health, environmental footprint, or personal finances. Since 2015, many of Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet鈥檚 most enthusiastic participants have been those who were already interested in wasting less, even before they heard about the program.

Amber Ogborn, for example鈥攁n American who moved to Roubaix with her family in 2012鈥攕aid her decision to sign up as a famille z茅ro d茅chet in 2019 was influenced by a trip to a waste incinerator, where she saw garbage trucks unloading a 鈥渕ountain of trash鈥� to be burned. Ogborn is now all-in on zero waste, thanks in large part to the training she received from Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet. In addition to other new habits, she now maintains three separate composting systems, including one dedicated to the cat litter and dog droppings that she was tired of having to throw in the trash.

鈥淚t鈥檚 kind of gross,鈥� Ogborn said. 鈥淏ut I thought, 鈥榊ou know what? This is one small thing that we could do.鈥欌��

Another die-hard participant is Liliane Otimi, who was already running a Roubaix-based environmental nonprofit called Lueur d鈥橢spoir鈥斺�済limmer of hope,鈥� in English鈥攚hen she enrolled her 10-person household in the city program in 2018. Otimi was passionate about climate change and resource conservation and wanted to embody more of her values in her daily life鈥攅specially after a trip back to Togo, the West African country where she grew up. In Lom茅, the capital, Otimi said she was 鈥渟hocked鈥� to see how quickly people went through plastic water bottles and littered them onto the street. Through Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet, Otimi learned how to buy cleaning products in bulk, how to do weekly meal prep, and how to plan her grocery shopping so she only buys as much food as her family will be able to use. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 beautiful to live in line with our values,鈥� said Michaela Barnett, a behavioral scientist and founder of KnoxFill, a startup focused on reducing waste. She acknowledged Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet鈥檚 allure among a particular demographic.

However, it鈥檚 one thing to give 鈥減ioneers鈥� like Otimi and Ogborn the tools to live their best zero-waste lives and quite another to bring all of Roubaix鈥檚 residents into the movement. Not everyone will value resource conservation鈥攍et alone act on those values鈥攅ven if you tell them why they should. This is a key reason why behavioral scientists advocate for behavior-change strategies that are more complex than just 鈥渢ell them鈥� alone. 鈥淲e generally think of education as a necessary but not sufficient type of intervention,鈥� Wright said. (Incidentally, scientists used to think that an information deficit was the reason for climate inaction. Unfortunately, this has proven .) 

The 800 families Roubaix has trained since 2015 likely represent the most easily convincible slice of the city鈥檚 population鈥攁n estimated 1.8% of its 100,000 residents, assuming an average family size of 2.3 people. It鈥檚 taken Roubaix nine years to reach this many people, and the rest of its residents will likely be harder to convert.听

To be sure, there is more to Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet than 鈥渢ell them,鈥� and the city is doing what it can to broaden its reach beyond those most inclined toward zero waste. For example, the program leans on social influences through advertisements, festivals, and community meetups, and spokespeople like Bea Johnson, the zero-waste social media influencer. (When she was invited to give a talk in Roubaix in 2015, the event was so popular that the city had to in order to accommodate more attendees.) Roubaix also promotes the stories of its most successful familles z茅ro d茅chet in local, regional, and national media outlets鈥攁 strategy that has drawn so much positive press that the city鈥檚 communications director said in 2016 that zero waste had become 鈥�.鈥�

What鈥檚 more, City Hall has brought zero-waste practices and education into all of Roubaix鈥檚 public schools and is trying to nurture a network of zero-waste merchants鈥攊ncluding restaurants, grocers, copy shops, and more鈥攖hat adhere to a set of best practices for waste reduction. The municipal government is also expanding a independent from the m茅tropole and is turning two buildings into zero-waste incubators鈥攅ssentially, hubs for small and growing businesses that are focused on waste reduction. One of the buildings, , already hosts a company that saves bicycles from being sent to the landfill.

Debrabandere, with Zero-Waste France, said Roubaix is remarkable for what it has accomplished with such limited means. Despite its tight municipal budget and lack of control over waste-collection services, she said, the city seems to make every decision with zero-waste in mind. It has even helped launch copycat programs in 26 nearby communities that, altogether, offer more than 300 free zero-waste workshops each year. 鈥淩oubaix does things at a level we wouldn鈥檛 expect them to do,鈥� Debrabandere told Grist.

Still, she wishes it had the authority to do more.

Some 500 miles south of Roubaix, in a small town called Saint-Denis-de-Pile in the French region of Nouvelle-Aquitaine, Cl茅mentine Derot shimmies into a neon-pink construction vest. She鈥檚 about to begin a tour of the headquarters of Smicval, the waste-management company that serves 210,000 people across 137 municipalities north of Bordeaux.

Waste reduction is 鈥渋n our DNA,鈥� Derot says, pointing out industrial-sized piles of compost and a warehouse for sorting plastics into bales of recyclable material. There鈥檚 also a donation center where residents can drop off toys, dishes, furniture, electronics, and other items they no longer need and take home other people鈥檚 items for free. At one end of the facility, above a chute where dump trucks offload unrecoverable waste, is a massive billboard showing trash building up at the nearby Lapouyade Landfill. 鈥淵our trash doesn鈥檛 disappear, it鈥檚 buried 15 kilometers from here,鈥� the billboard reads, apparently addressing Smicval鈥檚 workers since the chute 颈蝉苍鈥檛 public.

According to Derot, this reflects Smicval鈥檚 transformation from a company that simply picks up the trash to a more sophisticated waste-prevention and management service, in line with France鈥檚 2021 to 2027 action plan. She describes the status quo waste-management model as 鈥渢otally out of breath鈥濃�攊n need of a complete overhaul鈥攄ue to escalating concerns over the environment, as well as France鈥檚 sharply increasing . In 2019, it costs 18 euros to send a metric ton of waste to the landfill; in 2025, the cost will be 65 euros.

Like Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet, Smicval envisions a 鈥渄rastic reduction鈥� in waste generation. But as a regional waste-management authority and not a small municipality, Smicval has a very different toolbox at its disposal. Where Roubaix has largely asked residents to opt in to waste reduction, Smicval can experiment with more systemic means, like changing the way trash is collected or the way people are charged for disposal services.

The goal, according to H茅l猫ne Boisseau, who is overseeing the deployment of Smicval鈥檚 new waste-management strategies, is to create an environment that is conducive to waste reduction. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 ask for people to become masters in zero waste,鈥� she said. Rather, 鈥淲e design the path鈥� and then guide people along it.

In behavioral science, this is referred to as 鈥渃ontextual change,鈥� where you alter the context in which people make decisions. Instead of merely asking people to do things differently, contextual changes make it easier or more convenient to perform the desired behavior鈥攑erhaps by presenting the existing options in a different, more strategic way. Take a middle school lunch line, for example. To get students to eat more vegetables and less pizza, you could either tell them all about the health benefits of broccoli and carrots鈥攐r you could move the vegetables to the front of the buffet, so they鈥檙e the first things hungry kids see. Many behavioral scientists prefer this type of strategy because it can change lots of people鈥檚 behavior all at once鈥攔ather than one by one. Plus, it鈥檚 better attuned to the of most decision-making. 

Smicval鈥檚 two biggest strategies revolve around the way waste is collected and how people pay for it. Last October, Smicval began a yearslong process of transitioning away from door-to-door waste collection to a model in which people travel to a centralized location, likely within a few blocks鈥� distance, to drop off their trash. Large bins for trash and recycling鈥攐ne for every 150 residents鈥攚ill be openable using a special key card. Community compost bins will be distributed at a rate of one per 80 residents.

According to Boisseau, this model will encourage people to reduce waste simply because it鈥檚 inconvenient to haul heavy trash bags down the block. But the longer-term objective is to use those key cards to implement a pay-as-you-throw scheme, in which people pay for waste disposal based on the amount of trash they want to dispose of. Rather than funding Smicval through taxes, families would directly pay the company for different tiers of service, represented by the number of times their key cards will allow them to open the garbage receptacles. The more openings, the more expensive the service, so that people no longer think of waste collection as a limitless public service.

Boisseau compared it to the way people get their electricity bills. Because they can see the charge fluctuating based on their consumption habits, they鈥檒l be incentivized to waste less to pay less. 鈥淭he best way of making sure that people are very concerned with what they put in a bin or a container is to pay for it individually instead of [through] taxes,鈥� she said. Indeed, this principle has been put to use in thousands of towns worldwide, from Berkeley, California, to Austin, Texas, some of whose pay-as-you-throw policies have contributed to municipal solid waste reductions of . Waste experts say these policies are some of local governments鈥� 鈥�.鈥�

Smicval is still sorting out the details of the new system, which is unlikely to be fully adopted until at least 2027 or 2028. In the meantime, Smicval expects to see significant cost savings from fewer and shorter garbage truck routes, which it will use to fund some of its other waste-reduction projects: things like a pilot program for reusable diapers, political advocacy for a bottle deposit bill, a asking grocery stores to eliminate unnecessary plastic packaging, and a Roubaix-esque 鈥渮ero-waste cities鈥� program, in which Smicval distributes reusable cleaning products and informational pamphlets to the residents of participating municipalities.

Barnett, the behavioral scientist, applauded Smicval for using a broad range of strategies to encourage zero waste. 鈥淭hey are attacking this from different angles,鈥� she said.

Still, she and the other behavioral scientists Grist spoke with noted the risk of backfire. Although small hassles can be 鈥渜uite impactful鈥� in catalyzing behavior change, Wright, with Ideas42, said they can also go too far and encourage noncompliance. For something like centralized waste collection or a pay-as-you-throw system, this could mean people dumping their waste illegally or finding a work-around to open the trash receptacles more often than what they鈥檙e paying for. Wright said the program鈥檚 success will hinge on specific design considerations, like how direct invoicing is presented to customers.

If Smicval鈥檚 waste-reduction policies are particularly unpopular, Boisseau said it鈥檚 even possible that a conservative slate of candidates could be elected to the organization鈥檚 board and walk back or weaken its environmental initiatives. Already, Smicval has gained critics who say that centralized waste collection is too onerous. These include the mayor of Libourne, the largest city in Smicval鈥檚 territory, who at a meeting last year predicted that the organization鈥檚 strategy would turn Libourne into 鈥�,鈥� with people dumping garbage on the streets. If these critics were to mobilize the population against Smicval鈥檚 agenda, Boisseau said, 鈥淲e know they would fight hard.鈥�

A similar problem was unfolding on a national scale in December 2023, as France prepared to meet a January 1 deadline to equip all of its households with composting receptacles. Observers were afraid that the rollout would be a 鈥�,鈥� and that 鈥渁 lot of people wouldn鈥檛 want to take part.鈥�

Smicval is aware of the obstacles it faces and has been proactive in its efforts to preempt or overcome them. As it slowly transitions to centralized waste collection, for example, the organization is going city by city and saving Libourne for last, hoping that a successful rollout in some of its more supportive municipalities will assuage fears in Libourne. To avoid backlash, it has also consulted with individual citizens to hear their concerns, act on their feedback, and鈥攊n some cases鈥攄esign project proposals to be presented to Smicval鈥檚 board. 

We try to work with citizens, rather than for them, Derot said. 鈥淭hey know what they need.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Despite the many overlapping benefits of zero waste, the movement sometimes gets a bad rap because of its focus on consumers, rather than manufacturers. Why ask individuals to shop in the bulk aisle or pay more for trash disposal if the petrochemical industry is just going to plastic production by 2050 anyway?

鈥淲e are kind of tired of everyone saying it鈥檚 on the citizens鈥� part鈥� to reduce waste, Debrabandere, with Zero Waste France, told Grist. She and other environmental advocates agree there鈥檚 an urgent need for waste-reduction policies that are even more aggressive than France鈥檚 current ones鈥攆or example, mandatory waste sorting in all restaurants, as well as more stringent requirements for the use of post-consumer recycled content and a faster phase-out of single-use plastics. 

But the zero-waste policies of advocates鈥� dreams will require even more intensive behavior shifts than those that Roubaix and Smicval are trying to navigate. For example, imagine a world where France鈥攐r any developed country, for that matter鈥攂ans products from being sold in disposable containers. This would require people to deal with new enforcement infrastructure at the local level and to shop at new businesses that can accommodate reusable and refillable product systems, and lug around their own jars, jugs, and bottles.

There are many, many other routine habits that consumers will have to dispense with or fundamentally alter to , like buying plastic toothpaste tubes and getting takeout in throwaway packaging. The work that Roubaix and Smicval are doing in France is an early part of that process. By figuring out how best to engage their citizens in behavioral change, they are helping to create a smoother path toward the deeper, more radical changes that advocates hope are coming in the near future.

Barnett said there鈥檚 also value in the work Roubaix and Smicval are doing to understand zero-waste behavior in their respective regions. Behavioral scientists used to think humans could be characterized by a set of 鈥渦niversal truths,鈥� Barnett said. But that鈥檚 less the case now: 鈥淲e need to go in there and figure out more about the environmental context, the people that are there,鈥� she explained. 

Meanwhile, as Roubaix and Smicval continue to try to win over new residents, they both have the benefit of an unusually enthusiastic army of supporters. Nieuwjaer 颈蝉苍鈥檛 the only zero-waste devotee who鈥檚 all too eager to proselytize about the simple joys of reducing waste. Chlo茅 Audubert, who has spent the past two years working at one of Smicval鈥檚 sorting centers, said she loves helping people sort and limit their d茅chets enfouis鈥攖heir waste destined for the landfill. And Otimi, the Roubaix resident who leads a family of 10, could barely find the words in English to express what Roubaix Z茅ro D茅chet has meant to her. 鈥淭his program changed my life,鈥� she finally said.

This story was co-published with and supported by The Heinrich B枚ll Foundation.

This story was (United States) and is republished within the program, supported by the ICFJ, .

Typhoon Haiyan鈥攐r , as most Filipinos call it鈥攚as one of the deadliest cyclones in history, leading to and more than 28,000 injuries. At least are still considered missing. Haiyan hit Tacloban City the hardest, collapsing and flattening the city鈥檚 most formidable buildings and infrastructures and causing . 

In November 2023, the people of Tacloban gathered to remember Haiyan鈥攖he great mourning and the long journey to overcoming one of the world鈥檚 worst climate catastrophes. They鈥檝e risen from deep calamity, modeling how the people of the Global South have been鈥攁nd continue to be鈥攖enacious and united as they rebuild. There are lessons to be learned here. What has helped this community collectively survive the unimaginable?

An Avenue of Care for Survivors

Jaime Gravador, a news reporter in Tacloban, was 12 when Haiyan devastated the city. In the hours after the storm, which Gravador describes as 鈥渄ark,鈥� 鈥渉eavy,鈥� and 鈥渁pocalyptic,鈥� he and his father roamed neighborhoods where they encountered mass death. 鈥�Lahat ng nakikita mo sa daan puro patay [you find dead bodies everywhere you turn],鈥� he remembers wearily. Even after Haiyan passed, he couldn鈥檛 look at certain roads without having a flashback of the lifeless bodies that once lay there. 鈥淚t brings you back to all the deep emotion … memories na hindi mo kayang maalala. Maluluha ka talaga [memories that you can鈥檛 bear to remember anymore. You鈥檒l always end up in tears],鈥� Gravador says. 

In the aftermath of the super typhoon, survivors developed severe mental health conditions. Approximately 80.5% of survivors involved in typhoon relief efforts , and the rate of people with mental illnesses, including schizophrenia and depression, .

However, the country wasn鈥檛 fully equipped to handle this increase in mental distress. Gloria Enriquez-Fabrigas, an officer in charge of Tacloban鈥檚 health office, told the in 2019: 鈥淲hen Yolanda struck, we were all shocked. 鈥� The focus [then] was really more on the need for food and basic needs. Mental health was set aside during that time.鈥� Gravador says that some of these survivors became psychologically distressed not just because their loved ones died, but because there were others who were never recovered. For some survivors, the lack of closure, with no bodies to bury and grieve, was too much to tolerate.

After Haiyan, there were only serving Eastern Visayas, even as the . But in 2014, officials in Eastern Visayas implemented , which allotted $90,380 or 5 million Philippine pesos, 鈥渢o enable government agencies and personnel to respond to psychosocial needs through community-based intervention,鈥� according to .听

Eastern Visayas was the first region in the Philippines to provide mental health support at all levels of care: primary, secondary, and tertiary, assisting up to 鈥�384 [patients] in 2017,鈥� , a provincial health officer in Northern Samar. Health workers in Eastern Visayas offered care to communities using the Mental Health Gap Action Programme (mhGAP), an international program that 鈥渁ims at scaling up services for mental, neurological and substance use disorders for countries especially with low- and middle-income,鈥� according . 

The program is designed for large-scale communities who suffer mental health conditions like depression, suicidal thoughts, and other psychological disorders, especially when there is a great lack of resources. In summary, on destigmatizing mental health issues in the community, suicide and substance-use prevention, community follow-up, human rights awareness, and more.

Health personnel, even those who were not mental health specialists, were trained with the mhGAP curriculum. The implementation of the curriculum aided the national health staff and local communities to identify and manage mental health conditions

Lyra was 10 when Haiyan flooded her Tacloban home. At the time, she couldn鈥檛 process the magnitude of the typhoon鈥攗ntil she and her family needed to climb on top of their roof to avoid violent floods.

After Haiyan, Tacloban didn鈥檛 have electricity for three months. Haiyan also completely wiped out Tacloban鈥檚 water and sanitation services, including the . Lyra recalls drinking baby milk so she could have adequate nutrition. 鈥�Siniguro lang nila Papa na may tubig kami kahit water lang na galing sa ulan. Tapos yung mineral water, parang talaga sa mga baby lang, so yung tubig namin, [ay] tubig ulan. [Our dad found ways for us to have enough drinking water, even if it meant rainwater. The mineral water was only reserved for infants].鈥� For Lyra, nothing was ever the same.

When Lyra returned to school, most of her classmates were no longer there. Some died during Haiyan while others moved away. Thanks to the lingering trauma from Haiyan as well as the sudden changes in her everyday life, her social skills diminished: 鈥淎fter ng bagyo, mas naging silent ako. Hindi ako marunong makihalubilo. [After the storm, I became more silent. I didn鈥檛 know how to get along with others].鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She also noticed psychosomatic effects from climate anxiety: 鈥淧ag umuulan ng malakas o鈥� pag malakas ang hangin, parang natatahimik agad ako o鈥� natutuliro. Hindi ko ma-explain yung feeling na traumatized, kasi hindi ko siya na-express nung bata ako. [Whenever I see heavy rains or hear strong winds, I get quiet and disoriented now. I couldn鈥檛 explain the feeling of being traumatized at the time since I was only a child].鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

, climate anxiety is 鈥渁n adaptive psychological response to the actual threat posed by the climate crisis,鈥� which manifests in 鈥渋ntrusive worrying, fear, and behavioral impairment.鈥� Aruta and Guinto found that the Philippines has the highest number of youth who suffer from negative emotions like hopelessness, anger, and frustration in response to the climate crisis.

After Haiyan, communities from different parts of the Philippines and around the world traveled to Tacloban . Some humanitarian organizations, such as , were birthed from these efforts. FundLife, an organization mostly led by youth leaders and mentors, provides relief goods and psychosocial support to climate survivors in Tacloban. The organization utilizes , , and 鈥攅specially football鈥攖o help youth cope with the impact of the climate disaster.听

Lyra, who was one of the organization鈥檚 first mentees, is a living testament to the impact of FundLife鈥檚 community efforts. 鈥淔undLife became a second family to me,鈥� Lyra shares. 鈥淚 wanted to share the hope I have through sports and play. Yung play, naging forgotten right na ng mga bata [Play has become a forgotten right to kids].鈥� Lyra believes that sports can be an avenue where a young person discovers how resilient they are: 鈥�Sa paglalaro鈥� dun mo malalaman na pwede kang bumangon [Play makes it possible for anyone to rise up].鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She鈥檚 since returned to the organization to work as one of its football coaches. 鈥�Nung nag-join ako sa FundLife, hindi ko lang na-develop yung football skills ko, mas na-improve ko yung confidence at social skills ko [Since joining FundLife, my football skills improved, as did my confidence and social skills],鈥� she says. 

The Power of Collective Storytelling

鈥淟补谤辞驳 are what you call the sediments at the bottom of a tuba jar,鈥� Joanna Sustento says as she welcomes attendees to Larog, a community storytelling project where climate survivors share stories, music, and art to process the tragedies from Haiyan. 鈥淰ery much like what we have here [in this gathering], the stories we tell are remnants of what has conspired a decade ago: stories, memories鈥攈owever much we pour out, there will always be something else to tell: the remnants,鈥� Sustento says.听

Sustento, who co-created Larog in 2017, lost her family during the super typhoon. She then became an active frontliner, providing basic necessities to affected communities in Tacloban. While her story was widely known in climate activist spaces, she didn鈥檛 have enough time to process the trauma and grieve. 鈥淎t that time, [I was on] survival mode,鈥� she says. 鈥淸I focused] more on finding my family members, kasi noong time na 鈥榶on, hindi ko pa alam kung sinu-sino ba yung nag survive, and siyempre, find shelter, food [because during that time, I didn鈥檛 know who else in my family survived, and of course, I needed to find shelter and food].鈥�

After Haiyan passed, Sustento and her friends felt like something was missing during the annual commemoration ceremonies. 鈥淲e realized that there鈥檚 this gap,鈥� she says. 鈥淸There鈥檚 no] space for people to come together and share stories. [Only] amongst ourselves, we鈥檇 tell stories of how we survived [and] our experiences during the typhoon. Pero wala yung isang space na pupunta yung mga taong hindi magkakakilala [but there was no central space where strangers can gather and tell stories], and we want to provide that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The first Larog event ended around 11:00 p.m., but people continued to share their experiences until the following morning. 鈥�Wala na yung program. Wala na yung microphone. Pero yung audience mismo nag-usap usap na sila [There was no more program. No more microphone. But the audience members remained and kept talking amongst themselves].鈥�

At the 2023 gathering, Kay Zabala, a mental health coach, told her story about losing 11 family members during the typhoon. 鈥淚 experienced hell because of Yolanda … imagine [losing] only one [family member], what about 11?鈥� she said. After Haiyan, Zabala sought psychological and psychiatric help among other treatments so that she could heal. In turn, she鈥檚 become a mental-health practitioner.

While the pain of surviving a climate disaster will never go away, Zabala says our bodies and collective spirit are resilient: 鈥淲e are capable of surpassing and overcoming anything … because we are naturally capable of doing that,鈥� she continues. 鈥淚f you get wounded in the morning and [when you get to] the afternoon or evening, makita ka nagsasara na [the wound will close]. You see that it鈥檚 already dried.鈥�

When I asked Sustento about the healing power of storytelling, she said that collective grieving helped the community immensely: 鈥�Nag-purge kami ng mga trauma namin [We purged out our trauma together]. Nakakalungkot because yun yung pinagdaanan namin [It鈥檚 sad because we went through all of this], but at the same time, it鈥檚 just so beautiful to know that you鈥檙e not alone, [and] to know na may mga taong naiintindihan kung ano yung mga pinagdanaanan mo [to know that there are people who understand you and all that you are going through].鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Sustento says that telling her story has restored her sense of purpose. Though Haiyan took everything from her, she knows, 鈥淓nough pa rin ako [I鈥檓 still enough]. I can still contribute to something bigger.鈥� She desires this for other climate survivors as well: 鈥淗opefully, [they] find it in them [that] hindi ito yung end [This is not the end]. There鈥檚 still so much more.鈥�

Walking for Climate Justice 

The Philippines contributes , yet it鈥檚 the world鈥檚 country and has the highest risk of being impacted by climate change. As the threat rises, a community of humanitarian organizations have been demanding world governments respond to the climate crisis that鈥檚 impacting countries, especially in the Global South.听

Members and volunteers of Greenpeace Southeast Asia, Bikers United Movement, DAKILA, FundLife, Living Laudato Si, Philippine Movement for Climate Justice, and various archdioceses in the Philippines walked from Manila to Tacloban City鈥攁 journey of more than 600 miles鈥攖o uplift their urgent call for systemic change through the Climate Justice Walk.

is a monthlong action that began on Oct. 8, 2023, . The walk highlighted the demand for climate reparations, which urges fossil fuel companies to provide reparations for the loss and damage costs for the areas most impacted by climate disasters, including but not limited to Tacloban City. The walk also supported , including the Philippine Commission on Human Rights鈥� 鈥渢hat found legal grounds to hold big fossil fuel companies and other corporate entities accountable for their climate-destroying business models that lead to human rights harms.鈥� This meant investigating 47 corporations, including听Shell, Exxon, and BP, for human-rights violations that triggered the climate crisis. However, have shown up to face the communities who filed these landmark petitions.

Greenpeace campaigner Jefferson Chua believes that reparations is 鈥渢he strongest form of accountability.鈥� Yet he and his team have sensed the resistance from Global North governments when discussing climate reparations: 鈥淚 do think it鈥檚 opening the wound up again that relates to the colonial past of a lot of Global North countries, because we do know that the word 鈥榬eparations鈥� connotes postcolonial meanings, right?,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 just don鈥檛 think [Global North governments] want to pay. They don鈥檛 want accountability in terms of their historical emissions, and also, [they are] not acknowledging the accountability for the expansion plans of [their] companies.鈥�

Beyond the Climate Justice Walk, Greenpeace Southeast Asia has been pressuring governments and companies to account for their complicity in climate change. This includes to the Shell import terminal in Batangas, Philippines, as well as establishing , which displays stories and art by climate survivors. 

Yeb Sa帽o, lead walker of the Climate Justice Walk, says that 鈥淔ilipinos refuse to accept the vicious cycle of destruction and reconstruction.鈥� As the executive director of Greenpeace Southeast Asia, he also said in a : 鈥淲e also refuse to accept that we are reduced to numbers, so it is our aim to remind the whole world.鈥澨�

More than 10 years after Haiyan, it鈥檚 important to recognize that there are many ways to process and survive climate catastrophes鈥攚ith community-led mental health interventions, play, and creative storytelling鈥攚hile also strategically preventing them from escalating any further.

She鈥檇 joined the crew of elders practicing, their moves fluid as the stream that ran by the village. She鈥檇 spotted him then, the only other face as young as hers: a thin man with glasses, thick curls of hair, and a gentle smile. Naturally, they鈥檇 felt drawn to each other, and Huaxin struck up a conversation.

After that, they met up for tea following each tai chi session. He was a lot like Huaxin: opinionated, particular, averse to vulnerability. He was also impulsive. He picked up new topics easily, researched them with relish, constantly talked to her about how the world was changing.

One day he led her back to the park and removed a ring from his pocket. It was no diamond, but Huaxin still gasped when she saw it: a smooth stone, well-worn like a comforting friend. 鈥淭he world may be changing,鈥� he said with a cheeky grin, 鈥渂ut I want you to be my constant.鈥�

He moved in with her and she introduced him to her livelihood: beehousing. They shared bowls of noodles, talked about having children, and continued to practice tai chi, nurturing their slowly aging bodies.

And then, nine years later, he left her.

鈥淎nd why do you need this information again?鈥� Huaxin snapped into the phone.

鈥淪cience,鈥� the person on the other end said. This was the third time Huaxin had asked, and now it seemed like the man was going for the simplest explanation possible. 鈥淚t鈥檒l provide useful data to prevent natural disasters. We know your region is highly flood prone. This will help you prepare for that.鈥�

Huaxin chewed her lip. Did they know how her parents had died? If so, of course they鈥檇 come running to her. 鈥淎nd you鈥檙e saying the bees will provide this data?鈥�

鈥淵es. Just click on the link I sent you. Again, I鈥檇 like to offer our services to install digital monitoring systems in the hives. It鈥檒l be completely free and will make it easier鈥斺��

鈥淣o thanks,鈥� Huaxin said, hanging up. On her computer, she clicked on the unread message.

They wanted her to download an app. Didn鈥檛 she have enough shit clogging up her phone? Wasn鈥檛 there an option to just send an email with whatever observations they wanted her to make? She clicked the 鈥淪upport鈥� button and typed: i don鈥檛 want your fucking app

Huaxin鈥檚 phone buzzed. She鈥檇 received a text.

Support: 
hey there, can you explain your dilemma to me?

Huaxin eyed the screen in suspicion. Was this an automated response? Or worse, AI? She didn鈥檛 want to talk to a robot.

Huaxin: 
are you a human?

Support: 
yes, i am.

Huaxin: 
who are you?

Support: 
i鈥檓 a scientist with sichuan resilient. i help implement the nature-based early warning system we鈥檝e partnered with the beijing office of meteorology on. is that what you鈥檙e asking about today?

Huaxin: 
i guess

Support: 
may i ask why you don鈥檛 want to download our app?

Huaxin: 
too many apps on my phone

Support: 
i understand. do you prefer another method of reporting data?

Huaxin: 
can i just email it to someone

Support: 
you can email it to me.

The scientist sent Huaxin an email address, and Huaxin breathed a sigh of relief.

Huaxin: 
thanks

Huaxin: 
what鈥檚 your name

Support: 
my name is anshui. you are huaxin lin, correct?

Huaxin: 
mhm

Huaxin: 
so the guy on the phone said i鈥檒l get paid for this?

Support: 
yes. think of it like a part-time job. we know it takes time out of your day to record these observations and send them to us, so we want to make sure you鈥檙e compensated.

Huaxin: 
i still don鈥檛 know how bees will help prevent flooding

Support: 
several studies show that some species of animals, including bees, exhibit specific behaviors prior to an extreme weather event. this program is two-fold: by telling us how the bees are behaving, we can predict if something like a flood is going to happen, and we can distribute emergency messaging to your region. on the research side, if we collect enough data that connects certain bee behavior to weather events, we鈥檒l have more ways of predicting disasters in the future.

Huaxin: 
you鈥檙e telling me you can鈥檛 predict floods already with your fancy science tools?

Support: 
with the unpredictable ways climate events are unfolding, meteorological stations can only do so much. we鈥檙e testing supplemental methods by using nature-based solutions. nature is very wise; we just have to listen.

Huaxin: 
sounds like some hippie bullshit to me

Support: 
we鈥檙e included in that nature. doesn鈥檛 your body sometimes tell you when it鈥檚 going to rain?

That was true. If Huaxin didn鈥檛 smell it in the air, she literally felt it in her bones. She鈥檇 brought it up to a doctor once, who told her that sometimes people with joint issues could feel pressure changes in their knees. She didn鈥檛 like the idea of having weak joints. She was 37, hardly ancient.

Huaxin: 
i guess

Support: 
if you have any other questions, please let me know.

Support: 
have a nice day 馃檪 

This person seemed like they had the role of a customer service representative plus IT person. Basically, the worst job ever. She put her phone away and went outside.

It was spring. From her home in the hills, Huaxin could see cracks of color speckling into view as new buds bloomed across the valley. The bees stirred from their slumber, buzzing more than they had in the previous months.

Over the years, Huaxin had departed from her family鈥檚 traditional beekeeping and veered into beehousing, an emerging practice that was more about providing for bees鈥� needs than managing bees. She still had one Chinese honey bee hive, but she鈥檇 also dotted her garden with bee motels, plant matter, and soil mounds to serve as wild bee habitats. Similarly, she鈥檇 filled her garden with a diverse mix of native plants: sweetly fragrant lychee and peach trees, traditional Chinese medicine staples like black cardamom and butterfly bush, native pea shrub and milkvetch, and vegetables like sponge gourd and radish.

Other than harvesting honey, Huaxin didn鈥檛 鈥渒eep鈥� any of the bees. Certainly not the wild ones. She provided them shelter and food and they pollinated her plants. The bees were gentle with her. She liked this relationship; it was easy to understand. Give respect and receive respect in return. It wasn鈥檛 the same with humans.

After collecting data, she sipped homemade jasmine tea with a dollop of honey and took out her phone.

Huaxin: 
6am, roughly 50 bees per hive en route to flowers, determined dance, will report on return times in afternoon

Support: 
thank you.

Support: 
you can send me one report at the end of the day if you prefer, rather than multiple throughout.

Huaxin: 
i won鈥檛 remember all the details if i do that

Huaxin: 
would you rather me not text you every hour

Support: 
no, this is fine.

Support: 
determined dance, i like that.

Huaxin: 
thinking of their routes as dances helps me characterize them

Huaxin: 
sometimes it鈥檚 a lion dance, sometimes it鈥檚 tai chi

Huaxin: 
anyways you鈥檙e right, i don鈥檛 want to bother you with notifications

Support: 
i don鈥檛 mind. i like the frequent texts, i don鈥檛 get a lot of messages.

That was 鈥� sad. Or maybe not? Maybe it meant Anshui had a rich social life completely offline. That sounded amazing.

Huaxin: 
aren鈥檛 you texting other bee people

Support: 
they鈥檙e not all beekeepers. and most of them use the app, which automates the data delivery.

Huaxin: 
ah so i鈥檓 just a high-maintenance bitch

Support: 
you like doing things your way. which i admire.

Something tingled in Huaxin鈥檚 stomach. She bit her lip.

Huaxin: 
are you flirting with me

Support: 
鈥� no. apologies if it came across that way.

Support: 
i can stop if you want.

Support: 
texting you things unrelated to the data monitoring, i mean.

Huaxin didn鈥檛 know what to say, so she stashed her phone.

The rest of the day was like any other, with the addition of her data duties. She tended to her garden. She visited the porch when people rang to buy her products. She made lunch: yellow squash from her garden, stir-fried with fermented black beans and tofu from the weekly market. She texted updates to Anshui, who didn鈥檛 respond until the end of the day with a 鈥渢hank you.鈥�

Someone knocked on the door. The sun had set by now, so Huaxin already knew who it was. 鈥淗颈, Ms. Chen. The usual?鈥�

Ms. Chen gave a curt nod. 鈥淎nd two lychee honey sticks, please. Need something to drown out the medicine tonight.鈥�

Huaxin nodded, fetching the jars and sticks. Ms. Chen was her elderly neighbor鈥攚ell, if one counted a neighbor as someone who lived two hills away. She鈥檇 lived a nocturnal life ever since she lost her job decades ago when countrywide protests caused the country to shut down its last coal mines. Their little town had celebrated. Ms. Chen had not. With no family, she鈥檇 taken pride in her work and found her purpose lost after that work disappeared. She鈥檇 lived in isolation ever since, except to visit town every once in a while to grab groceries, or buy honey from Huaxin.

Huaxin felt a kinship with her.

鈥淗ot today,鈥� Ms. Chen said as she took the honey. Their few exchanges of conversation had to do with the weather. As it was with people who never talked to others.

鈥渊别补丑.鈥�

鈥淚 hope it was worth it.鈥�

鈥沦辞谤谤测?鈥�

Ms. Chen gazed into the distance. 鈥淪hutting down the mines. I hope it helped. The heat would be worse, right?鈥�

Oh. She was talking about climate change. Huaxin always avoided the topic with Ms. Chen. It was the global effort to decarbonize that had lost her her job, after all. And yes, shutting down the coal mines was a good thing. But the government had not made sure she鈥檇 had another livelihood to jump to after the transition.

Still, it wasn鈥檛 bitterness in Ms. Chen鈥檚 voice. Instead there was 鈥� guilt? Regret?

No. Ms. Chen鈥檚 eyes were watery. She鈥檇 been forgotten. Abandoned. She wanted to know her abandonment was worth it. It wasn鈥檛 the income she would have missed the most; the country鈥檚 social programs meant no one needed to work to survive. But Huaxin knew that for Ms. Chen, her job had also provided her a sense of routine, of camaraderie. Ms. Chen mourned the loss of that.

鈥渊别蝉,鈥� Huaxin said. 鈥淚t would be worse.鈥�

The next morning, Huaxin woke up feeling empty. She texted Anshui.

Huaxin: 
hi

Huaxin: 
you can talk to me

Huaxin: 
i don鈥檛 want this to be weird

Support: 
ok, thank you.

Support: 
sorry again.

Huaxin: 
don鈥檛 apologize

Huaxin: 
how did you sleep

Support: 
not bad. it was warm but i have good AC. you?

Huaxin: 
no good AC but i鈥檓 used to the heat

Huaxin: 
gonna get started on the bees now, will report in a bit

She went through the motions faster today and poured herself another cup of tea before going back to her phone.

Huaxin: 
6:15am bee workday start. lazy bastards. 40 bees per hive, more like tai chi

Support: 
the bees deserve to rest too.

Huaxin: 
i鈥檓 joking, i like bees more than humans

Support: 
what鈥檚 wrong with humans?

Huaxin: 
we made the mess that鈥檚 making you have to do this whole early warning thing, right?

Huaxin: 
selfishly polluting and not caring about nature

Support: 
we also realized our mistakes and put ourselves on the path to healing the planet. 颈蝉苍鈥檛 that a good redemption arc?

Huaxin recoiled. Some people didn鈥檛 deserve a redemption arc. But she couldn鈥檛 say that. Not good to come off as a bitter divorcee.

Huaxin: 
i guess

Support: 
such as you. i read your hive setup and it鈥檚 interesting. one honey bee hive, 3-4 wild bee hives.

Huaxin: 
having too many honey bees can actually hurt wild bees. they outcompete them for the same resources

Support: 
that鈥檚 mostly the case with european bees, 颈蝉苍鈥檛 it? asian honey bees are threatened, even here in china

Huaxin: 
yeah and the invasion of european bees are the reason for that lmao

Huaxin: 
but wild bees have it worse. people don鈥檛 care about them because they don鈥檛 make a marketable product like honey

Huaxin: 
wild bees are better at pollinating native plants, but that鈥檚 a service that goes unnoticed

Huaxin: 
ok you鈥檙e right, i鈥檓 biased toward wild bees, what can i say

Support: 
you like supporting the underdog, that鈥檚 a good thing.

Huaxin realized that no one had let her ramble on about bees like that in a long time. Her heart was beating fast from the flurry of typing. Or perhaps there was another reason.

Huaxin: 
eh, i鈥檓 not the only one beehousing. more people are seeing the benefit of it

Support: 
so there are others. humans aren鈥檛 so bad after all.

Huaxin: 
so eager to stifle my inner misanthrope

Huaxin: 
but true. at least humans aren鈥檛 robots

Huaxin: 
that AI shit is what鈥檚 really going to destroy the world

Huaxin: 
anyways thanks for listening to me monologue

Support: 
anytime. i like hearing your thoughts.

Support: 
make sure those bees stay hydrated.

Huaxin hated to admit it, but she was getting horrifically, deliciously addicted to texting Anshui.

Her routine had changed. After her morning data collection, she鈥檇 sit outside for a few hours, sipping her tea and texting. She learned more about Anshui鈥檚 role as a scientist鈥攏ot that she understood all the technical aspects of it鈥攁nd she answered Anshui鈥檚 many questions about bees.

Once, they shared a meal together. At least, they did it the best they could digitally; Huaxin wanted to have a video chat, but Anshui refused. Instead, Huaxin sent Anshui a recipe and they made it individually before eating together. Anshui, who in their words was 鈥渧aguely Buddhist,鈥� taught Huaxin how they gave thanks for their food: consider the land it grew on, the hands that touched it, the human and nonhuman creatures who helped nurture it to harvest. Think of it as providing sustenance and strength for your body. Now use your newly given energy and put that care back into the world.

Huaxin: 
that鈥檚 hippie as shit

Huaxin: 
but i like it

Support: 
i thought you might.

Support: 
this recipe is really good by the way. you should share it with the center, i鈥檓 sure they鈥檙e always looking for new vegetarian meals with locally grown produce.

Huaxin: 
the what

Support: 
you haven鈥檛 been to the community resilience center in your town?

Fifteen minutes later, Huaxin heard a knock on her door. She opened it, and then stared at the young woman who stood on her patio, grinning under a thin layer of sweat. 鈥淗颈!鈥� the woman said. 鈥淗uaxin? I hear you鈥檙e overdue for a tour of the center.鈥�

鈥淗ow,鈥� Huaxin said, numb.

The woman laughed. 鈥淎nshui called me and said you hadn鈥檛 heard of us. And then they said you鈥檙e a beehouser, and I was like ohhh, I totally know where she lives, I buy honey from her! I can鈥檛 believe you鈥檝e never made it down to the center. My bad for not advertising it better.鈥�

Huaxin plastered on a fake smile as the woman talked, all the while discreetly texting.

Huaxin: 
what the fuck

Support: 
go with her.

鈥淚t鈥檚 only 10 minutes away,鈥� the woman said, pointing over her shoulder. Behind her stood a solarbike with a passenger cart attached to the back. 鈥淚 can give you a ride.鈥�

And not have a way to leave early if she didn鈥檛 like it? 鈥淚鈥檒l follow you,鈥� Huaxin said, grabbing her keys.

They biked down the hill, veering toward a large, elevated building near the edge of the town center. As they parked, Huaxin examined the building in surprise. She鈥檇 passed this hundreds of times, but always assumed it was some government office. It looked very boring, nondescript save for the giant gong beside it.

鈥淚t鈥檚 bland, but we have plans to spice it up,鈥� the woman, who introduced herself as Min, said. 鈥淲e鈥檝e only been running the center for two years. This used to be a utility office, but after they shut down the coal mines, it stood empty.鈥�

鈥淥h, right. That explains the gong,鈥� Huaxin said in realization. Back when the mines still ran, the gong rang every morning to signal the start to the workday.

Min nodded. 鈥淵es! Now we use the gong to supplement the early warning messaging, for people who don鈥檛 have phones. The town agreed to give this whole place to us after communities around here petitioned to repurpose it.鈥�

Huaxin hadn鈥檛 heard of any such petition. Had she isolated herself that much?

Inside, the center felt much cozier. It had a huge open space with tons of tables and couches, kitchens, bathrooms with showers, libraries, private rooms for sleeping or other activities, power stations, a clinic, recreational activities like ping pong, playsets for children, and both an indoor and outdoor garden. It felt like a home but meant for hundreds of people.

鈥淲ho lives here?鈥� Huaxin asked, examining the photos pinned to a corkboard.

鈥淎nyone who wants to,鈥� Min said. 鈥淧eople who need a temporary place to stay. People who need help. Visitors. Those displaced by鈥攚ell, anything. We built it initially as a gathering space if another natural disaster happens. Like a flood. That鈥檚 why the whole thing鈥檚 elevated. Or a heat wave, since we know AC penetration here is low.鈥�

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have to live here to visit, either,鈥� another voice said, and Huaxin looked up to see a young woman in a wheelchair rolling toward them. Min made a noise of delight and ran over. 鈥淭he center is a general gathering space. We have all sorts of events here. Open mics, dinners. You can come if you鈥檙e just bored.鈥�

鈥淭his is Huaxin. She鈥檚 never been to the center before, so I was showing her around,鈥� Min said to the woman. She gave her shoulder a squeeze. 鈥淗uaxin, this is Kunyi, my fellow cofounder. And my wife.鈥�

The affection with which she uttered 鈥渕y wife鈥� bit the tender meat of Huaxin鈥檚 heart; she tried not to show it. 鈥淭his is a great place,鈥� she said. She meant every word of it. She was trying to tamp down her jealousy. Couldn鈥檛 this have existed eight years ago, after she鈥檇 been discarded?

鈥淧lease spread the word,鈥� Kunyi said. She touched Min鈥檚 hand, and Huaxin had to look away. 鈥淚t looks like we haven鈥檛 reached everyone, despite our best attempts. We鈥檇 love for everyone to feel connected.鈥�

Huaxin鈥檚 thoughts went to Ms. Chen. She wondered if she could get that hurting old lady to come here.

She zipped home on her bike. She still had data to record.

Support: 
have any pictures of the center to share?

Huaxin: 
i thought you would have seen it already

Support: 
i haven鈥檛 been in a while, i bet it鈥檚 changed.

Huaxin: 
how do you know what鈥檚 going on in my own town and i don鈥檛

Support: 
min is my friend from secondary school. i used to live nearby, you know.

Support: 
i鈥檓 glad you got to visit, it鈥檚 a special place. somewhere that makes you feel less lonely.

Right. Huaxin felt something bitter in her throat and grabbed a honey stick to swallow it down.

Bees never stopped working. Huaxin liked that about them. They knew the value of discipline and all played a role in their community. One day, as the haze of summer approached, Anshui asked her why she never took a vacation.

Huaxin: 
who will take care of the bees

Support: 
i know a few beehousers near you who would be happy to send staff your way.

Support: 
there are also ecology students here who would love an opportunity to shadow your farm.

Huaxin: 
i don鈥檛 trust them. no offense

Support: 
that鈥檚 fair. i suppose the bees are like your family.

Support: 
you could also try digital beehousing? that way you can watch them remotely.

The question made Huaxin flinch. She forced down the coldness rising up in her, but her fingers trembled as she typed.

Huaxin: 
eh.

Huaxin: 
i don鈥檛 trust tech

Support: 
i鈥檝e noticed.

Huaxin: 
remember that flood? my parents were trying to evacuate and they used one of those dumbass navigation tools

Huaxin: 
drove right into a flooded road and drowned

Huaxin: 
wouldn鈥檛 have happened if the tool actually knew our roads. but no, its fancy algorithms got people killed

Support: 
i鈥檓 very sorry to hear that, huaxin.

Huaxin: 
whatever, i鈥檓 over it

Support: 
i don鈥檛 fault you for not trusting tech. we should create a world where tech works with people. if it just tries to replace them, things go very wrong.

Huaxin: 
tell my ex-husband that

She paused. She didn鈥檛 know why she brought that up. She hated talking about him. It was a shame that always hung in the back of her mind, made her wonder if she was unlovable. Replaceable. Worse than that鈥攖rash.

Hell. She couldn鈥檛 hide it forever.

Support: 
what were his opinions on tech?

Huaxin: 
we fought a lot about it. he wanted to, among other things, digitize my beehousing

Huaxin: 
he said tech would save the world and anyone who didn鈥檛 adopt every new innovation was going to fall behind and be forgotten

Huaxin: 
and then he proved that prophecy true by leaving me for someone better hahahahaha

Support: 
i鈥檓 sorry, that鈥檚 shitty of him. you didn鈥檛 deserve that.

Huaxin felt her cheeks grow warm. She felt drunk on something. Anshui鈥檚 attention, maybe. Unearthed rage from the hurt she鈥檇 tried to bury for so long.

And at the same time, something else. A seed of a feeling that nagged at her.

Huaxin: 
why are you being so nice to me

Support: 
i don鈥檛 think i am? no one deserves to be treated that way. if he wanted a better future, that should have included a world where no one gets abandoned

Huaxin: 
holy shit

Huaxin: 
you鈥檙e not real

Everything slammed into place. Anshui always being so friendly, so available. Anshui never sharing personal details. Anshui refusing to video call.

Anshui was not human.

Support: 
what?

Huaxin: 
you鈥檙e a fucking AI

Huaxin: 
godDAMMIT

Huaxin:
you LIED to me

Huaxin: 
i鈥檓 so stupid

Support: 
鈥�

Support: 
are you serious?

Support: 
i am definitely NOT AI.

Huaxin:
i don鈥檛 know anything about you

Huaxin: 
you never want to call

Support: 
i鈥檓 sorry for trying to maintain my privacy.

Support: 
i thought YOU would understand given how untrusting you are of the internet.

Huaxin: 
yeah but we鈥檝e been texting for weeks now???

Huaxin: 
send me proof that you鈥檙e real

Support: 
i do not owe you anything.

Support: 
if you think the only reason someone would show kindness to you is because they鈥檙e a computer program, then i鈥檓 sorry that鈥檚 your worldview.

Support: 
but honestly i鈥檓 disappointed that after all this time you don鈥檛 even see me as human.

Huaxin forced herself to put her phone down and take several deep breaths. She didn鈥檛 know what the truth was anymore. All she knew was that she鈥檇 broken something that had felt so rare and precious, and she wasn鈥檛 sure she could get it back.

Summer arrived in a wave of bright orange feeling, but Huaxin still felt stifled in the gloom of winter.

By habit, she still took bee behavior notes in a long-ass document interspersed with apologies, observations, and recipes for Anshui. Obviously, she never sent it. The last texts between the two were still Anshui鈥檚 searing words that made Huaxin鈥檚 throat close up every time she read them.

She began to notice more the changes around her: the bees slowing down, Ms. Chen鈥檚 visits becoming less frequent as she blamed the heat, more people staying at the center, which Huaxin visited often now. People murmured that this was the longest heat wave in a while, and Min and Kunyi鈥檚 team were busy making sure the center was prepared to take care of everyone.

One morning Huaxin trudged into the garden. The eerie silence almost knocked her over. She ran to the hives and checked each one.

Huaxin: 
anshui help

Huaxin: 
the bees aren鈥檛 moving

Support: 
are they okay? what do they need?

She couldn鈥檛 control her swell of emotions at seeing the first words from Anshui in a long while, but she didn鈥檛 have time for that now.

Huaxin: 
i think they鈥檒l be fine if i get a continuous stream of water going

Huaxin: 
but they鈥檝e collected a ton of water for their hives. they stopped fanning the entrances and now they鈥檙e clumping outside. they know a huge temperature spike is coming

Support: 
take care of them. i鈥檒l tell min.

Support: 
have you been continuing to take notes?

Huaxin: 
yes, i鈥檒l send them to you

She navigated to the document where she鈥檇 been keeping all the notes, apologies, and recipes, and without making a single edit, sent it over.

Then she ran to the hose.

Huaxin had never seen the whole town like this: buzzing with determination, working tirelessly as bees.

By the time she arrived at the center, Min was already waiting out front. 鈥淗ow are the bees?鈥� she asked, handing Huaxin a cold water canister.

鈥淭hey鈥檒l be fine.鈥� Huaxin was worried, especially for the wild bees; they were more sensitive to heat. She鈥檇 set up more shade and hydration stations and just had to trust they could take care of themselves. 鈥淗ow is everyone doing?鈥�

Min grimaced. 鈥淐haotic, but we鈥檝e trained for this. Everyone鈥檚 been prepping on what to do if we get a warning, so they all knew to come here. Some volunteers also went to fetch anyone who might have passed out in their homes. The hospital in town and our clinic here is stuffed, but we鈥檙e making do.鈥�

Huaxin glanced over at the bike parking, which was fuller than she鈥檇 ever seen it. Something occurred to her, and she looked back at the hills. 鈥淗as an elderly woman named Ms. Chen showed up?鈥�

Min鈥檚 face furrowed in immediate concern. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think so.鈥�

She began to run toward the bikes and Huaxin grabbed her arm. 鈥淣o. You stay. I know where she lives.鈥�

鈥淏ut 鈥斺��

鈥淢in,鈥� Huaxin said sternly. 鈥淟isten to your elders.鈥�

Then she ran toward the gong and struck it with three reverberating strikes: the signal for the start of the work day.

That day, the temperature spiked to 45 degrees C for a sustained five hours. The next day was even worse, with both the mercury and humidity climbing to record highs.

Huaxin had reached Ms. Chen in time. The old woman had been sleeping, but her body had reacted to the familiar sound of the gong, and she was awake by the time Huaxin reached her house. The two had zipped back to the center.

Meanwhile, Anshui had been texting updates.

Support: 
temp should begin to dip tomorrow evening. thanks to you and other monitors in your area, we were able to contact everyone and avoid a lot of deaths.

Huaxin: 
thank god

Support: 
i appreciate the notes you sent over. i retroactively input all the data and the temp-dance curves provide a lot of new information. this will be really helpful for our research.

Huaxin: 
temp-dance curves huh?

Support: 
your metaphors were too useful not to use.

Huaxin: 
i hope you uhhh ignored all the other stuff in my notes that wasn鈥檛 bee data

Support: 
how could i?

Support: 
i鈥檝e already tried the recipe for longan honey iced tea, it was delicious.

Huaxin: 
ughhhh

Support: 
but really, thank you for the apologies.

鈥淲ho鈥檙e you texting?鈥� Kunyi asked as she and another person wheeled by, pushing a cart of wet towels. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e blushing like crazy.鈥�

鈥淪hut up,鈥� Huaxin snapped, which only made Kunyi chuckle more. Huaxin retreated to one of the center鈥檚 indoor balconies before daring to turn to her phone again.

Huaxin: 
i know this is a sensitive point but you really don鈥檛 have to be nice to me. i was an asshole

Support: 
i could have been more open myself. i鈥檓 always bad at that.

Support:
but like i told you, people deserve redemption.

Support: 
i鈥檓 not going to leave you for making a mistake. love is labor and labor is love.

From this high up, Huaxin could watch the action of the center below: people handing out food, refilling water bottles, playing with each other鈥檚 pets.

Everyone, a role. Everyone, now, including her.

She finally broke down and cried.

In autumn, for the first time in years, Huaxin walked to the park to practice tai chi.

She鈥檇 been spending a lot of time at the center, teaching others the basics of beehousing. She went there every day now. It had even become more beautiful, thanks to Kunyi hiring Ms. Chen to come up with a mural design that both covered the drab walls and created an albedo effect.

But today, Huaxin needed a break from the place. Sometimes it just had too many people.

She found a shady spot to dance. Every now and then she checked her phone to see how the bees were doing鈥攂ecause she had to admit, being at the center so often meant that some digitization was useful. Just a little.

She remembered to take time to close her eyes and listen. To the stream, the trees, the way the wind caressed the lines of the mountains around her. Nature is wise.

It wasn鈥檛 long before she heard a set of footsteps approach, and then a voice said, 鈥淵ou dance just like the bees.鈥�

Huaxin looked up at the unfamiliar face before her and smiled.

This story is part of听Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors,听a climate fiction contest from听Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.听

The kid saw it first. I鈥檝e been paying him to mind the irrigation lines in the orchard now that my legs are talking back. He burst through the door like a bullet train. 

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 paper,鈥� he said, 鈥渞eal paper on the barn door.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I鈥檇 been expecting it for years鈥攄ecades鈥攂ut when it finally happened it somehow didn鈥檛 make sense. I was at the kitchen table, and I just stared down into my empty mug at the little salmon painted on the bottom. 

鈥淗ow much paper?鈥� I asked. The kid didn鈥檛 know how to answer. I tapped the cup on the table and a spray of black coffee grounds turned the salmon into a catfish covered in mud. 鈥淗ow many sheets of paper?鈥� 

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 one white rectangle on the barn door and it鈥檚 made out of paper.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Shit. 

The kid was practically skipping as he led me to the barn. I鈥檝e got a couple dozen bonus trees between it and the house and they鈥檙e all in bloom, branches thick with white almond flowers like snow. Why does everything turn beautiful right before it goes to hell? 

The kid couldn鈥檛 stop chattering. 

鈥淚 thought it was illegal. Do you think they had to kill a tree for that paper? Why didn鈥檛 they send a comm?鈥� 

鈥淟ot of farmers went dark when the evictions started,鈥� I said. 鈥淪tate can鈥檛 serve you a notice if you don鈥檛 have a screen. So they resurrected something called a printer to put the bad news on paper.鈥�

鈥淎re you getting evicted?鈥� 

鈥淚f you鈥檇 read the goddamn thing, you鈥檇 know already.鈥� That shut the kid up. 

Sure enough, there it was on the barn door. I ripped the page off the pin and the kid gasped. 

***

Eminent Domain 

Agricultural Modification Notice 

February 20, 2090

Robert Wallace, 

We write to inform you that within the next 24 hours the State of California will breach the levee on your property that stands between your orchard and the Sacramento River. We will create four breaches in the levee wall at 50-meter intervals. Removed stones and earth will be placed in a convenient location for your reuse. Any attempt to block this levee breach or return it to its former state will result in the seizure of this property under Eminent Domain Statute 2815. 

Thank you for your cooperation. 

Cynthia Garcia

Cynthia Garcia 
California Secretary of Agriculture

***

I crumpled the paper in my hands. 

鈥淲hat are you doing?鈥� The kid yelled. 

I let the ball fall to the ground and get lost in the carpet of white almond flowers. 

It was hard to decide which was more insulting. The letter itself or the fact that the assholes didn鈥檛 even say why鈥攈ad to look it up on the goddamn weather service. An atmospheric river was coming from the Philippines. It would overflow the Sacramento River and the state wanted every floodplain along the river open to receive the water鈥攖hat apparently included California鈥檚 last almond orchard. 

鈥淒iego Rivera painted these trees,鈥� I said.  

鈥淲ho鈥檚 Diego Rivera?鈥� The kid and I were back in the house, both staring at our screens. 

鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 matter.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲ill the orchard make it?鈥� the kid asked. 

I read down my screen: Fifty-eight centimeters of rain in 48 hours. Dams will be opened when water levels exceed winter capacities. And then in bright red letters, ALL FARMS SOUTH OF SACRAMENTO REQUIRED TO FLOOD. 

鈥淒epends on how much water we get,鈥� I said. 鈥淗ell, next time you see paper it could be from one of our trees.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The kid looked out the window. 鈥淚 hope I never see paper again.鈥� Bless him. Then he started bargaining. 鈥淢aybe it鈥檒l be good. Almonds are a thirsty crop and we鈥檙e coming out of a drought. Maybe this is what they need. Maybe you can shut off the drip lines for a whole year and just let the trees drink.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淵ou shut off the drip lines, didn鈥檛 you?鈥� I asked. The kid nodded. 

I put down my screen and looked him square in the face. 鈥淪tate鈥檚 been on my ass since I took over this farm. Those trees 蝉丑辞耻濒诲苍鈥檛 even be here. We should be farming rice, or blueberries, something that can flood. But our trees take too much water and when the big rains come, that levee blocks the river from overflowing its banks and seeping back into the ground.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淏ut there are a million other farms that can flood.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I turned my screen around and showed him. 鈥淭his says we鈥檙e getting a two-day downpour, and that鈥檚 probably the last rain we鈥檒l see until next year. If the state doesn鈥檛 save that water in the ground, nobody gets to grow.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淵ou鈥檙e talking like one of them.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲hy not? I understand it, doesn鈥檛 mean I have to like it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淏ut the orchard is a piece of history.鈥� It was what I told him to say to tourists. But now, he said it like he believed every word. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not fair.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I tried to smile at him, the little idiot. Had I ever been that young?

The bulldozer came in the afternoon. I sent the kid home and set up on my porch with a bad bottle of whisky. Might as well watch the show. 

The wind was quiet in the orchard, but I could see clouds amassing in the east. The birds were squawking each other deaf. The land knew something was coming. 

BANG! 

It came from the levee. They must have taken the access road on the other side. Goddamn fusion engine, I hadn鈥檛 heard a damn thing. Bang, bang, bang! A shovel punched through the wall like a fist. A long metal arm appeared behind it and the deed was done. 

When the thing finally rolled through the hole, there was no person driving it鈥攏o cab, no steering wheel鈥攊t was just a giant shovel on tank tracks. Then I watched it clear a perfect 5-meter hole in the wall and stack all the rocks and dirt next to it with a forklift it produced out of its ass. The situation was pretty funny when you thought about it鈥攖he orchard I鈥檇 tended for 30 years taken down by a soulless machine with a pointy ass. 

It drove up the levee wall another 50 meters, this time on the orchard side because it knew I knew the jig was up. Then it punched its hole and cleared its rocks, and then it did it again, and again. By the time it rolled out my front gate, there were four perfect holes in my levee and I was drunker than a fence lizard. 

Soon, the rain started and I sat there staring at the hole. I couldn鈥檛 take my eyes off it. A feeling鈥攁 fear I鈥檇 shunted down for decades rippled through me. What was going to come through that wall? 

When the sun went down, I didn鈥檛 bother with sandbags or pumps, I just got in bed. The house was elevated 4 feet, maybe it would be enough. On the edge of sleep, I pictured the water pouring through the windows, cold and brown, lifting the bed off its frame with me on it. 

It was a fantasy. It was a memory. 

Sacramento, California, 2058

The sentence always starts the same way, but he doesn鈥檛 know how to finish it.

The Folsom Dam broke and I don鈥檛 know where my kids are. 

The Folsom Dam broke and I can鈥檛 reach my wife.

The Folsom Dam broke and my entire life will be underwater. 

The house erupted in sound when the alert came through. Every speaker he talked to throughout the day was suddenly yelling at him. Get to high ground! Sacramento would be inundated in 9 minutes and 38, now 37 seconds. It was not an evacuation order, it was an order to shelter in place. 

There is a banging on his door. He opens it and a family of four charges in. They live across the street. 

鈥淲e need to get upstairs!鈥� one of the moms yells. His is the only two-story house on the block. 

鈥淔ollow me,鈥� he says.

They run up the stairs and he pulls down the ladder to the attic. The other mom takes his arm. 

鈥淲e鈥檒l cross that bridge if we need to,鈥� she says.  

They all end up in the bedroom, and the two kids huddle together in the middle of the big bed the way his own kids do when they鈥檝e had a nightmare. These two are a little older鈥攕econd or third grade鈥攈e can鈥檛 remember their names. 

His kids are at a one-story daycare 2 kilometers away. Terror shoots through him. He can鈥檛 get there, he can鈥檛 get to them in time. Does the daycare have an evacuation plan? They must; he and Ayla paid enough for it. 

Ayla can get them, the hospital is just blocks away. But where would they go? The thought of Ayla鈥攐f something happening to Ayla鈥攎omentarily paralyzes him. 

He forces himself onto the balcony and holds his phone up to the sky in the rain trying to get a signal. There is nothing. The whole city is clogging up the servers doing exactly the same thing, and yet the clock that appeared on the screen with the municipal alert keeps counting down. 

Six minutes, 42 seconds. 

One of the moms is out there too, phone in the air. Her name is Kalani. He looks at her expectantly. She shakes her head. 

鈥淎t least you鈥檙e all together,鈥� he says, more jealous than he has ever been. 

鈥淎yla鈥檚 amazing. She鈥檒l be fine, she won鈥檛 let anything happen to your kids.鈥� Her words are toothless, but in this moment they are all he has.

鈥淲ho are you trying to reach?鈥� he asks. 

鈥淢y dad鈥攐r my dad鈥檚 caregiver. He hasn鈥檛 been particularly mobile for a while.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

He nods and thinks of his own parents aging safely in Michigan. Kalani hits her phone against her thigh and looks at it. Nothing.

鈥淒ammit!鈥� she tries again. Nothing. 鈥淗ow did this happen?鈥� She means the dam break, the flooding, everything. 

He shakes his head. 鈥淛ust two wet years.鈥� It鈥檚 true. Last year there had been 19 atmospheric rivers between January and March, and the whole state celebrated when the drought was declared over. When it happened again, there was nowhere for the water to go. 

He looks back at his phone鈥�4 minutes. Then the sound begins. 

At first, he can hardly make it out through the rain, a low rumble that seems to come from everywhere. He and Kalani look to the hill at the east edge of the neighborhood. They know this is where the water will come from. They see nothing. 

鈥淐an they swim?鈥� He asks, indicating her kids. 

鈥淭hey鈥檙e Hawaiian, of course they can swim,鈥� she says. He nods. Can his kids swim? The oldest can, can鈥檛 he? The sound is steadily increasing, and something changes on the hill. Light crests over it, a little at first, then more and more like a second sunrise. The rumbling rises. This is it. The water is early. 

Kalani runs back to her family, huddled on the bed. He stays on the balcony, and stares at the otherworldly light鈥攃ould the flood be reflecting it?鈥攈e needs to stop it. He needs to will the water to wait. Ayla will need the next three minutes. He grips the railing. He is soaking wet.  

鈥淪top!鈥� he screams as though the flood can hear him. 鈥淪top!鈥� 

It doesn鈥檛. Angry water crashes over the hill, then buries it鈥攁 wall of brown and white carrying cars and sheds鈥攑ieces of a city that is quickly ceasing to exist.  

鈥淣o!鈥� he screams. But he can鈥檛 hear himself over the roar. He looks back into the bedroom. The family already knows. The kids are holding onto their mothers and the women are holding each other. 

He looks back out and the first few houses in the subdivision have been reduced to their roofs. The water is ping-ponging through the neighborhood, downing lampposts and trees and smashing front porches into walls. It鈥檚 almost at his door.

鈥淗old on!鈥� he yells back into the house. Then he hears the flood blow out his downstairs windows. The balcony shakes. He runs into the bedroom and holds onto a wall. He can feel the water tearing his house apart through the floor. A lamp crashes to the ground next to the big bed. A bookshelf drops its contents and falls over. He sees that nothing has fallen on the family, but Kalani is staring at him. They lock eyes. Her nose is in her child鈥檚 hair, her arm is around her wife, but her eyes are fixed on him. 

They stare at each other for what feels like hours. They are thinking the same thing鈥攁s long as they can hold each other鈥檚 gaze, the house will stand, the sickening bumps coming through the floor will not hit a load-bearing beam. As long as they keep staring, they will live. 

Slowly, the crash of water softens below them. The bumps stop coming through the floor, and at last, all that is left is the sound of rain on the roof. Only then do the kids begin to cry.  

鈥淛ust shut up and take the canoe,鈥� Kalani says. They are in what鈥檚 left of her garage. 

It took the two of them about a half hour to wade through his house and across the street. His ground floor was unrecognizable. The couch had been ripped in half, and framed photos, kitchen utensils, and other bits of his and Ayla鈥檚 life bobbed around them like dead bodies. 

The water was up to their waists as he and Kalani crossed the street. It looked placid on top but they could feel it had a current and they took slow, measured steps toward the gaping mouth of her garage. The door had blown off but the Hawaiian outrigger canoe was still hung up on the ceiling. 

Now, he stands under it, staring at the carvings in the wood: a bird with a long beak, a man with arms outstretched, and waves鈥攚aves everywhere. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 a family heirloom,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a piece of history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淚t鈥檚 a boat,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd it works.鈥� She is loosening the ropes to lower the canoe down. 鈥淗elp me out.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

He undoes the knots with her and soon the canoe splashes down into the water. It looks like it can hold four, maybe five people鈥攈is family. Another carved wooden float connects to the main canoe with long poles so it won鈥檛 tip easily and there is a rope and six oars inside. 

Kalani stares him down. 鈥淭his is a loan. I expect you to bring this back to me in one piece with your people inside.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淚 will,鈥� he says, forcing himself to believe it. 

They both get in the canoe and Kalani shows him how to paddle鈥攍ong strokes, one side and then the other. He drops her off at his house and doesn鈥檛 leave until she waves to him from the upstairs with her wife and kids. 

Then he is paddling through Sacramento, picturing his children, picturing Ayla, and letting the thought of them blot out any comprehension of what he is seeing around him: people holding each other on roofs鈥攏o one attempts to flag him down鈥攁n old man鈥檚 body face down in the water, his city transfigured. All he can do is row and look for street signs which, when unbent, are miraculously the same. 

Then he is at the daycare building and it鈥檚 locked. The water is halfway up the door. He bangs on it from the canoe, yelling his children鈥檚 names.

鈥淐onrad! Alice!鈥� He hears nothing on the other side and imagines them floating face down like the old man. He鈥檚 about to tear the door off its hinges when he sees the writing on it. 

Evacuated to North Capitol steps, it says in black marker. 

The journey from S Street to M Street is the difference between a city and a rapid. The Sacramento River has overflown its levees and it is spewing water in all directions. He has to paddle as hard as he can to go a few meters. 

An ambulance goes by on a freeway overpass. He hears howling. He looks around and sees a pack of dogs on top of a truck. Their dog walker is holding their leashes and they鈥檙e howling at the ambulance like it鈥檚 the moon. He catches the dog walker鈥檚 eye鈥攁 girl in her 20s with a gap in her teeth, and just for a second, the two of them smile at each other. 

鈥淚 can come back for you once I get my kids,鈥� he yells to her.  

She shakes her head. 鈥淚 won鈥檛 leave them.鈥� She means the dogs. There are too many to fit in the canoe. She salutes him.  

The Tower Bridge road is completely under water when he turns onto the Capitol Mall. The water is moving fast and he rows with a strength he didn鈥檛 know he had. 

He sights the capitol. The steps are filled with people. Children are chasing each other and splashing water but he doesn鈥檛 recognize them. He paddles as fast as he can. He hits the steps and he鈥檚 about to jump out of the boat when a guy yells, 鈥淭ie it off!鈥� He throws him the rope. 

Then he is roving the steps, yelling 鈥淐onrad! Alice!鈥� He inspects each child, but they continue to be little strangers.

鈥淩ob!鈥� He hears his name. He turns around but the crowd is dense. 鈥淩ob!鈥� A Brown woman in scrubs cuts through. She has never looked more beautiful. He runs to her and takes her in his arms, buries his face in her hair. Then he feels small arms grab his legs. They are together鈥攖he four of them鈥攁nd they are alive. 

鈥淚f we make it through this, we鈥檙e moving to Vorden and taking over Dad鈥檚 orchard,鈥� Ayla says. They鈥檙e rowing together with the kids between them. 

鈥淎lmonds are illegal,鈥� he says. 

鈥淥urs are grandfathered in. Historical Registry.鈥� She winks at him. 

鈥淲hat do a doctor and an engineer know about farming?鈥� 

鈥淲e鈥檒l figure it out.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淎 fish!鈥� Conrad yells and wakes Alice who had been asleep in Ayla鈥檚 lap. They all look into the water. He鈥檚 right, there are fish swimming around them. They鈥檙e the size of his hand and they have silvery spots. 

鈥淕ood eye,鈥� he says, and kisses his son鈥檚 head. 鈥淎re they salmon?鈥� he asks Ayla. 

鈥淗ell if I know.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淭hey are!鈥� Conrad says. 鈥淎nd they鈥檙e babies.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲here did you learn that?鈥� Ayla asks. 

鈥淚n school. The baby salmon live in the river, but only if the river is healthy. They鈥檙e a good sign.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淣o more salmon,鈥� Alice says, and goes back to sleep. 

They are not rowing home. They are rowing back to the hospital. Every doctor, including Ayla, has been called in. She directs them to the loading dock at the back of the building, which is miraculously dry. 

鈥淲hen will you be home?鈥� he asks. 

鈥淭hey can鈥檛 keep me longer than two days,鈥� she says. Then she hugs and kisses Alice and then Conrad. The kids protest but they鈥檝e been trained in these partings. Then she kisses him goodbye, and her smell envelops him. 

鈥淚 love you,鈥� she says, and climbs out of the boat. 

This is the last time he will see her. In a few hours, half of the hospital will collapse on top of 800 people, and one of them will be Ayla. 

For the rest of his life, good days and bad days will be determined by one of two thoughts: a bad day鈥�I should have forced her back into that canoe; and a good day鈥�at least I got to say goodbye. 

Vorden, California, 2090

He woke with the sun, which was out. The rain had stopped, and when he put his old feet on the floor, it was dry. 

His head throbbed. He went into the kitchen and saw the empty whisky bottle on the table and remembered why. His screen told him his kids were worried about him, and he sent back a comm saying he鈥檇 made it. Then he steeled himself and went to the window. 

The orchard was a lake. The trees rose out of it like beams under a pier, their white flowers diminished by the rain, but still there. 

He found his waders in the closet and went out onto the porch. The house was an island above 3 feet of water. He went down the porch steps one at a time, thinking there would be a current, but the water was calm and still and when he sloshed onto the ground the water level was just below his belly button. 

He walked to the closest almond tree, silhouetted against the sky, running his hands along the surface of the water. It was cold and crisp, and the thought that was always near found him again. Ayla would have loved this. 

He put his hands on the tree鈥檚 trunk, fingers gliding into the ridges of its bark, and looked up into the canopy. It was a little cloud. Then something splashed him鈥攁 fish. He looked down. There were young salmon swimming all around him, and he watched white almond flowers float down and land on them as they swam between the trees.

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.

I鈥檓 bundled in a wool overcoat against the 6 a.m. winter chill of Los Angeles. The former New Yorker in me scoffs at how soft I鈥檝e become against the cold鈥攐r rather, the 鈥渃old,鈥� since it鈥檚 a full 50 degrees and I鈥檓 shivering. Today鈥檚 high is 80, so by noon I鈥檒l have stripped down to a crop top. I know it鈥檚 climate change and all, but I鈥檇 be lying if I said I鈥檓 not just a tiny bit excited for a short reprieve from the monotonous months of 50-degrees-and-rainy that we鈥檝e been having this winter.

The morning frost on my Subaru is tenacious, even after I run the engine for a little while. I鈥檓 bordering on late for kathak class, so I pull out of the driveway with icy windows and hurry to beat the rush-hour traffic.

In the studio it鈥檚 a steady thrum of the tabla over the stereo system:

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na鈥�dha

gin na鈥�dha

gin na鈥�dha

And then a relentlessly driving pace of chakkar, or one-count spins:

tig da dig dig ek鈥�

诲辞鈥�

迟别别苍鈥�

肠丑补补谤鈥�

辫补补苍肠丑鈥�

肠丑丑别鈥�

蝉补补迟丑鈥�

And on and on鈥�

After an hour of this, I鈥檓 breathless. We鈥檝e been drilling a composition with 31 chakkar, and even after months, I鈥檓 losing my balance somewhere around 26.

I leave class and head back to my car, protein shake in hand, sweat gluing my kurta to my skin, a string of profanities running through my mind as I scold myself for tapping out at 26. I鈥檝e just slipped into my driver鈥檚 seat when my phone rings. One peek at the screen and my mood elevates. 

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� I say with unrestrained fondness as my mother鈥檚 face grins back at me over FaceTime.

鈥淗颈 chinna,鈥� she responds with equal affection. 鈥淛ust finished kathak?鈥�

鈥淵eah, about to head to the grocery store on my way home.鈥�

鈥淪hall we quickly call Ammamma before she sleeps?鈥�

鈥淪ure, my parking meter鈥檚 out in 10, though.鈥�

鈥淲e can just say hi. FaceTime or Whatsapp?鈥�

鈥淔aceTime. Can you add her in?鈥�

鈥淥ne minute.鈥�

After some shuffling around, a second little box populates on my screen, offering me the stray wisps of white hair otherwise known as the top of my grandmother鈥檚 head.

鈥淗颈 Ammamma,鈥� I say.

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� my mom chirps.

鈥淗颈 kanna. Bujie kanna re. Sweetie kanna,鈥� croons my ammamma鈥檚 forehead. 鈥淗ow are you both?鈥�

鈥淕ood, can you bring the phone down?鈥� I say, holding back a laugh. 鈥淲e only see the top of your head.鈥�

Amma and I call Ammamma together every week. It used to be Sundays, like clockwork, when I was in grade school. Now it鈥檚 sort of whenever we catch each other. Every week we remind her to tilt the phone down so we can actually see her face. And every week she insists on greeting us with her forehead.

Ammamma鈥檚 puttering around her kitchen in Hyderabad, 8,711 miles away from me in California. My memory conjures up the smell of hearty palakurrapappu and fluffy idli. Chili-spiced tur dal roasting on the tava for homemade podi. The softness of her orange sari, pallu tied securely around her waist so it stays out of the way of her busy hands. 

She鈥檚 lived alone in Tarnaka for almost 40 years, ever since my grandfather passed away. She鈥檚 85 now and wobbles about her small flat with the vigor and determined independence of a 20-year-old. My amma got this from her, I think. I swear my amma will be single-handedly shoveling piles of snow as tall as she is (5 whole feet) from her Park City, Utah, driveway until she鈥檚 90 years old.

I tell Ammamma about kathak class and she glows with pride. 鈥淰ery good, kanna, Very good. I鈥檓 very glad you鈥檙e keeping up with kathak. Very good.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檒l show you this new composition when I next come, Ammamma.鈥� She smiles the most when I promise this. Every year, when we visit her in India, I dance for her. In those 15 minutes while she watches, she鈥檚 filled with more childlike joy, more wonder, more freedom of spirit, than any other moment I see her. My grandma, like many women in her generation, carries a deep anxiety. Kathak transcends that, transports us together, unlocks her. Dance is hardly my profession, but it has a cemented place in my life as a psychosomatic way to stay rooted in culture and family, from half a world away. As a way of staying connected to Ammamma.

鈥�Aim chestunavu, Amma? What are you doing?鈥� my mom asks her mother.

鈥�Aim ledu. Just putting away the food.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲hat did you make for dinner?鈥�

鈥淣othing much,鈥� Ammamma says. 鈥淪ome pappannam, that is all. Tomorrow I鈥檒l make some cabbage koora.鈥� She pauses in her puttering to pick something up off the counter. 鈥淪ee? Do you see the cabbage?鈥�

Ammamma adjusts the angle of the camera in an effort to show us her cabbage.

鈥淒o you see?鈥� But she鈥檚 pointing the camera at her ceiling, and I鈥檓 having a hard time repressing my laughter. 

鈥淣o, Ammamma, we can鈥檛 see. You鈥檙e showing us the ceiling.鈥�

Ammamma adjusts the angle again, and now we鈥檙e feasting our eyes on a sliver of her ceiling that鈥檚 been joined by a section of her wall.

鈥淣ow? Now do you see? Do you see the cabbage?鈥� 

Amma is openly laughing. 鈥淣o, Ma, we don鈥檛 see the cabbage. You鈥檙e showing the wall.鈥�

Another unsuccessful adjustment, then: 鈥淥K, now? Now do you see the cabbage? Do you see the cabbage?鈥�

Ammamma鈥檚 excitement is only intensifying, but no appearance from any cabbage thus far. Now Amma and I are both shaking with mirth.

鈥淒o you see it?鈥� Ammamma continues to insist. 

We don鈥檛 answer, because we鈥檙e too busy gasping for breath. Then, miraculously, we see a sliver of a blurry green leaf flash across her FaceTime camera.

鈥淥h!鈥� Amma and I both shout. 

鈥淲e see it, Ammamma!鈥�

鈥渊别蝉, yes, we see it, Ma.鈥�

鈥淵ou see the cabbage? You see it?鈥�

鈥淵es! Yes, Ammamma, we see the cabbage!鈥�

Now even Ammamma is laughing. 

I screenshot this moment several times, never wanting to forget these small winks of diasporic joy, the three of us spread across three cities and three generations, giggling like sisters together on a sunshine summer afternoon.

It鈥檚 not long before Ammamma鈥檚 chuckles turn into coughs, peppered by a sort of rough wheezing that I learned as a child is part of her chronic asthma. My parking meter blinks red.

Tuesday, November 19, 2047

I鈥檓 in the front yard, doling out carefully measured sprinkles of water to the small garden I鈥檝e struggled to nurture for the last several growing seasons. The water rations for victory gardens have gotten more and more economical over the last 10 years. In our little patch we still get tomatoes and kale and grow some neem, and the occasional surprise potatoes spring out from wherever we鈥檝e last dug in compost. The rest of our food comes from the community garden (which does better some years than others), the local co-op (which is not always well-stocked because it hasn鈥檛 quite yet reached financial stability), or with great burden to our wallets (anything requiring long-distance freight costs an arm and a leg now, partially because it鈥檚 just too expensive at a basic resource and carbon level, and partially because of the taxes they鈥檝e been trying to institute on non-local food). 

It鈥檚 been a tough transition period. Here in California, we have the farming infrastructure but not the water. In other parts of the country, land that鈥檚 been monocropped under generations of agribusiness is in various stages of transition to regenerative farming. The question of who pays for this transition, what carbon taxes get charged or credited and to whom, and who leads the proposed solutions that take the place of the old order 鈥� well, it鈥檚 been a thorny time. But it鈥檚 also a time of inspired experimentation. I remind myself of that when the overwhelm hits. I remind myself of the energy:

Where we live, in the historically Black neighborhood of Leimert Park, our family鈥檚 borne witness and supported as those who鈥檝e been holding it down here for generations lead the charge on collective care. Community gardens, co-ops, free fridges, heat shelters, communal front-yard victory gardens, shade-tree planting, seed saving, after-school programs, 鈥淏uy Nothing鈥� gift economy groups, car shares, and so much more. Funding is a constant issue for these initiatives (right now the biggest source of funding is private donors, but the community is keenly problem-solving for a self-sufficient model). Everything鈥檚 decided at our monthly town hall meetings, which are always lively and full of opinions. There鈥檚 a small group of us South Asians in the neighborhood, and our agreed-upon job at these meetings is mostly to listen well and provide the chai. 

Out in the garden, dusk is dancing vividly before me, blues chasing pinks chasing oranges across the hazy horizon. I always stop to cherish it, never knowing how many more I鈥檒l savor before the smog swallows up color altogether. 

I pause over the far end of the garden, which has been exceptionally dry no matter how much I try to feed it. It鈥檚 honestly a little embarrassing. My neighbors鈥� victory gardens look far more luscious than mine. The community decided at one of our first meetings years ago that victory gardens would go in the front yard (communal, conversational, open, and engaging) rather than in the backyard (hidden, private, inaccessible). 99 percent of the time, I love that we made this decision. The 1 percent is just the occasional despair I feel when I remember that my garden is on display and not in the best shape, and my ego gets to me. I make a mental note to hop next door tomorrow to Amrit and Hari鈥檚 to ask Hari what cover crops are working in his yard these days鈥攈is green thumb has always guided mine, and maybe he鈥檒l know how to better nourish this dry patch.

From somewhere inside the house, my phone rings. 

鈥淎mma!鈥� Gita鈥檚 voice calls to me. 鈥淚t鈥檚 Ammamma.鈥�

Her 5-foot frame, identical to mine, comes bounding through the open screen door, my phone in her hand. 

Gita鈥檚 hair is curly like mine, and I fucking love that about her. She鈥檚 smart as a whip, and I love that even more about her. Sometimes I look at her and marvel at the fact that I made that creature. Now I understand what my amma鈥檚 always saying about 鈥渉aving a kid is like putting your heart outside of yourself and watching it walk around,鈥� or some shit like that. Sometimes I want to gather Gita up and store her safely back inside my body.

She comes over to me and scoops me into an affectionate hug before setting the phone up flat on the porch table and hitting 鈥渁nswer.鈥� We both activate the bracelets on our wrists. Almost immediately a spark of light projects upwards from the Beam projection port on my phone, and a three-dimensional hologram of my mother takes shape from the light. 

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� I say.

鈥淗颈 Ammamma!鈥� Gita says brightly.

鈥淗ello? Hello?鈥� my mom says. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 see you.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

No matter how many times we do this, she always comes in perplexed at the beginning of a Beam call.

鈥淎mma, did you put it face down on the table again?鈥�

鈥�Allari pilla! Troublemaker. I kept it properly face up, I鈥檓 not that technologically challenged. But still I don鈥檛 see you?鈥�

鈥淒id you turn the brightness back up or is it in night mode?鈥�

鈥淥h. One minute. How do I do that again?鈥�

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a control on your bracelet. This is why I was saying you should just leave it on the automatic setting.鈥�

鈥淚 can figure it out. I don鈥檛 like how bright it is on auto, it makes my eyes burn.鈥�

We watch her hologram-self fidget with something off-camera, before lighting up in delight. 

鈥淕ot it!鈥� she says. 鈥淗颈! Oh, Gitu, you鈥檙e looking so nice. Are you going somewhere?鈥�

鈥淭hanks, Ammamma,鈥� Gita says. 鈥淚 was invited to a prayer circle tonight, in preparation for the burns next week. Elena is leading, and she told me I could bring some jasmine and haldi and chandan as offerings from our family.鈥�

For the past few years, Gita鈥檚 been volunteering with the Tongva Conservancy鈥檚 ceremonial burns, covering any responsibilities she鈥檚 invited to participate in. Fire season has worsened over the last 10 years in California, so many regions, including L.A. County, realized survival depended on working with local tribes to revive cultural burning practices. The prescribed burns that Indigenous folks across the world have practiced culturally since time immemorial kept rampant dry brush under control and created a cycle of nourishment for the forests, until colonialism outlawed the practice. In L.A., the late fall burning they鈥檝e restarted allows for plant life to rejuvenate in the rainy winter season, the goal being to once again transform dry underbrush into verdant vegetation come spring. 

鈥淗ow are you going there?鈥� my amma asks Gita. 鈥淚 thought your driving permits are Monday, Wednesday, Saturday?鈥�

鈥淓lena got a Tuesday slot in the community car share, so she鈥檚 coming to pick me up. I think she got one of those Rivian two-doors!鈥�

鈥淔ancy,鈥� I say.

Gita goes inside to start gathering her things while I ask Amma what she鈥檚 up to.

鈥淣ot much,鈥� Amma replies. 鈥淛ust making your Ammamma鈥檚 cabbage koora.鈥�

鈥淭ease!鈥� I accuse.

鈥淚 sent you seeds last year!鈥� Amma says defensively.

鈥淵eah, yeah, but they don鈥檛 grow, I told you. The water they need is way beyond our rations.鈥�

We bicker warmly about cabbage koora鈥攁 nostalgic but water-intensive vegetable I probably haven鈥檛 eaten in 15 years at this point. As the cool night air sets in, Amma鈥檚 hologram shines brightly above the porch table. A few stray moths, confused, start circling in the vicinity. I watch their wings disturb the pixels here and there. 

When Elena鈥檚 car (indeed a Rivian two-door) pulls up, Gita flashes by me with a kiss and hops in, leaving the divine aroma of jasmine and chandan in her wake. At the same moment, a second set of footsteps tip-tap up the stairs from the street into our garden, and I鈥檓 engulfed in a familiar embrace.

鈥淗颈 buddy!鈥� a voice coos at me. It鈥檚 Aditi, close friend and co-conspirator. She plops her bike helmet and backpack onto a chair on our porch. Seeing that my mom鈥檚 on Beam on the table, she grins. 鈥淗颈 Aunty!鈥� She hits the 鈥渏oin鈥� button on her Beam bracelet so that my mom can see her hologram, then sprawls out in the grass beside me. 鈥淗ow are you?鈥�

鈥淗颈, Aditi! Good, good. How are you, how鈥檚 Noor?鈥�

鈥淭hey鈥檙e good, they鈥檙e still at the courthouse, or they would鈥檝e come by with me.鈥� Then Aditi nods at her backpack and looks at me conspiratorially. 鈥淚 went to the Indian store today.鈥�

I let out a whoop. This is a luxury we reserve only for special occasions. 鈥淪hut up. What鈥檙e we celebrating?鈥�

鈥淲ellll, Noor Beamed me from the courthouse today and told me that our permit request for the collective is next in line for consideration. And that they think we鈥檙e a sure thing.鈥�

Amma鈥檚 hologram gasps. 鈥淭he housing collective?鈥�

鈥淭he one and only!鈥� Aditi says. 

That night, with Amma still on Beam, Aditi pulls out fresh guavas and late-season mangoes, a rare pleasure all the way from the subcontinent, and we twirl around鈥�

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

鈥etween bites of home.

Friday, July 9, 2077

I eye the box on my coffee table with suspicion. Gita鈥檚 had some strange contraption called Iris delivered to me, and she swears it鈥檚 worth whatever trouble it surely brings. I asked Aditi and Noor about it, and they agreed that the concept of sticking digital contact lenses in one鈥檚 eyes is unpleasant, to say the least. Gita instructed me to be open to it and threatened to call me an old codger if I refuse to even try it out.

鈥淚ris makes your eye a projector, Amma, your eye. Can you believe it? It鈥檒l be like Reyna and I are there with you, 3D, walking and talking and interacting with you and your space. Like we鈥檙e literally there,鈥� she鈥檇 said when we last talked. 

The idea of feeling like my daughter and granddaughter are physically with me ultimately makes Iris an easy sell, despite my hesitations. Remembering her words, I decide to open the damn box.

After great difficulty and no small amount of grumbling, I鈥檝e finally affixed the small translucent contacts to my eyes, and, scrutinizing the user manual, I figure out how to power on this incredibly invasive piece of technology. I鈥檝e had it on for less than two minutes when the accompanying earbud headphones inform me that I have an incoming call. It is, of course, Gita.

鈥淎mma!鈥� she shouts joyfully. 鈥淵ou did it! You finally listened to me! This is so cool.鈥�

I鈥檓 not sure exactly what is so cool, as my vision is blurry and I鈥檓 completely baffled by how she could possibly be seeing me right now. But I take her word for it. Gita does some troubleshooting that I don鈥檛 understand, laughs at me quite a few times for being a bumbling fool with this new device, and finally coaches me through getting the focus in the lenses calibrated. 

And then I see what鈥檚 so cool. Gita has set it so that the simulated world we鈥檙e in is my real front yard. I鈥檓 really here, right here, right now, lying in the grass. And it looks like they鈥檙e here, too, as full-scale renderings of their real selves. They can interact with me, with my garden. On their end, Gita tells me, it鈥檚 like being in virtual reality. She tells me that next time, we鈥檒l make the setting her house, where she and Reyna can move around in the real world and I鈥檒l be visiting via virtual reality. Once I鈥檝e quit my grumblings, we settle into our regular pattern of conversation鈥攚hat we鈥檙e all eating, how everyone鈥檚 love interests are, whether we鈥檙e taking care of our health鈥攅xcept it is quite cool, because the whole time it鈥檚 like Gita and Reyna are lounging in the yard with me. I tell them this reminds me of way back when I was a kid in India, loitering outside all afternoon with my cousins.

鈥淵ou used to go to India every year, Ammamma?鈥� Reyna asks me, eyes wide. 

鈥淓very year. We were very lucky.鈥�

鈥淒o you think you鈥檒l ever go back?鈥�

鈥淲ith the flight restrictions, it鈥檚 almost impossible,鈥� I say. 鈥淣ow I think it鈥檇 take me three trains and a whole-ass ship. No, I don鈥檛 think I鈥檒l ever be able to go back. But sometime in the future 鈥� I think you will.鈥�

My girls both reach out to me as glittering pixels in the golden summer afternoon. I like how realistically Iris portrays them, truly as if they鈥檙e here in the grass with me, just like Gita promised, reaching towards me to comfort me. But the technology misses what I love most about them: their smell, the warmth of their skin, the calm in my own heart when I鈥檓 in their physical presence. 

When Gita told me she and her partner Gloria had decided to move away from L.A. to raise Reyna somewhere that was more climate-stable, I understood. My mother left her mother in India to come to America in search of a better life, an economically stable life, a life that would offer the opportunity of abundance for us鈥攆or me鈥攁fter the literal and metaphorical scarcity that British colonialism imposed on the subcontinent. At the time, who would鈥檝e thought that decades later, rampant consumption and capitalism would finally deliver that same scarcity here to our doorsteps in America? 

Then I moved away from my mother, starting a life in L.A. in community with other South Asian storytellers who were committed to drawing attention to climate and culture. Those of us who鈥檇 joined the movement as soon as we became conscious of it saw the writing on the wall long back, but it took the bubble actually popping around the wealthy for those in power to take any real action on what was going on. 

In L.A., most of the mansions in the hills got wiped out by fires long ago. A staccato of winter storms caused irreparable mudslides along Mulholland Drive. The Pacific Ocean claimed Santa Monica. The city was forced to implement retreat strategies, which led to them regulating lot sizes as more people had to relocate to the livable areas of L.A. Predictably, some millionaires really fought against this and did everything they could to rebuild their mansions and add 鈥渃limate-protective measures,鈥� but no one ever got too far in the process because insurance companies no longer cover houses built in long-designated Hazard Zones, and after a certain point with all the carbon taxes levied on any building project that exceeds Reciprocal Resourcing Standards, the mansions were no longer financially viable. Other millionaires were shockingly supportive of the lot size restrictions, and wound up working within Reciprocal Resourcing Standards to build sustainable collectives.

Of course, some people still went the route of save-myself-at-the-expense-of-others. They built bunkers with the goal of 鈥渟elf-sufficiency.鈥� It鈥檚 a seductive idea, until you realize what it means is isolation from any sense of community. We are by definition interdependent. Our survival is predicated on our ability to work together. But I鈥檓 pretty sure Elon Musk鈥檚 kids are still raising their families all alone in their secluded fortress. Their only outside interaction is probably with the drones that deliver their caviar.

Ultimately, it was the local resilience, the grassroots ideas, the place-based knowledge that allowed us to survive. These days, I live at Aunty Gang Collective (the name was inspired by Gita always calling me and my cherished group of South Asian women friends 鈥渁unty gang鈥�). Here, there鈥檚 no caviar (never understood the appeal, anyway), but there鈥檚 music in the streets every day.

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

After weathering a long waitlist at the permitting office, our little collective of 15 homes was finally greenlit and built with reclaimed and organic material as part of a government-sponsored hyper-localization effort. Over the last 30 years, L.A. was essentially renovated and rewilded by a team of what we would鈥檝e called environmental architects back when I was growing up (today we just call them 鈥渁rchitects鈥�), led by a group of Indigenous engineers and designers.

We can鈥檛 drive much anymore (even electric cars, which over time proved to be too resource-intensive to continue manufacturing at scale), but it鈥檚 OK, because the electric buses and trains are much more connected than they used to be. Plus, Aditi and Noor are original Aunty Gang members and live just down the street. We hobble over to each other鈥檚 houses almost every day.

鈥淥K, so India鈥檚 off the table,鈥� Gita says, cutting off my thoughts, 鈥渂ut more realistically, can you come here, Amma? I told you, Gloria and I can arrange for the flight permits鈥攚e have so many credits from volunteer days with the ceremonial burning crews. The aunty gang can help you pack up, and you can be here by next week.鈥�

I make a face at her. I hope with Iris that she can properly see the extent of my disdain for this idea. 

鈥淣ot this again, kanna.鈥� I stick her with an exaggerated eye roll. 鈥淓very call, the same thing: 鈥楢mma, now that Dad has passed what鈥檚 left for you in L.A.? You鈥檙e allllll alooone, why don鈥檛 you leave everything you鈥檝e known for the last 60 years and come here to fucking Duluth, Minnesota, to join us in this commune of white people.鈥� Chhi!鈥�

鈥淲ell, it was either this or Vermont,鈥� Gita quips back. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 not called Duluth anymore. It鈥檚 Onigamiinsing鈥攊t鈥檚 Ojibwe. Anyway, please just think about it.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檒l think about it,鈥� I lie.

鈥淵ou say that every time, but you never really do.鈥�

鈥淎nd yet you keep asking.鈥�

鈥淚 worry about you.鈥�

鈥淎nd I worry about you, kanna.鈥�

鈥淎bout me? I have Glo and Reyna. I don鈥檛 like you being alone over there, you鈥檙e 82, and that鈥檚 not young.鈥�

鈥淥K, first of all, rude. Second of all, I鈥檓 not alone! I have Aunty Gang, all my friends within walking distance. The Collective has grown a lot since you last visited. It鈥檚 like a mini Wakanda here now. But with less beautiful superheroes and more elderly people.鈥�

鈥淲补办补-飞丑补迟?鈥�

鈥淣ever mind, it鈥檚 before your time. How鈥檚 kathak class, Reyna?鈥� I change the subject swiftly.

鈥淥h. Good!鈥� Reyna says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e working on chakkar. I鈥檓 up to 31 in a row! I can Iris you from our studio next time and show you, Ammamma. It鈥檒l be like you鈥檙e watching me dance in person.鈥�

The thought fills me with pride. With longing. With wonder at the fact that so many generations, so many geographic locations and climate-related disruptions later, we preserve this art purely because it makes us happy.

鈥淭hat would be lovely, kanna.鈥� I pause. 鈥�Actually, I wanted to show you something.鈥� I take a few steps over to my left. 鈥淐an you see?鈥�

鈥淪ee what? You鈥檒l have to be more specific, Amma,鈥� Gita says.

I point. 鈥淥K, do you see this?鈥� I鈥檓 gesturing to the front left corner of my garden, the dry section that insisted on following me from Leimert Park to Aunty Gang Co. The dry section where years ago I鈥檇 planted some cabbage seeds my mother had given me, though they鈥檇 never grown. The dry section that now was鈥� 

鈥淚 don鈥檛 see where you鈥檙e pointing, Amma,鈥� Gita says. 鈥淚t must be out of scope. Let鈥檚 expand range on your Iris.鈥�

I fidget with the control she directs me toward. 

鈥淥K, did it work?鈥� I ask. 鈥淐an you see?鈥�

Gita stifles a laugh and Reyna openly giggles. 鈥淣o, Amma. I think you narrowed the scope.鈥�

鈥淥h. What do you see?鈥�

鈥淵our foot.鈥�

鈥淥ops,鈥� I say. I try again, but the touchy control is so minimalist that I can鈥檛 tell where on the range scale I am. 鈥淗ow about now? Now can you see it?鈥�

鈥淣o, Ammamma,鈥� Reyna laughs. 鈥淣ow we see your left big toe. In precise 诲别迟补颈濒.鈥�

I mumble some R-rated expletives under my breath. 鈥淏ut I can see you. How am I supposed to know what you鈥檙e seeing? I told you I wouldn鈥檛 like this Iris thing.鈥�

鈥淥K, let鈥檚 stay calm,鈥� Gita says, still chuckling. She talks me through the bewildering device and finally the formerly very dry patch of my garden is evidently in view, because鈥� 

鈥淚s that cabbage?鈥� Gita exclaims in shock.

鈥淵es!鈥� I exclaim right back. 鈥淚t鈥檚 cabbage! Cabbage!鈥� I let out a loud hooray.

鈥淥K, OK, we see it,鈥� Gita laughs. 鈥淲e see the cabbage.鈥�

鈥凌别测苍补, choodu! Look!鈥� I say. 鈥淏aby cabbages!鈥�

Reyna looks perplexed at my joy. 鈥淰ery cool, Ammamma 鈥︹��

Personally, I don鈥檛 think either of them get the hype at all, so I try again. 鈥淭hese haven鈥檛 grown here since I was around your age, Gita. My ammamma used to make cabbage koora all the time. And to think Reyna鈥檚 never even seen one!鈥�

鈥淲hat? I see them all the time,鈥� Reyna protests. 鈥淎mma made cabbage koora last week!鈥�

鈥渊别蝉, kanna,鈥� I say, 鈥渂ut that鈥檚 that hydroponic shit you people grow over there. The real stuff is grown in the dirt. Real soil. Real food.鈥�

鈥淥K, Amma, let鈥檚 not get into this again,鈥� Gita says, clearly miffed. 鈥淗ydroponics have fed a lot of people over the last 50 years. But I鈥檓 very happy for you about your cabbages. You can Iris us once they ripen, and we can make cabbage koora together. Reyna and I with our 鈥榟ydroponic shit鈥� and you with your 鈥榦f-the-dirt鈥� stuff.鈥�

We dream for a while together about cabbage koora, until Gita declares that it鈥檚 bedtime for them over on Ojibwe Land. 

I disconnect from Iris and allow the shimmering afternoon to envelop me. I slip my shoes off and dig my feet into moist soil. I feel my pulse.

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

My back hurts more often these days, and the asthma鈥檚 been back for nearly 20 years (one can鈥檛 blame my lungs鈥�they put up a heroic fight against nearly half a century of summer wildfire smoke). I鈥檝e had my share of cancer scares, too, like the rest of us. 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

I think of the two generations before me, who saw the world change so much in their own lifetimes: my ammamma watching India gain independence from the British Raj, and my amma, moving to a completely different continent and building a new life from scratch. 

I think of the two generations after me: Gita, who didn鈥檛 see stars for the first three decades of her life until regulations helped clear the smog. Reyna, who鈥檚 never seen the snow but can do 31 chakkars and accompanies her mom to volunteer for ceremonial burn support. 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

I think of the descendants that follow, from whom I borrow this earth.

And in the cabbage patch, loam between my toes,

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

      鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

      鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

I dance.

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.

I got my first glimpse of the place today. Drove out there by myself and knelt in the dirt and ran my hands through the dry clods. Nobody else out there, save a few crows picking over some years-old corn.  

I don鈥檛 think the seller will be a problem. That land gave all it could give and it won鈥檛 give any more. The ground is all hard and rocky, rutted out with old furrows and bits of crabgrass here and there. I鈥檝e seen parking lots with more life. 

It鈥檚 the only piece in that area that butts up to Stanton Forest. The guy across the road seems to be going strong, but not too many other nearby farms are. It鈥檚 perfect. 

I found this old notebook in a desk drawer at home and started writing about all this. We鈥檒l see what happens. 

April 30, 2022

Everything鈥檚 signed. Me, at the age of 58 and only ever worked in the city, now the owner of 94 acres of south Ohio cropland. Or what used to be cropland, at any rate. 

She鈥檇 be proud of me, and that made me smile on the drive home from the seller鈥檚 office. She was always going on about how we needed to give stuff back to nature. 鈥淲e have so much,鈥� she鈥檇 say, 鈥渟o, so much. We have to give it back, Daddy. We gotta find a way.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淪ure, sure,鈥� I鈥檇 always nod. And now she鈥檚 gone and I never gave her an answer. 

Well, Firefly, here goes nothing. 

May 6, 2022 

When I stand next to the road, the trees at Stanton are a green row on the horizon. Behind me is the neighbor. To the left and right my land stretches out for about a half mile. 

Neighbor鈥檚 name is Brett. He came by in his truck when I was out there today. 鈥淗owdy, neighbor,鈥� he said like a cowboy with his head sticking out the window. 

鈥淲hat are you growing?鈥� he asked. 

鈥淎 forest, if I can.鈥�

He looked confused but tried not to show it. 

鈥淪oy prices aren鈥檛 bad these days,鈥� he said. 鈥淎 hell of a lot more in soy than trees. And quicker.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 not gonna cut it down.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

He shook his head. 

鈥淲ell, it鈥檚 your place,鈥� he said and then took off. 

May 16, 2022 

Most of what鈥檚 left of that forest is in the beams of the old Victorians on Euclid Avenue in Cleveland or in Palmer Woods in Detroit. The rest got burned or blighted and then we plowed it under and grew corn and soy until we couldn鈥檛 anymore. It鈥檚 gone, save a few patches here and there. 

I鈥檝e been reading. This land used to be a forest, one of the biggest in the world. Stretched from where the swampland ended in south Georgia all the way up to the tundra in Canada. There were wolves and bears and chestnut trees that showered so many nuts you had to wade through them. 

One of those is the Smokies down in Tennessee. We went when Sadie was 8. I thought she鈥檇 want to see a bear, but she talked about birds the whole way down鈥�245 species there, she said. We walked all over and I could tell that this was a different sort of woods. Deeper, darker. Smelled like old leather and life.  

Sadie wanted to camp in the park, but I didn鈥檛 care to sleep on the ground. Still don鈥檛, actually. I woke up in our hotel room to find her on the balcony, staring off at the mountains, her little hands gripped tight on the railing. 

We can鈥檛 do the Smokies here. Sorry, dear, we gotta crawl before we walk. We鈥檙e gonna start with grassland and then trees. We could just let it go, let nature take her course. But we鈥檇 probably just end up with a haphazard field of soy plants. So, grass. And water. And these people over in England think pigs are a good idea. So maybe pigs, too. 

June 4, 2022 

I don鈥檛 know where she got it from. It wasn鈥檛 from me. I grew up in the Columbus suburbs. Lived in the Columbus suburbs. Ran the dealership in the Columbus suburbs after Dad died. My idea of interacting with nature is one of those documentaries with the British guy talking about starfish and antelopes. 

But there was a little creek behind our cul-de-sac, and she鈥檇 spend hours down there, looking at bugs and toads and building dams with rocks. Come back all muddy and I鈥檇 hose her down in the backyard, with her screaming and trying to dodge the water. 

鈥淲hy do we have all this grass and nothing else?鈥� she asked me once as we walked through our neighborhood. 鈥淲hat are the animals supposed to eat?鈥� 

Which brings me to the pigs. The pigs can help because they root around and turn up the hard soil. Then they shit everywhere and help fertilize the ground for other plants. Or that鈥檚 what this guy I called in England said. 

But right now my land is like those lawns, nothing for the pigs to eat. And that鈥檚 saying something, because I鈥檝e learned pigs will eat about anything, even roadkill. So I gotta plant grasses and berry bushes and other plants to create a first layer of food. 

I鈥檒l also build a few ponds to try to attract birds and create a different type of habitat. And I gotta do it all before winter gets here. 

June 15, 2022

It鈥檚 not much of a pond, but it will do. Rented a backhoe and dug out a pond at the base of where the land slopes slightly down to the south. It鈥檚 about the size of the neighborhood swimming pool by the place Sadie grew up. 

Then I ran a pipe up from the water main and filled it.  It won鈥檛 stay, but I鈥檓 hoping the fall rains will keep it filled just a bit. 

Today, I seeded half the place with grass, wandering the whole place with a bag of seeds over my shoulder, tossing them everywhere. It took all day, out in the heat, no shade. A few birds swooped in to eat some seeds, but it was lonely otherwise. I鈥檒l come back tomorrow and do the rest. 

I went with a mix of big bluestem, switchgrass, and prairie dropseed, which are all tall grasses native to this area. Big bluestem will be shoulder height in a few years. And I did red clover and buckwheat, which are lower grasses. The clover apparently will restore some of the chemicals we need to grow in the soil. 

Next week, I鈥檒l do wildflowers and shrubs, like black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, sunflowers, and elderberry bushes. Those will shoot their roots into the dry and compacted soil and break it up, allowing for water and worms and nutrients to get in. 

And next to the pond, I planted a few cattails that I dug up from the stream behind the house. They鈥檒l probably die in a week, but it felt good to have something Sadie would have touched on the land. 

August 25, 2022

The most magical thing happened today. I went out to the land and was walking around like I always do. There鈥檚 some green shoots all over from the grass I planted, plus I saw a few flowers that I didn鈥檛. 

Ever since I planted the grass, I鈥檝e been seeing mice scurrying around eating the seeds I threw down. I was near the pond, watching a mouse maybe 30 feet away dip in and out of my sight as it hurried up and down the old furrows. 

And then, wham, a red-tailed hawk shot from the sky and grabbed the mouse in its talons. I was so close I could hear the mouse scream. The hawk swiveled his head, looked at me for the briefest moment and then took off again, heading toward Stanton Forest. 

It all happened so fast that I didn鈥檛 realize I was holding my breath. 

October 14, 2022

Fall鈥檚 here, and I鈥檓 worried. We haven鈥檛 had much rain, and not much of the grass has rooted in. The pond is just a muddy puddle. The cattails are still there, thankfully, but I haven鈥檛 seen as many ducks as I saw at first. 

I鈥檓 afraid I didn鈥檛 get things in quickly enough and winter will kill off everything that鈥檚 been growing. But I dearly hope it all makes it through winter alright. I could say the same for me. 

I drive by the spot where she hit the black ice on my way to work. Even in the summer, I find my foot hitting the brake a little early. In the winter, I go through it so slow cars behind me hit their horns every now and again. 

The tree she hit still has the scar, this unholy blotch of black. I thought it might kill the tree when I first saw it two years ago. But it鈥檚 still hanging in, that old oak. I get a real good look at it in the winter. 

March 16, 2023 

I didn鈥檛 go out there much this winter, so there wasn鈥檛 much to write about. Just twice, both times all frozen over and snow on the ground, the grass brown and the cattails shivering in the wind. A desolate place, really. 

But now, spring, and melt. And disappointment. Even this early, there鈥檚 buds on trees and low lines of green in some of the fields along the road on the drive out there. My place is mostly dirt and mostly empty. 

There鈥檚 some tufts of grass, but it鈥檚 hard to say what I put there and what the wind did. I must have planted things too late. Or the rains didn鈥檛 come. Or something else. The upshot is it鈥檚 no closer to being a forest than I am to being a raven. 

Makes me wonder what I鈥檓 doing out here. Maybe I鈥檒l just sell the place. 

March 19, 2023

I couldn鈥檛 stand the thought of her trapped in the ground. Her mother and I hadn鈥檛 talked in a few weeks when we both went out to the river that ran about two miles from our house with the urn. It was spring, a few months after the wreck, and the water was a swirl of snowmelt. 

The stream behind our house ran into this river. Sadie had it all drawn out on a map in her room, otherwise I wouldn鈥檛 have known. A summer project, mapping our watershed. She had decided by then that she was going to either be a freshwater ecologist or a zoologist. 

We poured the ashes in the river and watched them float away, just a small patch of gray in a sweeping current of brown. 

March 22, 2023

I was out all day today with my seed sack, getting grass down all over again. By the end my boots were so caked with mud they felt like cement blocks. Too tired to write more. 

March 26, 2023

Today I brought my pigs out. Eight of them, full grown and snorting. The guy I bought them from brought them here in a trailer and everything. 

鈥淵ou got a place to put them?鈥� he asked when he pulled up. 

鈥淎nywhere is good.鈥�

Guy shook his head and undid the latch and the eight of them trampled out onto the mud. They were all old sows, done producing piglets and set for slaughter when I got them. $150 a piece, a steal, the guy had said. 

I鈥檒l be putting corn out for them to eat, but the idea is that they鈥檒l be able to find their own food by the summer. 

With them out there, I鈥檒l have more reason to come back. I鈥檓 excited about that. 

April 5, 2023 

I woke up this morning with a voicemail from Brett. We鈥檇 exchanged numbers last fall when we were both looking for a lost dog from the neighbors further down the road. 

Apparently, some of the pigs had gotten into his soybeans and rooted up a few plants. He didn鈥檛 sound too happy about it. 鈥淭hose pigs are feral. If I see them on my land again, I鈥檒l shoot 鈥檈m.鈥�

Fair enough. I ordered a couple movable fences today. Instead of having them roaming, I鈥檒l keep them on an acre or so then move them in a week or so. 

But already, I鈥檓 seeing more grass, more blooms. When I was out there most recently, there was a whole flock of finches singing and hopping among the green shoots. 

July 15, 2023 

Full summer, as of a few weeks ago. My Lord. I鈥檝e got grass and sunflowers up to my knees. There鈥檚 a couple of geese that seem to have taken up residence in the pond. I saw my first deer a few days ago. 

The pigs are basically magic. Anywhere I鈥檝e put them, a few weeks later, it explodes with life. 

For the first time, when I stand on the road with my land on one side and Brett鈥檚 on the other, I can really tell a difference. His is all these ordered rows. Mine is haphazard. His is all green. I鈥檝e got yellows from sunflowers and black-eyed Susans, greens in the grass, some orange and red from flowers that I have no idea what they are, and browns where nothing is growing yet. 

It feels like mine, this stretch of land. I don鈥檛 know what to call it. It鈥檚 not a farm. It鈥檚 not a forest. It鈥檚 still in that long in-between. But it makes me smile, looking out onto my misshapen kingdom, a kind of patchwork quilt knit by no one in particular. 

August 24, 2023 

The letter came in the mail to my home address. It was all dressed up and on legal letterhead. McCovey and Haines, it said at the top. 

To Mr. Gregory Elroy, the owner of property located at 501 E. Larson Road,

We write to you regarding the nuisance you have created on your property at the above address. Our Client, Mr. Brett Tubbs, of 400 E. Larson Road, has noticed a considerable uptick of deer, squirrels, birds, and other nuisance animals entering his property and disrupting his planting, seeding, and growing of crops. 

Having farmed this land for 17 years, Our Client has never been so disrupted in his labor. We urge you to cease from all activities related to your 鈥渞e-wilding鈥� of the property at 501 E. Larson Road including the planting of wild grasses, trees, shrubs, and other flora and fauna and the additional lack of maintenance that might further disrupt Our Client鈥檚 legitimate farming operations. 

If you do not, we will have no choice but to pursue legal action to remedy this situation in a court of law. 

Sincerely, 
Mike McCovey, Attorney at Law

Rewilding. It鈥檚 funny they used that word. Brett had driven by a few weeks back and we鈥檇 talked about the weather and the Reds. He seemed over the pigs thing. 

I told him the word for what I was doing was 鈥渞ewilding,鈥� which I鈥檇 only just learned from some YouTube videos. He鈥檇 shrugged. 鈥淎s long as it don鈥檛 bother me,鈥� he said. 

It must have. 

My second thought came unbidden. It鈥檚 working, I thought. It鈥檚 working. 

August 29, 2023 

After a long time thinking, I decided to ignore the letter. What could they really do? I owned the land outright. If they wanted to come and take it from me or sue me over a few deer wandering into Brett鈥檚 fields, they could go right ahead. 

I got a call from one of the principals at school when Sadie was 12. Apparently she鈥檇 found a baby squirrel on the playground and had been keeping it in her front pocket and feeding it Gatorade with an eyedropper in class. Her teacher had heard it squeaking. 

鈥淚f I don鈥檛 have it in my pocket, it鈥檚 gonna die, Dad,鈥� she said over the phone, her voice panicked and teary. 鈥淚t won鈥檛 stay warm enough anywhere else.鈥�

I begged the principal to let her take it home and we鈥檇 take care of it here. I found a shoe box and hooked up a light to keep it warm. 

鈥淭hat won鈥檛 keep it warm enough. It鈥檚 gonna die,鈥� she said. 鈥淲hen it鈥檚 that little it鈥檚 supposed to be next to its brothers and sisters and mother almost all the time.鈥�

I had to drag her to school and we left the squirrel at home. I don鈥檛 know what happened, but when we got home the light had gone out and the baby squirrel wasn鈥檛 moving much. It died a day later. 

She didn鈥檛 talk to me for a week, just slamming doors and scowling. Any time I walked in a room where she was, she鈥檇 screw up her face and yell, 鈥淢urderer!鈥� And then storm out. 

Look what I鈥檓 doing now, Firefly. The opposite of murder. 

September 25, 2023

I got another letter. Said similar stuff but then asked for a meeting at the lawyer鈥檚 office, and I went a few days later. The letter said I should bring a lawyer with me, but I don鈥檛 know any lawyers and didn鈥檛 feel like calling one. 

The office was downtown, with lots of wood paneling and leather chairs. Brett was there, in the guy鈥檚 office who sent the letter. He just nodded when I came in. 

鈥淢r. Elroy, you have been in violation of the county鈥檚 land-use regulations,鈥� the lawyer said, his voice oiled and smooth.  

鈥淵our land is intended for use in agriculture, and you seem to be doing nothing of the sort. As a result of your negligence to your land, my client has suffered damages from the excessive wildlife disturbing his crops.鈥�

There was a silence, as I thought about it. 

鈥淲hat do you mean by excessive wildlife?鈥� I said. 

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 deer out there every morning,鈥� Brett broke in. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e eating my seedlings. And the birds, too. So many damn birds. I just had my lowest yield in 15 years.鈥�

I shook my head. 

鈥淏ut it鈥檚 my land,鈥� I said. 

The lawyer smiled a thin smile. 

鈥淲ell, yes, but that doesn鈥檛 mean you can do anything you want with it. And the law says that parcel is to be used for agricultural use. I hope you understand.鈥�

I didn鈥檛 understand. But I didn鈥檛 get angry until I was driving home. I looked out the window and at the strip malls and fast food chains and parking lots with little bits of grass and trees in between. And beyond it, for miles, more asphalt and concrete with little bits of green in between. All the way to the ocean in either direction. 

As we walked out of the office, Brett had said, 鈥淚t鈥檚 because of you environmentalists that people like me can鈥檛 make a decent living anymore.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I never thought of myself as an environmentalist. But Sadie was right. We did have too much. But, apparently, it was illegal to give any of it back. 

October 17, 2023 

I went out to the land today and just walked around. I wouldn鈥檛 say it鈥檚 pretty, especially now that it鈥檚 fall and the flowers have gone for months. The grasses are all scruffy and brown. The pigs are all brown and muddy and old. 

I think maybe what鈥檚 scary to some people is that I鈥檓 just letting it go. Brett is out there every day on his tractor, tilling or planting. I鈥檓 not. I鈥檓 just letting it be. I really don鈥檛 know what鈥檚 going to happen to it. Maybe that鈥檚 a little scary to be next to. 

On the night she died, Sadie was at my place for the week. Her mother and I had just bought her her first car, a used 2014 Honda Civic, after she鈥檇 spent a few months learning to drive on ours. Simple, easy to drive. Safe. Good gas mileage. I thought she鈥檇 love it. But she didn鈥檛. 

鈥淚 don鈥檛 want a car, Dad. I only learned to drive so I wouldn鈥檛 hurt your feelings. Do you even know what cars are doing to the Earth?鈥� she told me when I first showed it to her a week or two before. 

It鈥檇 been sitting in the driveway ever since, the keys still on the counter where she鈥檇 put them. Her mother had dropped her at my place. 

And she鈥檇 been sulking all week. She鈥檇 get like this in the winter. Couldn鈥檛 go outside except to tramp around the block in her snow boots. Plus, you know, being a teenager. 

I thought I might take her to the movies or something. She was sitting on the couch, lookin鈥� out the window. 

鈥淔irefly, you want to go鈥斺��

鈥淵ou call me that, but did you even know that fireflies are going extinct?鈥� she snapped. 

I balked. I didn鈥檛 know that. 

鈥溾�機ause there鈥檚 no more woods for them to live in. They can鈥檛 just live on sidewalks and front yards. But that鈥檚 all there is around here.鈥�

鈥淲ell, can鈥檛 we do something about鈥斺��

鈥淪ure, we could. But people like you never will. I鈥檓 not your firefly, Dad.鈥�

With that, she stormed out of the room. I sank back into the couch. I heard a car start up in the driveway a minute later. Huh, I thought, maybe she wants that thing after all. 

The phone rang 20 minutes later. 

October 30, 2023 

When I pulled up to the land this morning, there was a sheriff鈥檚 car in the rut where I usually park. He got out as I pulled in, and he was holding a brown packet in his hand. His name tag said Lt. Briggs. 

鈥淢orning,鈥� he said, as we approached each other, like we were friends. I nodded. 

鈥淚鈥檓 guessing you probably know what this is,鈥� he said, handing me the packet. I nodded again. 

I took the packet and could feel the heavy pages inside of it. This must be how all this ended. We stood there for a second, him looking off in the distance, me listening to the breeze. 

鈥淵ou know, I鈥檝e been driving by here for as long as you鈥檝e been doing this,鈥� Briggs finally said. 

鈥淵ou think I鈥檓 crazy too, probably,鈥� I said. 

He shook his head and crossed his arms and looked out over my scraggly land. 

鈥淚 don鈥檛. I truly don鈥檛,鈥� he said after a while. 鈥淢y family鈥檚 lived around here for five generations. My great-great-grandfather was one of the men who cut down these woods and tilled the first farms. I used to take a lot of pride in that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淏ut you don鈥檛 now?鈥� I said. 

鈥淥h, I do. But, my kids, they lose their minds when they see a deer. They don鈥檛 know anything about anything wilder than our backyard.鈥�

I looked out on the land. I couldn鈥檛 say it was much wilder than a backyard, but just then, three ducks took off from the pond and beat their wings over our heads. 

鈥淲ell, not everyone agrees,鈥� I said, holding up the brown packet. 

Briggs laughed. 

鈥淣o, clearly not,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ut have you talked to the land trust? Or the people at Stanton?鈥� 

I shook my head. 

鈥淚 haven鈥檛 been talking to much of anyone recently. Just been out here where it鈥檚 quiet.鈥�

He laughed again, a deep, throaty laugh. 

鈥淲ell, maybe you should give them a call. They might be able to help you more than the birds and deer.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

With that, he tipped his hat and strode back to his car, leaving me with the packet in my hand and the wind blowing in my ears. 

February 19, 2024 

Well, it鈥檚 settled then. The land is now a nature preserve. And it鈥檚 being absorbed by Stanton State Forest. 

The people at the land trust straightened it all out rather quickly. They paid me one dollar for the land. Then they transferred it to the state鈥檚 control. But not before they helped me secure the right to live and traverse the land for me and my ancestors for all time.

That last part was their lawyer鈥檚 words, not mine. But I like it. For all time. 

I鈥檓 building a cabin out there. It might be ready in a year. Maybe one day I鈥檒l move out there.  And I鈥檓 finally going to get around to the other pond once the freeze breaks. 

Then, trees. It鈥檚 time to plant trees. We鈥檒l have our forest yet, Firefly. Oaks, hickories, maples, dogwoods. I can just see the saplings shivering in the spring air. It鈥檚 beautiful. 

And the fence. I鈥檓 helping Brett build a fence around his land. It was part of the condition of the agreement for them to drop the lawsuit. It鈥檒l be tall enough to keep out most of the deer. 

I don鈥檛 blame him. The fact is, there鈥檚 no way for the wild to co-exist next to his rows and rows of soybeans. We wave to each other again. 

And the people at the state agreed to one more condition. They鈥檙e going to call this little patch the Sadie Elroy Preserve. 

August 4, 2031 

I watched the sun go down from my little porch in my little forest. The birds were singing: sparrows, mockingbirds, an owl a little later. 

The trees aren鈥檛 high or thick enough to block the view and cast much shadow yet, but one day they鈥檒l tower over this place and it鈥檒l be in shade all day long. 

There鈥檚 water striders on the pond, and birds dipping through to catch them. I saw two raccoons drinking from the other pond yesterday. A few turtles too, years and years after I鈥檇 introduced them. Day before that, it was a flash of fox fur in some of the low bushes. The soil, when I kneel down and cup it in my hands, is soft and loamy. Some nights, there are even fireflies. 

I walk the trails most mornings as the sun comes up and see what I can see. Every day, it鈥檚 something. I walk a lot slower these days, but that鈥檚 okay. 

Some days, in the quiet of the morning, when my mind is focused on a deer track or a birdsong, I can hear her laughing, off in the distance. 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.

In 2014 when we started , on the rare occasions that climate and reproduction were discussed together, they were always framed the wrong way around: focusing on childbearing鈥檚 impact on the climate. As we began talking with people about their reproductive lives in a changing climate, we found that populationist rhetoric was a major obstacle to just having this conversation. In early media coverage we were often wrongly assumed to be populationists. The deeply ingrained population myth has been pervasive in the Global North for so long that it is now largely understood as common sense.

Those of us in the United States are living in a dangerous confusion of policies that both push and pull at all our rights to reproductive self-determination. The narrative is not as simple as 鈥渉ave more babies鈥� or 鈥渉ave fewer babies.鈥� Rather, it is: 鈥淵our body is not your own.鈥� Today more than ever, beware of population 鈥渟olutions,鈥� which are at best ineffective, instrumentalizing, and freighted by white supremacy and classism. Whatever problem it names, the population 鈥渟olution鈥� punches down, enabling powerful players to evade responsibility while continuing to harm.

As we have learned from justice movements鈥攁nd faith traditions鈥攖he path is the goal. The values we hold dear, of self and community sovereignty, anti-fascism, and human rights, are what we enact to find our way to the world we want to live in. There are no shortcuts through gray areas.

Someone Else鈥檚 Babies

Look in the Conceivable Future inbox and you鈥檒l see a folder that Josephine, in a moment of inspiration, labeled 鈥渂arf.鈥� In it you鈥檒l find some of the worst emails we鈥檝e gotten over the years; trolls and bullies, mostly. But one notable genre of unsolicited communication is a kind of amateur policy paper from aspiring authoritarians about how to control the global population. The authors tend to be from the United States, Canada, or Western Europe, mostly (but not exclusively) men, and although they don鈥檛 always share their demographic information, they tend to be white and of retirement age. Their 10-point plans will propose some combination of carrot-and-stick strategies for reducing births, and they typically want us to elevate their plan. Maybe we could send it on to the UN, or share it through our socials?

Some other features these strange missives have in common: The authors think they鈥檝e arrived at an ignored鈥攐r unjustly repressed鈥攕olution; they think it鈥檚 the silver bullet; they think we are an anti-natalist group and therefore simpatico to their program; they鈥檙e touting the affordability of this vs. other more popular climate initiatives.

We put these and other letters in the barf box for a few reasons. First, because these individuals fundamentally misunderstand what we鈥檙e trying to accomplish, but we save them because they tell us about what we鈥檙e dealing with. Second, as should be clear by now, we find these letters deeply disturbing. And third, we have to make some horrors into a joke or we鈥檇 never get out of our beds, let alone open the inbox.

We will never achieve a more just world by curtailing people鈥檚 reproduction. We don鈥檛 get there by control, coercion, or force. The future we are struggling for stands on a foundation of human rights, in which we share and defend full self-sovereignty.

The argument for population control is based on three interwoven and equally toxic assumptions: first, that rapid population growth is the cause of 鈥渦nderdevelopment鈥� in the Global South; second, that policy should persuade (or if necessary, force) people to have fewer children rather than improving the conditions in which they live, and; third, that some combination of finance, managerial, technological, and Western intervention techniques can 鈥渄eliver鈥� birth control to the Global South in a top-down fashion in the absence of comprehensive health care. In the priority promotion of contraceptives, the premise is clearly that pregnancy prevention matters most.

These days population-focused international aid work 颈蝉苍鈥檛 synonymous with human rights violations. The ongoing problem is in the priorities. Jade Sasser, a professor in the Department of Gender and Sexuality at the University of California, Riverside, learned this firsthand as a Peace Corps volunteer in Madagascar, and later as an NGO worker focused on family planning. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not like I am suggesting that these institutions are sending people into poor countries to coercively round people up and sterilize them or anything like that,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a narrative. But that narrative makes it possible to fund particular kinds of work. And where that work is problematic is, for example, in places where, let鈥檚 say, girls and women have all sorts of reproductive challenges and health issues and health concerns. But when they go to the clinic, the only kind of reproductive services they can access are family planning services and maybe STI prevention.鈥�

Population scholar and author Betsy Hartmann describes how contradictory political views have converged on this singular issue: 鈥淭he early Neo-Malthusians supported birth control as a means of improving the condition of the poor by limiting population growth; feminists and socialists believed it was a fundamental woman鈥檚 right; eugenicists embraced it as a way of influencing genetic quality. These strange bedfellows combined to give the birth control movement its unique character: It carried within it the seeds of birth control as a liberating force, as well as a means of coercive population control.鈥�

Unwelcome Interventions

Although this thinking developed as part of an international development agenda, countries have engaged this ideology domestically, plenty. In the United States alone, the government, as well as NGOs, have repressed the reproductive rights of Indigenous women and women of color by implicit and explicit policies for hundreds of years, from the foundational policies of genocide, slavery, and abuse to the present day. Between 1909 and 1979 approximately 20,000 people were forcibly sterilized in California, a practice that continues to this day in Canada and elsewhere. In the United States, the idea of the IUD as a 鈥渃ure鈥� for poverty has a disturbing hold on public discourse, and as recently as 2017, judges have shaved off sentence time for people who agree to undergo sterilization procedures. Black women are still disproportionately targeted for violent reproductive interventions, including abortion, sterilization, and contraception.

These practices are rooted in a lethal trifecta of sexism, racism, and classism. Cultural attitudes about population amplify beliefs about who is a 鈥渇it鈥� mother. And the concept of 鈥渇itness,鈥� in turn, derives from ideas about who is or is not a valuable human being or (in the eugenicist tradition) what are 鈥渧aluable鈥� traits and genes. Around the world we find legacies of reproductive violence and oppression.

The Magdalene Laundries of Ireland are one notorious example. The Laundries were part of an interlocking system of orphanages, industrial schools, 鈥渕other and baby homes鈥� for unwed mothers, and church-run institutions in which thousands of Irish citizens were once confined. Roman Catholic orders of nuns ran the (for-profit) laundries, and women and girls were made to work there, nominally as a form of penance for their sins. The laundries were filled not only with 鈥渇allen women鈥濃�攑rostitutes, women who became pregnant without being married or as a result of sexual abuse鈥攂ut also those who simply failed to conform to the expectations of their society. Children born to women in the laundries had their names changed and were adopted out without their mothers鈥� consent.

As another example: During the early years of the Salvadoran Civil War, which lasted from 1979 to 1992, the military, which had led a coup, took thousands of children from their (anti-coup) families. The children鈥檚 identities were changed and they were sent abroad for adoption, primarily to the United States and Europe. In other words, El Salvador also 鈥渄isappeared鈥� children of people who were identified as insurgents, as a way of controlling adults. These operations were carried out by lawyers with military contacts and foreign adoption centers that watchdogs have since flagged as part of the international human trafficking black market.

As recently as May 2017, a Tennessee judge issued a standing order allowing inmates to receive 30 days鈥� jail credit in exchange for undergoing a voluntary鈥攆or the dubious value of voluntarism while incarcerated鈥攕terilization procedure. The message here was unmistakable: that people who wind up in prison should be bribed to rescind their human right to have children.

As all three of these examples show, when powerful people make moves to determine who is 鈥渇it鈥� to be bearing and raising children, these determinations target marginalized people, and women specifically, marginalized communities more broadly, and often reward families from the dominant group, sometimes even with the children of those marginalized groups. Even when those biases are not an explicit policy, wealthy people are more apt to be considered fit parents. These practices have been a weapon used by the powerful to control the less powerful. This is the history of population movements鈥攁 history we must learn, and whose wounds are still open.

Populationism and Climate

This kind of paternalistic repression is having a renaissance in the context of the climate crisis. Our movement鈥檚 recent history shows us that when our societal focus shifts to policing the behavior of private citizens, we can be handily distracted from the crimes being committed right over our heads. Confronted with an urgent need for change, whom do we pressure for that change: those with the most or the least power? One of those projects is certainly easier than the other.

And since its early days, the mainstream environmental movement has recruited these strategies in service of 鈥渃onservation鈥� goals. For instance, the best-selling book The Population Bomb, written by Paul and Anne Ehrlich and published in 1968 at the suggestion of then-director of the Sierra Club David Brewer, predicted worldwide famine in the 1970s and 1980s due to overpopulation. It also prophesied other major upheavals and advocated immediate action to limit population growth (suggestions in the book included the idea of adding birth control to the food or water supplies). The Sierra Club鈥攐ne of the best-known environmental organizations then, and now鈥攁ctually sponsored publication of the book, and during the 1980s some members (including Anne Ehrlich) steered the group into the field of U.S. immigration, arguing that overpopulation was a significant factor in environmental degradation and advocating halting and reducing U.S. and world populations. In 1988, the organization鈥檚 Population Committee and Conservation Coordinating Committee argued publicly that immigration to the United States should be limited so as to achieve population stabilization.

When population control and border control efforts converge, it鈥檚 easy to see that both programs are built to uphold the inequality of the status quo. And even when the tactics are not explicitly violent, the paternalistic disregard for people鈥檚 rights is plainly evident. Overpopulation is an ideology; it diverts criticisms of capitalist consumption and unequal distribution by blaming devalued people鈥攎ostly women, and often poor women鈥攆or reproducing. It serves to justify a system (capitalism) that creates needs among many while satisfying them only for the very few.

The most notorious and widespread campaign to control population size was China鈥檚 One Child policy, which began in 1979 and continued for more than three decades. In some environmental corners this policy is even quietly admired; by the Chinese government鈥檚 projections, its population would have been 1.8 billion without it, instead of today鈥檚 1.435 billion. Some scholars dispute this claim, arguing that 鈥渁s much as three-quarters of the decline in fertility since 1970 occurred before the launching of the one-child policy鈥� and that 鈥渕ost of the further decline in fertility since 1980 can be attributed to economic development, not coercive enforcement of birth limits.鈥� Aside from the policy鈥檚 matter-of-fact disregard for citizens鈥� human rights, it also caused major societal problems, including the proliferation of sex-selective abortions and the resulting scarcity of adult women, and the emotional scars that people continue to carry after forced abortions, sterilizations, and massive fines and jail sentences for violating the law.

And while this was happening, China鈥檚 emissions rose to surpass those of the United States. Turns out that human rights abuses aren鈥檛 the key to decarbonization, after all.

To its credit, the Sierra Club has reversed many of its organizational positions on population and done so quite publicly (although there are still groups within the Sierra Club advocating for a return to a population orientation, and the controversy resurfaced when three anti-immigration proponents ran in the 2004 Sierra Club Board of Directors election). But these harmful ideas about population are still firmly lodged in the public consciousness; ideas that logically manifest in racist, xenophobic, and violent ways. The men who perpetrated mass shootings in Christchurch, New Zealand, and El Paso, Texas, cited 鈥渙verpopulation鈥� as a reason they targeted immigrants, many of whom are fleeing the devastating effects of climate change in their home countries. It is a short step from viewing 鈥渙verpopulation鈥� as a problem to any number of violent 鈥渟olutions.鈥�

The Struggle of Parenting in the U.S.

One of the most painful ironies of these ambitions to control women鈥檚 reproduction is that they鈥檙e functionally unnecessary when the U.S. government offers so little support to women when they actually become mothers. In other words, what all of the emails in the barf box overlook is that the United States is already perfecting anti-natalist policies in all but name. As we explored in more detail in the last chapter, the United States is the least welcoming place out of all the wealthy countries for new parents. Asthma and other diseases are on the rise from deregulated air pollution, fracking chemicals, and other industry contaminants. Health care costs are staggering. An uncomplicated hospital birth costs $32,093 on average. Maternal mortality is higher in the States than it is among peer countries, criminally so for women of color. Food deserts abound in our cities; public schools are shuttering or starving for funds; daycare costs more than college in many places, never mind the costs of college itself.

Even bracketing the climate crisis, anyone considering a family in this place, at this point in time, is already assuming a burden of medical and financial risk. And each of these factors that weigh against people鈥檚 reproductive lives are doubly weighted against people of color.

As Sasser found when she interviewed American women aged 20 to 40 about their feelings toward climate and reproduction, her subjects鈥� emotional experiences were strongly conditioned by race. She spoke with women from across the racial spectrum, and she found a high concordance among all participants鈥� concerns. But for women of color, 鈥渢he concerns about climate change, the concerns about mental health issues were heavily compounded by experiences of racism and perceptions, and experiences of racial vulnerability. Meaning: The women of color interviewed strongly perceived that their children would already be saddled by issues of inequality just for existing as Black or Brown, or Indigenous. So that they would have to fight to ensure that they had quality education in school. That their children would at some point potentially have to face the criminal justice system or deal with police, police brutality, police violence, or just being treated differently by police. They knew that their children at some point would have to deal with some kind of racial discrimination that would be very hurtful to them.鈥�

As we mentioned before, most of the population-control epistles in our barf box have come from older white men who usually have a child or two, maybe grandchildren of their own. They tend toward the egalitarian edge of a broader trend because they include white, middle-class American women in the population they intend to control. But the trend is this: They find it easier to imagine reshaping young people鈥檚 reproductive lives than to even imagine reshaping parts of the economy. They have had children, but they are here to tell us that we 蝉丑辞耻濒诲苍鈥檛, for our own good; they made no sacrifice themselves, but they are writing to demand it of their young, while blithely ignoring the toxicity, injustice, and lack of support that already inhibits American reproductive freedoms.

In other words, young people in the United States don鈥檛 need any more disincentives to have families鈥攚e already live in a country that is outright hostile to parents and children. And indeed, the U.S. birthrate hit a 32-year low in 2018, with Millennials reporting that they are having 1.5 fewer children than they鈥檇 like to have, on average. And the COVID-19 pandemic exacerbated what was already there; birth rates plummeted in wealthy countries, including in the United States.

This shows us two things: First, many climate-minded people badly need to learn about the reproductive realities in this country. And second, that even people with a wrongheaded but sincere concern about climate change (the writers of these proposals, for instance) seem to think it鈥檚 easier to tell a whole generation what to do with our bodies than to put the fossil fuel industry on notice.

A Flawed Climate 鈥淔ix鈥�

Present-day population advocates are eager to put distance between the 鈥渄ark past鈥� and present day 鈥渆mpowerment鈥�-focused family planning programs. And indeed, voluntary access to birth control is a marked improvement from crimes of coercion and violence. But even in its most empowering form there are, to us, three major and connected flaws in the arguments for smaller populations as a 鈥渃limate fix.鈥�

The first is that these arguments provide cover for eugenicist dogma, whether we consciously espouse it or not. Women in India are having too many babies. New Hampshire trailer trash doesn鈥檛 know how to use birth control. These accusations鈥攔eal-life examples both鈥攁re both racist and classist; how many times have you heard a middle-class white woman accused of having 鈥渢oo many babies鈥�? In fact, in the early days of Conceivable Future organizing, we鈥攖wo white women鈥攚ere frequently told by white observers, 鈥渂ut you鈥檙e the people who should be having children.鈥� (This was a particular irony because Meghan was not always a middle-class person and is from a relatively large family herself. She moved from being told she 蝉丑辞耻濒诲苍鈥檛 have babies to being told that she should, as she moved into the middle class.)

We encountered another manifestation of this bias when at several house parties we met white middle-class women, confident they never wanted to become pregnant, who couldn鈥檛 find a doctor that would perform a voluntary sterilization on them. The difficulties some women face in getting a sterilization procedure as a form of contraception are longstanding and well-documented. In this country鈥檚 context of involuntary sterilizations for BIPOC women and incarcerated people, the irony is ghoulish. It鈥檚 important to note that 鈥渙verpopulation鈥� is a term used overwhelmingly to describe the demographics of poor areas and/or nations. In punditry about rich countries, we鈥檙e much more likely to hear about 鈥渦nderpopulation鈥� and its purported negative effects on the capitalist economy.

The argument鈥檚 second flaw is that it offers convenient scapegoats for systemic overconsumption in the rich parts of the world. Population relates to climate harm only to the degree that populations exploit resources and emit carbon. No one has emitted more than Americans. It鈥檚 not the number of people alone; arguments about 鈥渙ptimum population鈥� (such as those that Ehrlich is still making) ignore or minimize the systemic nature of resource consumption. Waste is a feature, not a bug in our industrialized systems: look to planned obsolescence, low-gas-mileage vehicles, and the excesses of conventional agriculture. A recent study claimed that every other bite of food in the United States is waste. Nothing about being a human requires this, nor does it correlate with happiness or a high quality of life.

To bring this home we鈥檝e often said that if everyone on earth consumed the way the American upper and middle classes consume, we would need an additional 4.5 to 6 Earths鈥� worth of resources to sustain ourselves鈥攁 fact absent from much populationist rhetoric. But in early 2023 a study published in Ecological Economics broke the population argument down even more finely along consumption inequality lines. We asked the authors of this study to help us put it in plain terms, and Jared Starr obliged in an email:

鈥淭he Global Footprint Network estimates that if everyone consumed like the average American we would need 5.1 Earths (in 2018鈥攖he latest year I found data for). Carbon emissions alone account for 3.65 Earths. We find that average top 0.1% U.S. households have emissions 23x higher (954 tons) than the U.S. average. Multiplying how many Earths are needed for average Americans鈥� carbon emissions (3.65) times 23 I estimate that if everyone on the planet emitted carbon like an average top 0.1% U.S. household we would need 84 planet Earths.鈥�

The data gets richer. Starr pointed us to a study about carbon emissions from 20 billionaires, which found that average emissions of those people were 194 times higher than an average American household. Using these numbers, Starr told us, 鈥淚f everyone on the planet emitted carbon like a billionaire, we would need something like 700 planet Earths.鈥�

These numbers certainly put a fine point on where the culpability for carbon emissions lies. (Spoiler: It 颈蝉苍鈥檛 on the shoulders of women seeking affordable health care from international aid organizations.)

So let us be perfectly clear: We need policies that balance a global standard for quality of life with rapid decarbonization and with a progressive focus on dematerialization for the West. No valid policy involves repressing human rights or outsourcing responsibility.

The other big problem with the population climate 鈥渇ix鈥� is that it instrumentalizes women鈥檚 bodies and our health care, especially in the Global South. In other words, this perspective assumes that women should be able to access health care, contraception, and education because those things support the goals of decarbonization. And it鈥檚 worse than that: The real point is that if the goal of family planning services is to reduce population growth鈥攔ather than to support the freedom of people to determine the number and spacing of their own children鈥攚omen can expect inferior care. Earlier Sasser described how the narrow overfocus on contraception she witnessed as a Peace Corps volunteer in Madagascar was not serving the sexual and reproductive health of the people she intended to help.

When she returned to Madagascar years later on a research trip for her dissertation, she had conversations with friends working in USAID, who were overseeing the funding of clinics throughout the entire country, that illuminated the central conflict of interest. She asked her friends how USAID was serving reproductive health clinics that might be helpful to the community she served: 鈥溾�榃hat are you doing that I could maybe bring back to this town that I had lived in to better help girls avoid pregnancy?鈥� And I discovered that there was a strategic plan as to where these services would be prioritized, the reproductive health services that were funded by USAID. And it was all around national parks and conservation sites.鈥�

The implicit priority here was to keep population numbers low to preserve pristine landscapes and rare animals, and, presumably, the revenue that these places generate as tourist destinations. In this view, more pregnancies would lead to more demand for land, water, firewood, and so forth, and perhaps eventually more poachers. Sasser continues, 鈥淚 was like, What is going on here?!? There are not more girls getting pregnant near parks and conservation sites. Why would your environmental agenda be the agenda that organizes and determines the population reproductive health and family planning agenda? Honestly, if there is one moment that I can point to where a light switch flipped on for me, that was it.鈥�

And this was not an isolated situation of conservation policy determining the kind of care women received. In 2019, Sasser and a colleague co-published an article 鈥渁bout the services that are offered to people in health clinics [and] reproductive clinics in Madagascar, in areas that are near marine conservation sites.鈥� Her colleague who did the fieldwork discovered 鈥渙ver, and over again that even when women came into clinics for other concerns, with other needs, wanting other services, they were consistently steered toward contraceptives.鈥� That is: First, these clinics essentially defined 鈥渨omen鈥檚 health鈥� as their capacity to get pregnant, and second, they used birth control for their own conservation goals, rather than any health goals belonging to the women themselves.

Educating Boys and Detoxifying Masculinity

In the popular climate solutions handbook Drawdown, 鈥淓ducating Girls鈥� and 鈥淔amily Planning鈥� are ranked as #6 and #7, valued at a combined 51.48 gigaton reduction of CO2. The author clarifies that 鈥渨hen family planning focuses on health care provision and meeting women鈥檚 expressed needs, empowerment, equality, and well-being are the result; the benefits to the planet are side effects.鈥� Even so, those side effects are the whole point of the book. Access to education and family planning are human rights, and they are rights that women deserve because we are human beings. By treating access to those rights as a means to carbon reduction鈥攐r habitat protection鈥攔ather than an end unto itself, climate groups continue to behave toward women as though we are second-class citizens, or simply valves to be turned.

In fact, a recent study shows that conformity to masculine stereotypes correlates with environmentally harmful behaviors. 鈥淐aring about the environment鈥� is widely seen as a feminine set of behaviors, so a person concerned with appearing masculine is measurably less likely to recycle, value fuel efficiency when purchasing a car, and so on. And it鈥檚 not just men upholding a bizarrely fossil-fueled masculine ideal: Georgia Representative Marjorie Taylor-Green claimed that 鈥淒emocrats like Pete Buttigieg want to emasculate the way we drive and force all of you to rely on electric vehicles.鈥�

We are eager for the debut of the Drawdown program鈥檚 鈥淓ducating Boys and Detoxifying Masculinity鈥� targets.

This kind of discourse鈥攖he 鈥渓et鈥檚 support women鈥檚 health care only as a means to carbon-reduction鈥� discourse鈥攅xists in the context of a culture that鈥檚 generally only interested in women鈥檚 health insofar as it serves some other purpose. The medical establishment has a well-documented male bias and a tragically consistent history of ignoring women鈥檚 health care needs. Dr. Kate Young, a public health researcher at Monash University in Australia, has found that women are often viewed by their doctors as 鈥渞eproductive bodies with hysterical tendencies鈥濃�攁n orientation from which flow any number of distorted outcomes. Medical experts routinely dismiss women鈥檚 health care complaints as invented or psychological, making comments like 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a lot of psychology, just as much as there is pathology [in gynecology].鈥� One doctor claimed that he鈥檇 never met a fibromyalgia patient who wasn鈥檛 鈥渂atshit crazy.鈥�

And these experiences鈥攚hile present for many women all over the world鈥攁re especially present for Black women in the United States. In a now well-known story, tennis superstar Serena Williams had to bring the full force of her stardom to bear before her postpartum blood clot was taken seriously by medical staff. 鈥淲hen you are a Black woman, having a body is already complicated for workplace politics,鈥� writes Tressie McMillan Cottom in Time magazine. 鈥淗aving a bleeding, distended body is especially egregious.鈥� The medical establishment filters Black women through assumptions of incompetence. 鈥淲hen the medical profession systematically denies the existence of Black women鈥檚 pain, underdiagnoses our pain, refuses to alleviate or treat our pain, health care marks us as incompetent bureaucratic subjects. Then it serves us accordingly,鈥� she concludes.

The point here is that alternately ignoring and instrumentalizing female bodies is a long tradition that is shaped and torqued by race, class, and geography. The current discourse of women鈥檚-health-qua-climate-solution fits neatly within a long-standing patriarchal tendency to view women as simply 鈥渞eproductive bodies with hysterical tendencies鈥� and to treat us accordingly. That is: Women, and our experience of our health, are routinely dismissed and ignored, except when someone gets the idea that managing our fertility in some way would be good鈥攁nd let鈥檚 be clear, cost effective鈥攆or some other social agenda. Other such agendas have included: populating the Fatherland, producing more people to enslave, and preventing the reproduction of those deemed less worthy.

At this moment in time, the desired outcome is cheap and 鈥渆asy鈥� carbon reduction.

Here is the bedrock belief from which we challenge these views: Women are human beings, and we deserve health care, which includes full-spectrum reproductive care, because we are human beings. Not because many of us have uteruses, or because those uteruses could be requisitioned to produce more鈥攐r fewer鈥攑eople.

This excerpt from听The Conceivable Future: Planning Families and Taking Action in the Age of Climate Change听by Meghan Elizabeth Kallman and Josephine Ferorelli (Rowman & Littlefield, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.听

Bok choy, broccoli rabe, and turnip share the same brassica rapa wild relative. They, like almost all produce, have been adjusted by human selection and intervention to be more palatable, appealing, or accessible to consumers. Plants are also manipulated based on the values of the societies they are in. Over generations of growing and eating, the flavors, compounds, and genetics merge into us. 

Human manipulations, however, are not always beneficial to the plant, the future generations of people who rely on them, or the ecosystem of which they are a part. 

Intensive breeding can lead to a spare genetic base. The Gros Michel banana was the only banana distributed throughout the world in the 1800s. It was loved for its sweet, distinct taste, but the banana鈥檚 lack of genetic diversity meant it was quickly eradicated when a fungus called Panama disease wiped out every banana plantation by 1950. This varietal has since been lost to commercial production giving way to the Cavendish banana.

This pattern occurs again and again through history. When Irish farmers planted almost exclusively one variety of potatoes, vast swaths of the vegetables died during a potato blight from 1845 to 1852, which pushed many people to emigrate to survive. 

So while resilience has been bred out of countless domesticated crops, an abundance of weeds choke farms and take over unnoticed spaces, like a message. 

Crops鈥� Uncertain Future

The threats to plants today are many. , or plant diseases, are spreading via new means and into new areas due to globalization and shifting weather patterns. Climate change, too, is palpably impacting crops鈥� ability to survive in unpredictable weather, elevations of CO₂, and the introduction of pests and fungi as a result of rising temperatures. Approximately $27 billion of insurance reimbursement was distributed to farmers for failed crops between 1991 and 2017, according to at Stanford University and the National Bureau of Economic Research鈥攁 number that is projected to go up. 

The states that plants become slower at photosynthesizing and more vulnerable to disease when they absorb many of the substances we鈥檙e pumping into our atmosphere, including ground-level ozone and pollution caused by chemical solvents. Plants also suffer when they encounter emissions and exhaust, such as smog, that interfere with their ability to absorb sunlight. 

Farming practices are due for an update in the face of climate change. So researchers, food activists, scientists, and agronomists are to the wisdom of plants that have fallen to the wayside or are growing abundantly without support or intervention鈥攐ften right beside existing crops. 

Feral plants were once cultivated in farm or garden settings. Then, either by manually crossing or naturally mixing with a wild species, their genetics adapted to the region they were in, which made them more resilient than others. As these plants emerge from the furrows and ditches, with their deep wells of genetic diversity intact, their long-ignored presence may offer a solution to strengthen and prepare vulnerable crops for novel climate conditions.

Harnessing Feral Resilience

In the 1400s, colonization spelled genocide for many peoples in the Americas. These disruptions also affected nonhuman species. Plants were brought with settlers鈥攐n purpose or on accident鈥攁nd forced to adapt to new environments to survive. In many cases these plants have come to thrive in their new environments and, in some cases, are spreading like wildfire over the land, outcompeting native plants who have important roles in their ecosystems. One of them, brassica rapa, incorporated itself into the lives of the Indigenous Rar谩muri people. 

In the narrow hills and valleys of the Copper Canyon in Chihuahua, Mexico, a field technician of Rar谩muri ancestry, Alejandro Nevares, works with the National Commission for the Knowledge and Use of Biodiversity on a plant preservation project with brassica rapa, known in the Rar谩muri language as Mekwaseri. 

Thanks to hundreds of years of intentional foraging and cultivation by the Rar谩muri in the region, Mekwaseri has become more tender and takes a longer time to bolt, or bloom, at which point it becomes bitter and tough. While other crops like corn and mushroom have suffered unpredictable seasons because of climate change in the region, according to Nevares, Mekwaseri continues to grow reliably. 

Similarly, rice paddies in Arkansas, where more than 50% of U.S. rice is cultivated, hold a secret that has been more of a burden to farmers than a boon. An invasive form of weedy rice known as 鈥渞ed rice鈥� has crept through the crop, mimicking the early stages of cultivated rice, but then shattering its seed, which stays dormant, sometimes for years at a time. So while this 鈥渨eed in rice鈥檚 clothing鈥� was long viewed as a problem for rice farmers, in Arkansas are working to de-domesticate the crop. They are crossing weedy rice with cultivated seed as a way to diversify the crop genetics and create a more adaptive species. 

Crops As Stories

Shelby Ellison, assistant professor and researcher for University of Wisconsin鈥揗adison鈥檚 Department of Plant and Agroecosystem Sciences, spends her time tromping through Midwestern autumnal fields, hopping over fences, and trekking into ditches in search of a plant that has long been elusive among American crops: hemp. At one point, the Midwest was a hub for fiber hemp, used for making rope and canvas. After the criminalization of cannabis, though, these plants were effectively destroyed.

But Midwesterners still know of ditchweed鈥攖he common name for a feral form of hemp鈥攚hich has persisted throughout the Midwest. 

Ditchweed has successfully adapted to its environment and diversified its genome. The plant is now decidedly feral. With all the space, it has grown huge, developing many uniquely long arms and bolstering its seed. These plants are resilient against various pathogens. Having survived many generations on their own, they have adapted to the climates and seasons of the region without human intervention. 

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 this push right now to develop cultivars that are adapted to the places where we live,鈥� Elison says. She pre-breeds these samples in a range of diverse environments to observe how they adapt in various scenarios in pursuit of outcomes that prove the plant to be resilient, or exhibit features that a prospective grower might be interested in.  

With each of the plants characterized, Elison then passes the seeds to Zachary Stansell, who says his 鈥渞esponsibility is to be a hoarder鈥� of germplasm at the USDA Agricultural Research Service鈥檚 Plant Genetic Resources Unit. This massive seed bank in Geneva, New York, collects and maintains the plants to be a resource for breeding, education, and research, as well as for cultural preservation. 

After the 2018 Farm Bill passed, taking hemp off of the DEA鈥檚 schedule of controlled substances, states and tribes began to legalize the production of hemp. In 2021 the USDA mandated that the Agricultural Research Service鈥檚 Plant Genetic Resources Unit also start keeping what has become one of the largest hemp collections in the world, with 600 varieties.

鈥淐onserving the genetic diversity of crops is 鈥� an intrinsic good in terms of building climate change resilience,鈥� Stansell says. 鈥淭hese crops are our stories.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

鈥淚 like the real junky, weedy, weird things that wouldn鈥檛 make sense for a farmer to grow,鈥� Stansell says.鈥淚 think of them as a reservoir of unique alleles or variants.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The seeds from old or weedy species hold vast genetic pools and an inherent connection to the past. Scientists are finding that feral species have high resistance to mildews and diseases, which can be bred into the genetics of other species鈥� seeds to create resistant varieties of plants. 

While the research on incorporating feral genetics is still new, researchers and breeders are already ordering feral hemp seed samples through the U.S National Germplasm system for breeding trials. 

The Danger of Oversimplification

Some plants have been bred to need more help growing than others. So while working with feral plants can genetically diversify and make plants more resilient, cross-breeding is not an agricultural fix-all. 

The Green Revolution was a large-scale gene manipulation project, and an experiment on what it means to separate people entirely from their foodways. The crops pushed across the world starting in the 1960s consisted mostly of wheat and rice, and were intended to feed as many people as possible. However, not only did they require more human intervention and were vulnerable to disease, they were disconnected from the cultures they were meant to serve. 

When a plant is too inbred, it may lose important variants within its genome. That weakens it and makes it more vulnerable. Within a genetically diverse species, however, hidden variants may enable it to adapt to changing local conditions or to enhance nutrition. These adaptations could also prove beneficial to other members of the plant鈥檚 ecosystem as shared conditions change. 

Linda Black Elk is an ethnobotanist and food activist who serves as education director at N膧TIFS, an organization that promotes the Indigenous foodways of unceded Dakota lands in Mni Sota Makoce (Minnesota). She illustrates the consequences of breeding鈥攂oth good and bad鈥攚ith a picture of a variety of stinging nettle that has been bred not to sting. 

While the species saves humans from mild discomfort, it also eliminates the protection that aphids who shelter in its fibers require for their protection and survival. These aphids are an integral part of their ecosystem, and their disappearance may disrupt the delicate balance.  

That鈥檚 why, Black Elk says, Indigenous peoples cultivate plants 鈥渘ot just for their personal benefit but for the world around them.鈥� When humans work with plants through genetic modification and selection, it is important to take into account the needs of the plant as well as the larger ecosystem鈥攏ot just themselves. 

The Challenges Ahead

Feral plants are not always easy to work with for growers. They are less predictable, more erratic, not uniform as they manifest in the environment, and may not have as high a yield. Ferality might not be considered agriculturally 鈥減roductive鈥� as it is currently defined. Yet we are already seeing the limits and risks of the status quo in agriculture today. 

Some organizations are using gene-editing methods such as to manipulate germplasms so that they are more predictable, perennial, and sustainable within the environment. There remain unanswered questions about how feral plants can operate for farmers on a larger scale. But there is no doubt that these crops are adaptable, nutritious, and genetically diverse. And such resilient crops may precipitate a shift in approaches to agriculture more broadly. 

Importantly, there are no hard and fast rules with plants. Not all plants are adapted to be feral. They are unique beings whose resilience should not be taken for granted. Nor should we dismiss them. 鈥淲hen a single plant is lost, we also lose a whole set of prayers, songs, and protocols for building relationship with that plant,鈥� Black Elk says. 

This highlights the intrinsic connection between food sovereignty and food resilience. As long as we eat food we are going to be selecting and morphing plants. And the conditions in which we feed and fuel ourselves will continue to change. 

Similarly, the Rar谩muri have corrals of sheep and goats, but the true purpose of these spaces is to fertilize the ground for Mekwaseri. In Chihuahua, Nevares teaches his community about storing and preparing the plants and seeds for generations to come. 

Rather than looking at a species as having a single, human-centered function, to understand the feral is to see individual plants with the complexity that seeds entire ecosystems. What would our world look like if we, as humans, learn to adapt to plants instead of making plants adapt to us?

CORRECTIONS: This article was updated at 2:49 p.m. PT on Jan. 23, 2024 to clarify that the Plant Genetic Resources Unit鈥檚 hemp collection is one of the largest in the world. This article was updated at 10:55 a.m. PT on Jan. 22, 2024, to correct that Brussels sprouts are not in the brassica rapa family, to specify that the Indigenous Rar谩muri people speak Rar谩muri language, and to clarify that the study on crop insurance was published by the Institute of Physics but was conducted by Stanford University and the National Bureau of Economic Research. Read our corrections policy here.

We have no passions left to love the spring
Who had suffered autumn as we did, alone
Walking through dominions of a browning laughter
Carrying our loneliness our loving and our grief.

When I read 鈥淪econd Spring鈥濃�攚ith the 2020 global uprising against police violence still relatively fresh and just weeks after the attack on the U.S. Capitol鈥攖he poem captured the spiritual exhaustion of the moment, how the Earth sometimes moves faster than our grief does. As a queer Latina writer who had spent years writing about nature, finding Lorde鈥檚 poetry felt like a relief. Finally, I had found a writer who wrote about nature in a way that was inextricable from every system of power we lived in. Before, when I had tried to read anything by someone labeled as a 鈥渘ature writer,鈥� the blatant omission of the forces that so deeply affected my outdoor experiences鈥攚hite supremacy, colonialism, patriarchy鈥攎ade me feel distant from their work.

When Lorde published her first book of poems, her publisher, Dudley Randall, was quick to clarify, 鈥淎udre Lorde is not a nature poet.鈥� I could relate to this impulse to separate her from the genre. Nature writing seemed to be unconcerned with the realities of oppression; it was writing that waxed poetic about the solace of the American landscape without any consideration of the historical context of that land, unbothered by the many communities displaced from it.

Now, however, what counts as nature writing鈥攁nd who identifies as a nature writer鈥攊s beginning to change. In recent years, as the environmental movement has started to grapple with its historical connections to racism and xenophobia, a new generation of poets, essayists, memoirists, and novelists of color is taking up space in a genre that historically has excluded our perspectives. They include Ross Gay, Natalie Diaz, Kim TallBear, Camille Dungy, and Aimee Nezhukumatathil, among many others. They have raised their voices in anthologies like听The Language of Trees, edited by Katie Holten, and听A Darker Wilderness, edited by Erin Sharkey. Books like Sabrina Imbler鈥檚听How Far the Light Reaches听embody a nature writing that centers the most marginalized and names the violent histories inherent in shaping our relationship to nature. More importantly, they remind us that oppressed people have always partnered with nature when seeking our liberation.

In his essay 鈥淎 Family Vacation鈥� in A Darker Wilderness, Glynn Pogue writes about the first seaside enclaves and mountain towns that allowed Black people to own land, and the first Black-owned bed-and-breakfasts that thrived there. In 鈥淐oncentric Memory,鈥� Naima Penniman writes about how forests, swamps, and brushlands gave sanctuary to maroon communities of escaped slaves in Haiti and Latin America. Carl Phillips鈥� piece in The Language of Trees describes how forests became his refuge for queer intimacy, a space that provided 鈥渁 sense of permission at least, to what can feel like鈥攚hat we鈥檝e been made to feel is transgression; if only temporarily, the trees erase the shame that drove us to seek hiddenness in the first place.鈥�

In these pages, nature is inherently political. It is an active ally in the fight against oppression, a place where marginalized people can experience brief moments of life outside systemic trauma. And it鈥檚 a place where we find the examples we need to give us hope for our survival. In How Far the Light Reaches, Imbler compares the 鈥渟upernaturally hardy鈥� resilience of feral goldfish that took over an entire river ecosystem in Southwest Australia鈥攁ll descendants of a handful of pets someone dumped two decades ago鈥攖o the resilience they and their queer community needed to survive and 鈥渉ow each of our becomings felt like an unthinkable triumph.鈥� Imbler writes, 鈥淎 dumped goldfish has no model for what a different and better life might look like, but it finds it anyway. I want to know what it feels like to be unthinkable too, to invent a future that no one expected of you.鈥�

In her book Trace: Memory, History, Race, and the American Landscape, Lauret Savoy writes about the Western Apache (Ndee) word ni, meaning both 鈥渓and鈥� and 鈥渕ind,鈥� which illustrates 鈥渢he inseparability of place and thought.鈥� 鈥淚n 鈥榥i,鈥� earth and thinking converge,鈥� she writes. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 crucial is to think and act with landscapes, as well as about and upon them.鈥�

This insight revealed something I appreciate when reading nature writers of color: They write with landscapes, not only about and upon them. In so many of the environmentalist spaces I have worked in, I鈥檝e often heard about 鈥渟aving鈥� the Earth鈥攁 message that implies a human superiority we don鈥檛 actually possess. Nature writers of color instead emphasize relating with the Earth. They write with an assumption of partnership and solidarity between humans and nature, both working toward a mutual goal of liberation, rather than an uneven relationship in which it鈥檚 humanity鈥檚 task to save everything else.

When Audre Lorde鈥檚 publisher said that she was not a nature writer, he justified his argument by stating that 鈥渉er focus is not on nature, but on feelings and relationships鈥濃�攁s if those concepts were mutually exclusive. Today鈥檚 nature writers of color know differently, and Lorde knew it long ago: Writing about nature is writing about feelings and relationships, because our relationship with nature is constantly related to how we learn and think about ourselves.

Since reading Lorde鈥檚 poetry, I began teaching a workshop called 鈥淩eclaiming Nature Writing.鈥� When I ask participants what they received from the course, an answer I hear often is 鈥減ermission.鈥� Too many writers still believe their stories about race, sexuality, or ancestry don鈥檛 count as nature writing. Once they read writers of color who validate their own unique relationship to nature, they allow themselves to write their own stories.

So much of the recent conversation around diversifying both the publishing industry and the environmental movement has focused on giving people of color 鈥渁 seat at the table.鈥� These new nature writers of color tell stories that change the table entirely. They don鈥檛 simply add a new voice to the discourse; they transform what and who is centered, what core assumptions about nature we first must dispel. In doing so, they provoke a radically important question: Who should have the power to narrate what the Earth wants?

In an essay titled 鈥淏rutes: Meditations on the Myth of the Voiceless,鈥� best-selling author Amitav Ghosh argues against the idea of nature as a 鈥渧oiceless鈥� entity needing humans to stand up and defend it. He believes that nature has been telling us stories far before humans ever could. The task of human storytellers is to simply listen and to find ways to 鈥渋maginatively reassign agency and voice to nonhumans,鈥� Ghosh writes. 鈥淭his is a task at once aesthetic and political鈥攁nd because of the magnitude of the crisis that besets the planet, it is now freighted with the most pressing moral urgency.鈥�

The more I read nature writing from writers of color, the more it鈥檚 clear to me that perhaps instead of seeking out new and innovative ideas to address the ecological crisis, we should be returning to ancient stories, the stories Earth has been telling us for centuries. We can confront this crisis not by trying to save the planet but by listening to it. And in doing so, we may discover that Earth鈥檚 story鈥攐f severed connection and exploitation鈥攊s much the same as our own.

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission.

The boat belongs to Rose Piccinini, the Tribes鈥� Sanpoil district wildlife biologist. She is part of a team that manages the herd of bighorn sheep that the Tribes鈥� wildlife department reintroduced beginning in 2009. She also leads the Tribes鈥� efforts to restore lynx populations back into the ecosystem here. 

The animals who shared this landscape were once fully integrated into every aspect of tribal members鈥� lives. They harvested bighorn sheep and other game for food, tools, and clothing. Intricate myths, legends, and teachings about the animals were passed down by elders to descendants and bound them to who they were鈥攁nd who, as a result, their descendants came to be. 

But then American settlers brought domesticated European sheep and goats, and with them, diseases that bighorns weren鈥檛 able to recover from. The succession of disease exposures, against which bighorns had no defense, significantly reduced their numbers and made them more vulnerable to other impacts they might have otherwise withstood. Save for a few small pockets in secluded locations, the bighorns died off, and the herds disappeared from the landscape and the lives of the tribes. 

As we crane our necks and squint our eyes upward in the hot midday July sun, shadows reveal more than a dozen bighorn sheep on the north side of the canyon, less than 100 feet above the reservoir. Ewes and lambs weave paths through stalks of mullein, leaving their crescent-shaped tracks in the sand, all the while feeding on shrubs that dot the hillside and scree. Their sharp horns curl back from their heads as their amber eyes attend to their surroundings. Two of the animals walk onto a sandy section of the slope, licking at minerals. They kick up dust and cascades of sand, which form rivulets and accumulate into plumes, slowly fanning down the sandy slope to the shoreline below.

For the 12 tribes of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville, whose reservation is located in north-central Washington State, their ecosystem 颈蝉苍鈥檛 complete without the animals and plants who have long inhabited the land alongside them. Maintaining these relationships of reciprocity in modern times involves the protection and reintroduction of native species, as well as the restoration of their habitats, an ambitious effort that the Tribes鈥� wildlife department has been leading since its inception in the 1970s. 

As the Tribes work together to restore more native species like bighorn sheep and salmon to their lands and waters, they bring collective healing with them. This healing is felt by the people who have long endured cultural trauma from the forces of European and American colonization. It further strengthens their enduring resilience.

Bighorns were among the Tribes鈥� first relatives to be extirpated from the region, but the world-shattering impacts of colonization only intensified henceforth. 

Salmon have always been at the center of the Tribes鈥� culture and, until the mid-20th century, their diet and economy. The fish fed the people and the land with, among other things, the nutrients stored in their bodies. The fish consumed sea life and later carried this sustenance upstream in their migratory journey inland. Tribal representatives cite reports of 20,000 salmon per day, weighing on average 35 pounds each, swimming up the Columbia. With their death and decomposition, the nutrients brought by the salmon in their flesh and bones nourished the forests, prairies, and riparian areas, as well as the coyotes, deer, elk, bighorn sheep, lynx, pronghorn, buffalo, wolves, eagles, and innumerable other beings interconnected within these systems.

But in 1942, the U.S. government built the Grand Coulee Dam and 鈥渆nded a way of life,鈥� according to produced by the Tribes. The dam blocked 1,400 miles of salmon spawning habitat and flooded 56,000 acres of land, as well as the ecosystems that supported whole communities of animals and people. This included critical winter habitat for deer and elk, and areas the Tribes relied on for native food and medicinal plants, all of which were drowned by the government鈥檚 dam construction. 

No fish passage was built then, nor since.

鈥淥vernight, it was shut off,鈥� says Richard Whitney, a member of the Sinixt band of the Colville Confederated Tribes and the Tribes鈥� wildlife department manager, who assumed leadership of the department in 2014. All at once, salmon, who were the Tribes鈥� staple food and the foundation of their culture and economy, were gone.

To survive, the Tribes turned to other species native to the ecosystem, and started a decades-long effort to restore wildlife populations in the area. By 1975, the Tribes had established a wildlife management department with funding from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, in accordance with the Bureau鈥檚 trust responsibilities to the Indigenous peoples with whom it had signed treaties. Elk, Whitney says, have, 鈥渟tepped up to offer themselves so [the Tribes] could persist.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Today, thanks to the Tribes鈥� reintroduction efforts, their elk herds are strong, going from 481 total elk counted in 2002, to more than double that in 2022. Whitney says elk numbers on the reservation are at a 20-year high, which gives Tribal members additional opportunity for harvest.

With elk reintroduction efforts underway, the Tribes next turned their attention to sharp-tailed grouse in the late 1990s, bighorn sheep in 2005, pronghorns in 2014, followed by lynx, salmon, and buffalo.

Although they have not reintroduced wolves, the Tribes have allowed wolves to recolonize their lands, since evidence of the canines was first identified in 2008. Wolf packs are now managed here at a stable level. 

The Colville Confederated Tribes鈥� plan to re-establish bighorn sheep began with six translocations that ultimately brought 136 bighorns back to the reservation. Although the herds have continued to suffer from diseases carried by domesticated goats and sheep鈥攚hich are worsened by drought as it concentrates animals around smaller watering areas鈥擶hitney says the population has since grown to more than 250.  

As Whitney assumed leadership of the wildlife division and took over the restoration of bighorn sheep, it was suggested to him that the Tribes sell licenses for trophy bighorn hunts to non-tribal hunters to help pay for more staff. Some state fish and wildlife departments sell hunting licenses via auction or raffle for a number of species considered to be trophies to the highest bidder to generate revenue. For example, in Washington this year,, while .

Whitney was adamantly opposed to the idea, and his reasoning provides insight into the approach he takes to wildlife management: 鈥淭hat animal is worth more to me than a biologist position. That animal has value and it鈥檚 not in dollars,鈥� he says. With so much wildlife management reliant on hunters paying license fees, which in turn fund conservation and management, Whitney says the priorities are off. 鈥淚f it just comes down to money, then you guys are in the wrong business. You鈥檒l never get it right.鈥�

In addition to providing sustenance for tribal members, the restoration of native species serves to restore a community of species of which people are an integral part. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a harmony there, and anything that鈥檚 missing breaks that balance,鈥� Whitney says. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 still a harmony, but it鈥檚 missing a note here and there.鈥� With each member of the ecological community Whitney鈥檚 wildlife department restores, the whole community sings fuller-voiced. 

This story is the first in a three-part series produced in partnership with , an editorially independent magazine about nature and conservation powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Read part 2 here and part part 3 here.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:19 a.m. PT on Dec. 16, 2023, to clarify that the Tribes are referred to as the Colville Confederated Tribes or the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, not the Colville Confederacy; and to clarify that Rose Piccinini and Richard Whitney鈥檚 work is part of larger team efforts. Read our corrections policy here.

This story is the second in a three-part series produced in partnership with听, an editorially independent听magazine about nature and conservation powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Read part 1 here and part 3 here.

Soon after taking the position in 2014, Whitney began leading pronghorn restoration efforts for the Tribes. Using knowledge gained from habitat evaluation surveys he鈥檇 worked on previously, as well as feasibility reports from the 1990s and early 2000s, he determined the region offered plenty of suitable pronghorn habitat. In addition, he and his team looked at pronghorn reintroduction attempts by a number of other agencies to determine what had worked and what hadn鈥檛. The Yakama Nation, for example, had successfully restored pronghorn in the past, while the state of Washington had tried, but failed.

In January 2016, after determining there was adequate habitat and food on the reservation, Whitney and his team reintroduced 52 pronghorn. Some of those animals died, likely due to stress and overexertion during transport. In the project鈥檚 second year, the team introduced 98 pronghorn鈥攅arlier in the year (in October, rather than in midwinter) and in smaller groups, shortly after they had been captured. Survival of reintroduced animals greatly improved in year two, providing valuable information on reintroductions for the future. 

Now, on a sunny July day, Sam Rushing drives us in his pickup truck through the hills outside of Bridgeport on the reservation to see the results. He is the Tribes鈥� Omak-Nespelem district wildlife biologist and is looking for some of the pronghorn the Tribes reintroduced from Nevada seven years earlier. We scan the open, grassy hillsides in the valley, near a wildfire burn scar, until we spot a herd in the flats near a creek bottom, between two tall ponderosa pines. Spooked by our presence, the group of nearly two dozen animals鈥攄oes, fawns, and one large buck鈥攖rot uphill together. Rushing says the Tribes鈥� herd now numbers 225.

For Whitney and his relatives, animals are friends and often referred to as such. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 rule the kingdom, but are part of it by relating with friends,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e reuniting with old friends. We鈥檙e restoring a community, restoring the system.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Following previous ceremonial releases, in late July 2023, Tribal members gather at the Sanpoil River鈥檚 edge. As they wait, the sun illuminates the sky, which is blue save a few passing clouds, and shines down through the ponderosa pines and into the river, the rays of sunlight twirling through currents and dappling the round stones below.

Members of the Colville Tribes form a line between a fish-hauling truck and the river. They pass Chinook salmon鈥攐ne after the other, from one to another鈥攊n specially designed rubber bags toward the river, returning the generous offering of life to the salmon, and in turn, the animals and land. At the end of the line, in one continuous motion, Patrick Tonasket, Keller District representative for the Tribal council, gently pulls a large Chinook by the tail from a bag and orients the fish in the current鈥檚 flow. He holds his right hand on the salmon鈥檚 broad back until the fish feels the current鈥檚 rush, then flicks her tail and jets upstream.听

鈥淲e鈥檙e dedicated to bringing those salmon back,鈥� Tonasket quietly says.

By day鈥檚 end, the Tribes will release 70 summer Chinook salmon. Prior to the operation, biologists working for the Tribes had ensured that the fish were free of disease and had inserted tiny monitoring tags before trucking them upriver for the ceremonial release. These releases give tribal members the opportunity to hold ceremony with and for the salmon. With each salmon released, healing and hope surges through those gathered by the river. Later on, the proof that salmon can spawn in this river will most likely reinforce habitat and model assessments, aiding in future reintroduction efforts by proving they can succeed. 

鈥淭he salmon used to run strong here,鈥� says Darnell Sam, a descendant of the Sanpoil Band of the Colville Confederated Tribes. Sam is the Wenatchi Salmon Chief, and leads a ceremony for these fish, whom, he says, in the beginning offered themselves to the people so they could survive. Sam is also the great-nephew of Chief Jim James of the Sanpoil, who presided over the Ceremony of Tears, when his relatives鈥� millennia-old salmon fishery at Kettle Falls was inundated following the construction of Grand Coulee Dam. Now, Sam stands in the river, his shirt adorned with images of mountain lions and white-and-blue ribbons that pulse in the breeze, and he releases a salmon to the river, as birds sing and the sun shines down.

Sam says the salmon have always run parallel to his people, specifically regarding their resilience: 鈥淭hey鈥檝e endured a lot. Our people have endured a lot. 鈥� They鈥檝e been colonized; they鈥檝e been oppressed. So has the salmon, but yet, they still endure, and they still survive, and they鈥檙e still here.鈥� Recalling the Ceremony of Tears for Kettle Falls, where his ancestors mourned the loss of the salmon from Grand Coulee Dam, he says, 鈥淭his is an opportunity for us to wipe them tears.鈥�

This story is the second in a three-part series produced in partnership with听, an editorially independent听magazine about nature and conservation powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Read part 1 here and part 3 here.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:28 a.m. PT on Dec. 16, 2023, to clarify that the Tribes are referred to as the Colville Confederated Tribes or the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, not the Colville Confederacy.听Read our corrections policy here.

Not bad for a wastewater treatment plant.

Fed by five million gallons of treated wastewater every day, Fernhill鈥檚 constructed waterfalls add oxygen back to the flow. One million reintroduced native plants representing about two dozen species (plus other species returning on their own) remove excess nitrogen, phosphorus, chemicals, and suspended solids, while providing the shade needed to cool the water before it reaches the nearby Tualatin River. During construction, workers installed 180 logs and snags, and even varied the topographies of wetland basins to mimic the region鈥檚 aquatic habitats and offer more diverse niches for marsh birds, shorebirds, and other wildlife.

WATCH: Nature Offers a Model for Filtering Wastewater

The natural water filtration system fashioned from old sewage lagoons has become an 鈥溾�� between treatment plants operated by the Clean Water Services utility in western Oregon and an increasingly vulnerable Tualatin River. 鈥淚 always say wetlands are the kidneys of the Earth,鈥� says Jared Kinnear, a biologist who helped design Fernhill and now manages it and the utility鈥檚 other reuse projects. 鈥淲e鈥檙e just harnessing the process that鈥檚 been going on for millions of years.鈥�

Constructed wetlands have been used for decades in Europe and as natural water-cleaning systems. Amid the growing threats of the climate crisis and habitat fragmentation, they鈥檙e gaining in popularity as a form of nature-inspired infrastructure that can not only prevent pollution but also create vital green spaces for wildlife and humans alike. 

In 2011, after reviewing its options for a needed expansion, Clean Water Services found that an $18 million wetland buffer made good financial sense as well: It cost roughly half as much as a concrete-and-steel treatment system. 鈥淣ot only did Fernhill cost less, but it certainly offered a whole lot more environmental and social benefits than other options,鈥� says Diane Taniguchi-Dennis, the utility鈥檚 CEO.

Constructed wetlands require active tending, such as periodic dredging, removal of invasive species, wildlife management, and even controlled burns. But these semi-wild spaces have proven so popular that the utilities operating them have had to regularly remind visitors of their primary function: cleaning wastewater. 

Wildlife Encounters

Along the Atlantic Flyway in central Florida, the Brevard County Wastewater Treatment Plant similarly back into water-filtering wetlands in 1998. Workers constructed four marshes鈥攅ach with its own small island and all separated by earthen berms鈥攁nd then reintroduced more than 200,000 native plants representing 19 species. Arrayed around a central lake, the , known locally as the Viera Wetlands, help purify wastewater that鈥檚 reclaimed for irrigation or discharged into the Four Mile Canal and upper St. Johns River during the rainy season.

Retired software engineer and photography enthusiast Steven Winker won a second-place award for a dramatic photo of a . He recalls the thrill of passing within feet of another bobcat nicknamed 鈥淢ama鈥濃�攕o named by her many admirers because she had raised multiple litters in the wetlands.

In November 2022, about a month after researchers outfitted her with a radio collar, ; researchers suspect she was struck by a car on a nearby road. Beyond an outpouring of grief, her death sparked a bitter controversy among residents who suspected that the radio collars were changing the behavior of the bobcats and making them more susceptible to harm. Tracking data suggested no ill effects on the animals, though the deaths of multiple collared bobcats pointed to another sad truth: Creating inviting semi-urban spaces for wildlife brings the animals closer not only to adoring fans but also to highways and hunters.

Restoring Nature

The popularity of Oregon鈥檚 Fernhill has required Clean Water Services to defuse its own share of potential public relations disasters, like the in 2020. The birds ate fungus-contaminated grain in nearby fields and then expired in the wetlands. 鈥淲e鈥檙e in a fishbowl,鈥� Kinnear says, keenly aware of how the deaths could have been wrongly attributed to something in the treated water if the incident had not been properly investigated and explained. 

At the same time, he has had to continually weed out invasive plants and animals threatening the site鈥檚 water filtration function. The utility鈥檚 proactive management, though, has created new opportunities to educate the public about the benefits and limits of nature-inspired systems, and to explore how human stewardship might nurture new ecosystems.

The , an international collaboration at a wastewater treatment plant south of Mexicali in Mexico鈥檚 Baja California state, has aimed even higher by seeking to improve the flow and quality of freshwater through the Colorado River Delta.

The river鈥檚 meager flow by this point in its course, drained by chronic drought and upstream water rights, has effectively concentrated its pollution and threatened its connectivity to the sea at the Gulf of California. 鈥淓verything comes back to the lack of fresh water,鈥� says Edgar Carrera, who grew up in Mexicali and now coordinates the Colorado River Delta project for The Nature Conservancy, a project partner.

An initial 250-acre wetland created in 2007 wasn鈥檛 enough to accommodate the region鈥檚 population growth and the resulting influx of wastewater that is now roughly double the existing plant鈥檚 treatment capacity. That wetland, Carrera says, has already become an oasis for migratory and resident birds like the endangered Yuma clapper rail, mammals like bobcats and foxes, and reptiles like chameleons. 鈥淪o it is now a wildlife refuge,鈥� he says.

In parallel with upgrades to the plant鈥檚 treatment process, tentatively slated for 2025, a new series of intermediate water-filtering wetland basins will significantly improve the quality of the 3.5 billion gallons of reclaimed water before it flows into the larger wetland and then into the Colorado River Delta. Improving that flow can lower the concentration of other contaminants鈥攅ssentially using treated wastewater to help dilute pollution鈥攚hile nourishing the downstream estuary鈥檚 wildlife.

Carrera has alleviated some community concerns that the natural water purification won鈥檛 be enough to clean the Colorado by emphasizing that the process will combine the filtering abilities of a more efficient treatment plant and the series of constructed wetlands to aid the ailing delta. 鈥淭hey are very conscious that the water, for them, means income,鈥� he says of local residents who depend upon the river for agriculture, fishing, boating, and tourism.

For many ecosystems, recycled water means life. In a lower stretch of Oregon鈥檚 Tualatin River, water released from an upstream reservoir and treated wastewater from the utility鈥檚 four treatment plants account for up to 86% of the late-summer flow.

Taniguchi-Dennis believes that creating 鈥渞iver-ready鈥� water and a wildlife sanctuary is just the start of what might be possible with treated wastewater. Providing a foothold for keystone species such as beneficial kinds of algae, for example, could feed a wide assortment of creatures while further purifying and oxygenating the water. 鈥淲hat if we could create the right biodiversity within the wetland that actually amplified what the river needs to restore its health and its waters?鈥� she asks. It鈥檚 a question made possible by reimagining how the problem of polluted wastewater can become the basis for a sustainable, nature-inspired solution.

The eight earthworks complexes in central and southern Ohio join nearly 1,200 sites worldwide that UNESCO has said have outstanding value to humanity. The earthworks are now peers of Machu Picchu, Stonehenge, Taj Mahal, and other magnificent places, according to Jen Aultman, chief historic sites officer of the Ohio History Connection (OHC), which shepherded the World Heritage application through an arduous multiyear process. Other sites added this year include temples in India and a 9th-century Tunisian settlement.

Indigenous people built the Hopewell Ceremonial Earthworks between 1,600 and 2,000 years ago. Their rounded, grass-covered walls rise 14 to 20 feet to define octagons, circles, squares, and other geometric shapes that each encompass many acres. One complex鈥攊n Newark, Ohio鈥攃overs a total of 4 1/2 square miles. Stonehenge would fit into a tiny corner. Walking through the earthworks鈥� curving green forms is both inspiring and disorienting.

The monumental figures align precisely with astronomical events as well as with each other, even when separated by hundreds of miles. The major alignments mark the moon鈥檚 18.6-year south-to-north rises and sets. At the gigantic Octagon Earthworks, in Newark, the moon rises through one of its gates, or openings, at the moment of the northern standstill鈥攖he northernmost point of the 18.6-year cycle.

In constructing the giant shapes, the earthworks鈥� builders repeatedly and spectacularly solved a primordial math problem that confounded other mathematicians as far back as ancient Greece. Brad Lepper, OHC鈥檚 curator of archaeology and an Ohio State University anthropology professor, has written that some of the earthworks鈥� huge circles and squares were constructed with equivalent surface areas. This is called 鈥渟quaring the circle,鈥� an expression that has come colloquially to mean doing the impossible. Other earthworks circles and squares have equal perimeters, called 鈥渞ectifying the circumference.鈥�

Some of the math is more esoteric than visible. In one case, the distance between two figures鈥� centers was used as a gigantic measuring stick for laying out the rest of the site. In other instances, connecting forms with imaginary lines creates related hypothetical forms overlaid precisely on the ones we can walk among.

The earthworks鈥� makers were virtuoso astronomers, architects, and ma颅颅颅颅thematicians, Wallace concluded, calling them 鈥渦ncommon geniuses.鈥� Their 鈥済enius lives on today in many descendant tribes,鈥� she said.

Unlike the pyramids of Egypt and cathedrals of Europe, no central authority directed the earthworks鈥� vast and meticulous construction. Instead, the evidence suggests members of dispersed Indigenous communities built the massive shapes one basket load of dirt at a time. Finely crafted statuary and other objects found in the earthworks were made of materials from both local and distant places. These include Ohio鈥檚 multicolored flint and its rivers鈥� freshwater pearls, along with obsidian from the Rocky Mountains, mica from the Southeast, copper from the Great Lakes region, and shells originating in the Gulf of Mexico.

The geographic range of the materials鈥� sources indicates how widely the earthworks were valued, according to UNESCO. A representative called them 鈥渢he center of a continent-wide sphere of influence and interaction.鈥�

The Importance of Homeland

The day following the World Heritage announcement, members of the United States delegation to Riyadh gathered. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an incredible accomplishment,鈥� said Alex Wesaw of the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi Indians, OHC鈥檚 director of American Indian relations. He called the UNESCO decision a win for all of Native America. He pointed out that we don鈥檛 know what the 鈥淗opewell鈥� people called themselves; archaeologists dubbed them that after identifying earthworks on a farm whose owner was named Hopewell.

Chief Wallace recalled a soft rain falling during a 2007 Eastern Shawnee visit to the earthworks. The tribe had been expelled from the state during the 19th century following the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Many of its citizens died on the approximately 800-mile walk from Ohio to Oklahoma, then called 鈥淚ndian Territory鈥� and set aside for tribes. As soon as they arrived, the chiefs begged for food for their starving people, Wallace said. 鈥淥ur pain was so very difficult and so very deep for so very long, it needed a gentle rain to wash it away,鈥� she said. 鈥淥ne woman in the group said our ancestors were weeping with joy because we had returned to the homeland.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淗omeland鈥� is vital as a place and as a concept because it鈥檚 鈥渨here our stories and our history originate,鈥� said Logan York of the Miami Tribe of Oklahoma. The Miami civilization centers on the lands in Ohio and surrounding states from which the tribe was forcibly removed in 1846, York explained. 鈥淚t seems like a long time ago but is a blink of an eye for culture. A lot of our ways of doing traditional things are still centered in our traditional homelands.鈥�

Helping younger generations understand this is critical for removed tribes. Chief Billy Friend of the Wyandotte Nation, another Ohio tribe, has taken young tribal citizens on bus tours of the state. He said Ohio 鈥渋s where my ancestors stood, partook of ceremonies, and fought.鈥� Teaching youngsters this history, Friend said, 鈥減reserves the future of our past.鈥�

Joshua Garcia, media and communications specialist for the Wyandotte Nation Cultural Center and Museum, first joined Chief Friend鈥檚 tours when he was just 12 years old. The trips counteract the damage from the decades during which 鈥渋t was not good to be Native,鈥� according to Garcia. Growing up, his grandmother was not allowed to go to ceremonies because they were seen as 鈥渇ull of supposedly bad things,鈥� he recounted. His mother took it upon herself to help restore traditional knowledge and is now the Wyandotte cultural preservation officer, Garcia said.

Heritage for the World

The idea of proposing the Hopewell Ceremonial Earthworks to the World Heritage list began percolating some 35 years ago, said Lepper. Early supporters included Newark Earthworks Center officials Richard Shiels, an Ohio State University emeritus professor, and Marti Chaatsmith, who is Comanche and Choctaw. About eight years ago, an application began to coalesce, and in January 2022 the Department of the Interior submitted it to UNESCO. According to Lepper, the tribes contributed mightily to the application and will continue to be involved in OHC earthworks-related decisions; for example in developing site-management plans and reviewing research proposals. 鈥淲orking closely with our Indigenous partners is what we do now, and we won鈥檛 do anything without them,鈥� he said.

Important cross-cultural research includes Lepper鈥檚 collaboration with Chief Ben Barnes of the Shawnee Tribe. In 2018, the two published a scientific paper comparing engraved spherical black stones used by the Hopewell peoples with those used by Shawnees of today when constructing ceremonial water drums. 鈥淚 am so thrilled to have been a co-author on a paper with a Shawnee chief, and Ben said he鈥檚 thrilled to have been a co-author on a paper with an archaeologist,鈥� Lepper reported.

Increased publicity for the Hopewell Ceremonial Earthworks means Ohio anticipates more earthworks-oriented tourism. State legislative representative Jessica Miranda (D-Forest Park) said the World Heritage listing will attract visitors 鈥渢o see the beauty of our lands and our very diverse state.鈥� Bill Seitz (R-Cincinnati) spoke of recognizing Native contributions and being 鈥渞espectful to their history.鈥�

The grand complexes named to the World Heritage list are closely monitored by OHC and the National Park Service, but additional earthworks dot the Ohio landscape, having survived centuries of plowing and development. In the rural countryside of south-central Ohio, a hawk surfed the thermals above one of these solitary earthworks. The raptor spiraled gracefully overhead as its avian forebears have likely done since Indigenous ancestors built the site all those years ago.

The heightened publicity won鈥檛 change the situation of these earthworks for better or worse, according to Lepper. 鈥淟ooters already know about the isolated earthworks, off in the woods and fields, with no monitoring,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hey are the ones that are really at risk and always have been.鈥� That鈥檚 largely because out-of-the-way earthworks are usually on private land, where the federal Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act does not necessarily apply, he said. A state graves-protection law would be an important next step.

For Aultman, the significance of safeguarding humanity鈥檚 special places was driven home in 2019, when fire ravaged another World Heritage site, Paris鈥檚 Notre Dame Cathedral. Continual news coverage and social media posts meant the event was witnessed repeatedly worldwide. 鈥淲e all felt we would be lesser as humans if it were gone,鈥� she said.

The Cultural Center

On October 14, Wallace was the keynote speaker at a celebratory event held in an earthworks complex in Chillicothe, a city in south-central Ohio. Other speakers included Mike DeWine, Ohio鈥檚 governor, and National Park Service Director Chuck Sams, an enrolled citizen of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, in Oregon.

鈥淐hillicothe鈥� is a Shawnee word meaning 鈥渢he great place鈥� and 鈥渢he place of chiefs and leaders,鈥� Wallace said in her keynote speech. 鈥淭his place was the center of North America 鈥� the center for spirituality, the center for love, the center for peace.鈥� Disseminating this understanding is the task ahead, according to Wallace.

Addressing Native Americans in the crowd, Wallace said, 鈥淚t was our ancestors, our geniuses who built these places.鈥� And, she assured them, 鈥渢he world now knows.鈥�

Pradhan couldn鈥檛 help but think of the lasting this dam would have on her local ecology. It was the moment when she resolved to preserve the floral world of her hills with her paintbrush. 

Bhutan, Nepal, and northeastern India鈥攊ncluding Kalimpong鈥攁re part of a transboundary complex in the Eastern Himalayas called the. It forms a part of what scientists call the 鈥楬imalayan Biodiversity鈥攐ne of the biologically richest landscapes in the region.

For the past two decades, Pradhan has dedicated her life to capturing the beauty of eastern Himalayan flora on canvas. Her exquisite paintings of orchids and rhododendrons have been showcased in exhibitions around the world. Her and other botanical illustrators鈥� work offer a potential solution for preserving the region鈥檚 flora in the face of climate change.

鈥淲ith climate change and fast infrastructural development, there is an ecological change in the hills of Darjeeling and Kalimpong, and as an botanical illustrator, I feel it is important that we sensitize our younger generation to the importance of conservation of the local flora and fauna,鈥� says the 49-year-old artist.

***

Around 600 kilometers west of  Kalimpong, Nepalese botanical illustrator Neera Joshi employs watercolors to bring to life the distinctive Himalayan flowers such as rhododendrons, orchids, and magnolias on canvas. She is recognized for her significant contributions to the study of the local flora, including her involvement in 鈥� III,鈥� which features numerous botanical line drawings for scientific articles.

鈥淰isual communication plays a crucial role in conservation,鈥� Joshi says. 鈥淸Botanical paintings] can be used in educational programs, botanical gardens, and museums to raise awareness about the diversity of plant life and the importance of conservation. These illustrations can engage the public and inspire a deeper appreciation for plants and their role in ecosystems.鈥�

For nearly two decades, Joshi, now 55, has been teaching botanical illustrations to artists and scientists, believing that her teaching is contributing to the preservation of the region鈥檚 floral kingdom through art.

鈥淎t first, I was unfamiliar with botanical illustration as a distinct art form,鈥� says Finnish botanical illustrator Jari Laukka, who has been studying under Joshi鈥檚 tutelage since 2020. 鈥淗owever, upon discovering Neera鈥檚 impressive portfolio, I was eager to have her as my teacher. During a visit to her studio, I had the opportunity to witness her artwork firsthand, and I was genuinely impressed by her expertise and meticulous attention to detail, qualities essential in botanical art.鈥� He is now preparing an exhibition of his botanical paintings. 

鈥淚n contrast to other art genres within fine arts, where artists often have the freedom to be more subjective and emphasize aesthetics,鈥� Joshi says, 鈥渂otanical illustration serves the purpose of providing a comprehensive representation of a plant, allowing for easy identification. It demands accuracy and patience, which can be a challenge for new artists.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

And the stakes are high, too.

Rhododendrons and orchids hold great cultural significance in the local communities, but they are under threat. Rhododendrons are undergoing due to climate change, while orchids are suffering from widespread, harvested for their medicinal properties. 

鈥淎rt can serve as a valuable conservation tool,鈥� says Rajendra Yonzone, assistant professor in the department of Botany at Kolkata鈥檚 Victoria Institution, 鈥渢rue conservation can occur naturally if we allow these elements to thrive in their natural habitat.鈥� Yonzone, a native of Kalimpong with an extensive background in the study of the flora of the eastern Himalayas, emphasizes that the main challenge arises from unregulated construction and infrastructure development. These activities often occur without adequate planning, environmental impact assessments, or management strategies in place. To facilitate the balance between conservation and development, she says it is crucial to integrate scientific expertise and careful planning into the process. 

Yonzone acknowledges the intricacy, discipline, and hard work involved in botanical art, but he also highlights its limitations. 鈥淚n today鈥檚 technology-driven world, digital display through photography can offer a quicker and more efficient means of preserving plants and their scientific details.鈥� Photographic documentation of plants is faster to capture, easier to store, and simpler to transfer, he explains.

However, Hemlata contends that botanical illustration excels in capturing and emphasizing details that might prove elusive in photos. 鈥淓lements like cluttered backgrounds or any plant deformations encountered when photographing a plant in its natural habitat can be completely omitted in a painting.鈥� Botanical illustration, she says, serves a unique purpose in identifying and depicting plants more intimately than photographs.

The group followed a path into the Botanical Garden鈥檚 remaining patch of , by the Lenape people. Mushrooms peeked from the leaf rot, latticed the downed logs, and were cradled in the nooks of trees. Fungi grew, too, from the wooden fence meant to keep people on the path, blurring the boundaries between the forest and its visitors. 

鈥淭oday, we鈥檙e going to move as a community,鈥� said Sneha Ganguly, an artist and mycophile (lover of fungi) in her early 30s. In her 鈥渁lter ego鈥� as Kali Mushrooms, Ganguly leads online courses, fungi workshops, and forays鈥攇roup outings wherein mycophiles observe, identify, and sometimes collect mushrooms. Ganguly also founded New York City鈥檚 first Fungus Fest in 2022, and continues to organize the festival on behalf of the New York Mycological Society (NYMS).

Many of the 15 or so people in attendance at the festival鈥攔anging from 5-year-olds to retirees鈥攚ere from the surrounding neighborhoods of the Bronx, and many were members of the NYMS. They are also part of a broader trend of increased public interest in all things mushroom. 

Fungi perform key functions for ecosystems and support collective thriving. Yet compared to their counterparts in the animal and plant kingdoms, they remain poorly understood within mainstream United States society. As a result of institutional disinterest, they enjoy . 

In recent years, however, a coalition of mycology enthusiasts, many from amateur mycological associations across the United States, is changing this. These mycophiles are engaging in community science to identify, document, and protect fungal species, many of which are rare or threatened. 

Mycophiles of color, specifically, are challenging the colonial legacies within the natural sciences. They鈥檙e using mycology to reclaim caring relationships with nonhuman life. In doing so, they are creating more collective ways for communities to learn about and steward local biodiversity.

Budding Interest

Western scientists have historically labeled fungi 鈥渓ower plants.鈥� In fact, they were only officially designated a in 1969, according to Gabriela D鈥橢lia, director of the Fungal Diversity Survey, or FUNDIS, entirely dedicated to fungi conservation. 

As a result of this historical neglect, scientists have cataloged only of the world鈥檚 fungal species. While scientists know that many fungi species are , the lack of basic research makes it difficult to estimate . According to D鈥橢lia, it鈥檚 likely that 鈥渁t this pace, especially in North America, we鈥檙e losing fungal species faster than we can document them.鈥� Communities worldwide also have their own names and relationships with fungi鈥攌nowledge that scientific institutions often , or erase. 

Fungi are difficult to track and protect under conventional conservation frameworks. These frameworks most lend themselves to the study of individual organisms that can be more easily observed and counted, such as polar bears, explains Patricia Kaishian, curator of mycology at the New York State Museum. 

In contrast, much of the fungal organism is invisible to the human eye. Mushrooms, for example, are actually the reproductive parts of a larger organism, whose weblike mycelia burrow into their substrate鈥攁 tree, say, or the soil鈥攖o feed. It is often where an individual fungus鈥檚 mycelia ends and another鈥檚 begins. 

Similarly, fungi often form symbiotic relationships with other organisms鈥攊ncluding . Around 90% of vascular plants have a relationship with a . Fungal mycelia, intertwined with plant roots, form under the forest floor鈥斺�渢he nervous system of the earth,鈥� as Ganguly metaphorically describes it. 

Fungi are diverse, from the dermatophytes that grow on our feet to the portobellos on our dinner plates. They often feed on dead organisms, recycling the nutrients so other beings can use them. 鈥淭heir job is to destroy everything and bring it to simple molecules,鈥� says Maria Shumskaya, an associate professor of biology who studies fungi at New Jersey鈥檚 Kean University. 

Over the past few years, scientific institutions have begun to devote increased research to fungi鈥檚 many incredible applications: their ability to , , and remediate soil by . Yet there are still relatively few professional mycologists鈥攁ccording to FUNDIS there are 1,000 mycologists in the U.S. compared to 17,000 The funding to support the study of fungal biodiversity is similarly limited.

Local mycological associations help fill in that gap. Nonprofessionals are increasingly interested in mycology, as reflected in the growing membership of the New Jersey Mycological Association (NJMA), which reached 1,000 members by the end of 2022 (more than double pre-pandemic numbers). Many people joined mycological associations during the early part of the COVID-19 pandemic; others are motivated to take action by their increasing climate anxiety. 

At the Botanical Garden foray, several participants spoke of their desire to reclaim a connection with the land. Nigel Smith, a landscape gardener from the Bronx, became interested in mycology a few years ago. 鈥淏eing in the modern day, it鈥檚 a lot of worry and uncertainty,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his feels like a path of our ancestors.鈥�

Journei Bimwala, a clinical herbalist and artist in residence at the Bronx River Alliance, came equipped with a large foraging basket. 鈥淚 want for us to be able to gain our knowledge and access back,鈥� she says. She is the community outreach coordinator with the New York Mycological Society and educates about foraging at , the only legal public foraging space in New York City. 鈥淚鈥檓 all about being out, and introducing people, and having them reconnect,鈥� she says. 

Budding mycophiles join peer-to-peer networks whose participatory approach to science takes a cue from their fungal neighbors. 鈥淚t鈥檚 definitely a mycelial community network,鈥� says Katie Crawford, a New Jersey Mycological Association member who is helping to plan the New Jersey Fungus Fest. 

Community Science 

A week after Ganguly led the foray through the New York Botanical Garden, a group of about 35 people from the New Jersey Mycological Association gathered in the parking lot of a park in central New Jersey. Then they dispersed into the trees. 

Noticing mushrooms is an art. 鈥淵ou have to have an eye for it,鈥� says Igor Safonov, the association鈥檚 treasurer and membership coordinator. 

One moment, participants were walking along, chatting. The next, one of them shot off the path quick as a deer, squatting to inspect a saucer-sized brown mushroom with a floppy cap and gauzy, labial gills. 鈥淚t鈥檚 ,鈥� they announced. The platterful felt smooth and meaty to the touch, like sweat-cooled human skin, and smelled of the soil it came from. As the participants walked, they stopped frequently to cut and tuck mushrooms into the natural-fiber baskets hanging from their arms.

Participants emerged from the forest in small groups and gathered intently under a covered pavilion to begin identification. They deposited the mushrooms they鈥檇 picked into red-and-white-checkered food trays on the picnic tables. 

Mushrooms can be identified by a range of qualities: their location, size, color, odor, and taste. (According to Kaishian, mycologists consider it safe to taste and spit out, but not swallow, a small amount of any mushroom when attempting to distinguish between two closely related species. However, many mushrooms are seriously sickening and even deadly to swallow. When starting out, it is best to do this only with someone who is highly experienced. Don鈥檛 use this article alone as a guide.) Some mushroom-hunters huddled over field guides, bending their heads together to inspect the stems and gills illustrated across the pages. Others snapped pictures to upload onto , , or even Facebook, where the broader community can help with identification. 

The most valuable source of mycological knowledge in any region is mycophiles themselves. Some have been coming to the same spots for decades. This kind of specialized, local knowledge 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just useful鈥攊t鈥檚 necessary. Especially considering that some mushrooms are poisonous, Ganguly says, mycophiles must show reverence for the fungus and respect for collective wisdom. 

Participants record information on small slips about each mushroom they collect. Club officers keep the slips and toss most of the mushrooms back into the forest. A designated member then logs the data on a spreadsheet. Occasionally, they dry a particularly rare, new, or interesting mushroom to deposit it in the club鈥檚 .

Sometimes, club members send samples for genetic sequencing. PCR (polymerase chain reaction) DNA testing has recently become much cheaper and more accessible, leading to a surge in new mushroom identifications. The neighboring New York Mycological Society lends its members compound microscopes and PCR kits to sequence the DNA of the mushrooms they collect.

Data from mycological associations across the United States enables collaborations between community scientists and their counterparts in the academy. Shumskaya, the Kean University scientist, recently using data from the New Jersey Mycological Association. From 2007 to 2019, Shumskaya reported, association participants identified 1,248 distinct fungi species. The data included 691 species that hadn鈥檛 previously been included in the for New Jersey, and four unique to the facility鈥檚 global database.

These long-term efforts reveal shifts in local fungal biodiversity. Since 2009, New Jersey Mycological Association member Nina Burghardt has organized a monthly fungal foray to the .

鈥淎 lot of the fungi that [were] typically in Florida and Texas are making their way up here,鈥� says Burghardt. Mycologists argue that climate change may be causing a . 

Fungi are often neglected in environmental policy, but they are a source of valuable information. Fungal diversity data can help communities advocate for their local ecosystems, based on the premise that when fungi suffer, ecosystems suffer鈥攁nd when fungi thrive, ecosystems thrive. 鈥淭丑别谤别 is a symbiotic relationship, that reciprocity,鈥� Bimwala says.

Colonial Legacies鈥攁nd Collective Reclamations

Institutional neglect of fungi is part of the larger story of environmental degradation caused by the linked systems of capitalism and Euro-American colonialism. Collections from European colonial expeditions formed the core of many early . While the archives mostly name , Ganguly points out, unnamed local people did much of the based on their deep and ancestral knowledge of a given place. Yet colonial authorities frequently erased those contributions, and often from accessing scientific and educational institutions, Kaishian says.

This colonial legacy is evident in the continued from scientific fields, and the ongoing theft and .

Amateur mycological associations are often more democratic than formal scientific institutions. 鈥淏eing a citizen scientist, there鈥檚 really a ton of entry points,鈥� says Sydney Hilton, the New Jersey Mycological Association鈥檚 newsletter editor. Yet Hilton and others say that inequalities persist. 

鈥淲hen you do want to join, you have to face the fact that you will be the only person of color in a mostly white group,鈥� says Ganguly of many mycological societies. 鈥淭hat reverberates into institutional power, and economic resources, and funding.鈥� More mycophiles of color have joined mycological societies in recent years, contributing data to surveys as community scientists. Yet the professional academics who publish papers鈥攁nd who receive money and accolades鈥攁re . 

In addition to being a member of a couple local mycology associations, Ganguly co-founded the with Mario Ceballos and a handful of other mycophiles of color interested in social-justice-centered science.

鈥淲e organized in response to not seeing representation,鈥� says Ceballos, who also serves as co-chair of , and who is based in San Diego. 鈥淲e responded by creating our own organization, our own community鈥攐rganizing around science, mushrooms, our love for medicine, and community care.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Community mycologists can embrace the tools of science, while criticizing the colonial legacies within scientific institutions, Kaishian says. 

Indeed, there is a long history of radical groups conducting community science鈥攎ost famously, the and the .

The POC Fungi Community recently opened a community lab, where they鈥檙e researching fungi鈥檚 potential to clean polluted soil. Ceballos鈥� research focuses on the reclamation of huitlacoche, a corn fungus English speakers pejoratively dubbed 鈥�.鈥� Many Indigenous Mexican peoples, including Ceballos鈥� community, consider huitlacoche a sacred and delicious staple food. 

But colonial farmers considered it a scourge. The USDA has supported the development of genetically modified corn meant to , while many U.S. agricultural institutions still if they find it. Because of this policy of eradication, fresh, market-rate huitlacoche, typically imported from Mexico, can cost in the United States鈥攎any times more than what it would normally cost in Mexico. This prohibits access for many people who have an ancestral connection to the fungus. Ceballos and his collaborators want to support community members in growing and accessing huitlacoche.

Ceballos says he鈥檚 faced racist backlash from within the mycology community for his anti-racism activism. Kaishian, similarly, experienced backlash from mycophiles who consider her 鈥渋nappropriate.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Yet mycophiles in these spaces also see positive changes. More people of color are joining, leading, and creating their own mycological spaces. And more people are interested in connecting mycology, queerness, and social justice.

Mycelial Networks 

Mycology has proven transformative for many. Among the groups featured in this piece, it has inspired people to get involved in their communities; to take a chance on their passions; and to intertwine their well-being with that of their neighbors, both human and nonhuman. D鈥橢lia, from the Fungal Diversity Survey, describes leading a weekend-long mushroom walk that ended with some participants 鈥渟itting around the table questioning their jobs.鈥�

Several community mycologists shared similar experiences. One bright June morning I called Katie Crawford, a member of the New Jersey Mycological Association; she was about to start her last day at Google. 鈥淔ungi was sort of my gateway to figure out, 鈥楬ow can I get more involved in my community?鈥欌�� she says. Now she鈥檚 going to devote herself full-time to environmental-focused work. Similarly, Ceballos, who previously worked in health care, is now a full-time caretaker and community mycologist.

Many who grew up witnessing the effects of climate change consider ecological stewardship a matter of survival. 鈥淣ow it鈥檚 less of a hobby and more of an obligation鈥攎ore of a commitment, a responsibility,鈥� says NJMA member Hilton. These mycophiles envision a massive shift in our society鈥檚 relationship with the more-than-human world鈥攁 reknitting of ourselves into webs of life and death, reciprocity and mutual obligation. 

It鈥檚 a kind of reconnection that fungi are uniquely equipped to teach us. 鈥淛ust like a mushroom, everything is community,鈥� says Bimwala. She found these relationships with the plants and fungi she foraged, with other animals, and with fellow human beings. 鈥淪o when we鈥檙e in community, guess what?鈥� she says. 鈥淲e share. We look out for one another.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was produced with the support of  and the .

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:01 a.m. PT on Sept. 13, 2023, to clarify that the Fungal Diversity Survey is not the only . The Fungi Foundation, too, is a U.S. and Chilean nonprofit. Read our corrections policy here.

The story of Wynn Bruce is not well known. But as it becomes clear that our political system is incapable of responding to the scale of the climate emergency unfolding before us, radical actions like Bruce鈥檚 will continue. In the coming years we are going to witness an overall escalation of activist tactics in response to the climate crisis.

In my new novel, , I explore this shift through real, historical actions as well as fictional, potential actions. My protagonist, a lifelong environmental activist named Rae Kelliher, is deeply formed by the nonviolent social change movements of the past four decades, including the efforts to stop construction of nuclear power plants, avoid a U.S. invasion of Nicaragua, and prevent construction of a fracked gas pipeline in her Boston neighborhood. In each case, she engages in unwavering tactics of nonviolent civil disobedience and witness, usually after exhausting all legal remedies to preventing harms. But facing down a diagnosis of terminal cancer as she approaches age 70, Rae engages in a shocking act, taking her own life and the life of a fossil fuel CEO whom she blames for delaying society鈥檚 response to climate change.

Rae鈥檚 husband, Reggie, who is virulently opposed to violent tactics, argues presciently that her action will lead to negative blowback, with the hammer of state repression coming down on social movements and criminalizing dissent. We can see this in our world today, with racketeering charges against Cop City protesters and harsh penalties dealt to water protectors. But as Reggie later observes, it is hard to suppress a 鈥渄ecentralized army of terminally ill patients鈥� who engage in militant acts at the end of life.

While the choice Rae makes in the novel is fictional, the situation she faces is all too real: It is the situation we are facing right now.

The latest Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report underscores that if we stay on our current course, in terms of carbon and methane emissions, we will blow past the 鈥渄efense line鈥� of a 1.5 C (2.7 F) temperature increase with disastrous impacts in the form of weird weather, droughts, floods, and challenges to our food system.

We now know from investigative reporting that the largest fossil fuel companies, Shell and ExxonMobil, about the dangerous repercussions of burning coal, gas, and oil. Yet for almost half a century, the industry deployed its considerable assets and power to deny climate change, fund disinformation and doubt about the science, lobby to block energy-efficient alternatives, and delay timely responses. And the industry鈥檚 reckless pursuits continue unabated in the face of surging global heat waves.

As you read this, the leaders of a couple dozen global energy corporations are making conscious decisions to build new infrastructure to extract and burn billions of tons of carbon and methane that is presently sequestered. A identified 195 carbon-bomb projects; each will burn a billion tons of carbon over its lifetime.

The largest banks and financial institutions in the world to enable this extraction. They are all betting against humanity, counting on the failure of governments and social movements to stop their activities. The U.S. government is gridlocked between one political party that is entirely subservient to the carbon barons鈥攁nd another party still mostly captured by energy interests.

Meanwhile, among those who are adamant that major changes are necessary, the debate about what to do reels between magical thinking and defeatism. Proposals range from untested and risky techno-fixes to hyperlocal civic engagement around carbon drawdown and regenerative agriculture. Others have already started grieving the losses they see coming or have withdrawn from civic engagement, believing our political system incapable of forming an adequate response.

However, there is still time to secure a livable future, or at least a 鈥�,鈥� as humorist Andrew Boyd describes it. We can still shift the trajectory away from the worst-case scenarios if we act decisively in the next seven years, dramatically reducing fossil fuel consumption and implementing a wide range of mitigation and adaption strategies. But the first step is to stop the pipeline, if you will, of new fossil fuel infrastructure for extraction and burning. 

The fossil fuel industry and its leaders will not voluntarily make these changes. The tobacco industry was the last to admit that smoking was bad for our health. Big Oil, Big Gas, and Big Coal will extract until they are stopped by external pressure. And if they are not stopped, they will destroy the world.

Who will stop them? State actors are unable to meaningfully respond at this point. Witness the Conference of the Parties process, with all the world鈥檚 leaders sitting around a table, increasingly cutting deals with polluters. At the same time, corporate defenders of the energy status quo have created a significant propaganda industry鈥攊ncluding think tanks, astroturf advocacy groups, and symbolic 鈥渘et zero鈥� campaigns鈥攖o distract us. As Rebecca Solnit observes, the to reinforce the 鈥渨e are all responsible for climate change鈥� deflection from its own culpability.

The divestment movement has inspired thousands of institutions to out of fossil fuel investments while 鈥渞evoking the social license鈥� of the industry. One coalition is calling for U.S. lawmakers to the role of the fossil fuel industry in fomenting denial and delay in responding to the climate crisis. But it is hard to imagine the current oil-soaked Congress acting on such an idea.

I am not surprised that a growing number of people have given up on our political system as a path for making change. Instead, they focus on private sector responses or social movement interventions in blocking new fossil fuel infrastructure鈥攕uch as Standing Rock and the Valve Turners. Other forms of disruptive direct action, such as efforts by and , are critical in drawing attention to the urgency of the fight. 

But ultimately, in the absence of radical, system-wide solutions, these efforts can only serve as delay tactics. What we need is a bold 鈥渏ust transition鈥� program that ends fossil fuels as soon as possible. This should include a declaration of a federal climate emergency; an immediate moratorium on all new fossil fuel infrastructure; an immediate elimination of all fossil fuel subsidies; and a public/government takeover and rapid phaseout of the fossil fuel sector while using its superprofits to fund the transition.

Without such actions, the collision course between ecological realities and our insufficient societal responses will only intensify. The coming decade will see more Wynn Bruce鈥搇ike acts of desperation as well as acts of eco-sabotage such as those depicted in the new dramatic film,, based on the nonfiction .

As the fictional Rae Kelliher says in anticipation of those who will object to her radical and violent act: If you don鈥檛 like what I鈥檝e done, what bold action will you undertake to protect mother earth, our one and only home?

鈥淪omething about being focused on climate makes you crazy in a unique way,鈥� Heller says. 鈥嬧�淲e are here to win, and we have to seize the power of the state because nothing else can address this global crisis at a scale that can match it.鈥�

Heller was reflecting on a major ecosocialist victory, a phrase that would have seemed oxymoronic five years ago. That victory was New York state鈥檚 Build Public Renewables Act (BPRA), a big step toward a Green New Deal. While other states have taken steps as well鈥擨llinois鈥� 2021 labor-led  comes to mind鈥擭ew York is the first state to do so in a way that explicitly rejects the neoliberal obligation to put corporate profits first. Instead, the BPRA puts the publicly owned New York Power Authority in charge of building renewable energy with a mandate to do so in the interest of working people.

Ecosocialists in New York won because their goal was unabashedly socialist, because they鈥檇 built a bench of elected leaders, and because they were willing to try everything鈥攅ven with great risk鈥攚hile rethinking strategies that weren鈥檛 working.

Where To Start

In 2017, as DSA membership skyrocketed in the wake of the Bernie Sanders presidential campaign, a handful of DSA members formed a national ecosocialist working group. It seemed clear that capitalist profiteering was fueling the climate crisis, confirmed by a  that found that just 100 corporations had produced more than 70% of total greenhouse gas emissions since 1988.

A socialist solution felt urgent. For decades, leaving the problem to the capitalist elites who caused it had yielded mostly empty greenwashed rhetoric.

But even within DSA, not everyone was convinced climate should be a focal point. The question (shared by centrist Democrats at the time) was whether climate, as a broad issue, could mobilize working-class Americans. 鈥嬧�淚t sounds crazy to say now,鈥� says Mike Paulson, one of the leading strategists on BPRA and an early member of the Ecosocialist Working Group, 鈥嬧�渂ut four years ago, a lot of socialists just didn鈥檛 care about climate. So we had to prove ourselves within DSA.鈥�

In 2018, these attitudes began to change quickly. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a democratic socialist bartender and a Standing Rock protester, won a congressional seat in Queens and championed the idea of a Green New Deal. It was the first time a United States elected official had proposed a plan to decarbonize the economy that matched the scale of the climate crisis. 

Meanwhile, more and more young people were painfully aware of the climate crisis. Paulson remembers this time well. 鈥嬧�淚 was becoming increasingly despondent,鈥� he says. 鈥嬧�淚t鈥檚 really dark to confront that without any framework for thinking about how there could be anything other than a totally disastrous future.鈥�

By the end of 2018, it was clear that DSA had a good model for , having won 46 electoral victories that year, from the local to the federal level. And socialists have had a model of how to organize workers for more than a century. 鈥嬧�淪o the question was,鈥� Paulson recalls, 鈥嬧�渉ow would socialists do climate work?鈥�

With Trump as president, demanding a Green New Deal felt too ambitious, potentially demobilizing in its impossibility. They needed an intermediate step. They considered some proposals on composting and on transportation, but to demand something too small could squander the sudden momentum of the socialist movement. Heller recalls the group wondering, 鈥嬧�淲hat is the biggest thing that we could conceivably win?鈥�

The most powerful idea to emerge from these discussions was a public power campaign. It would be modeled on a fight in Providence, Rhode Island, known as #NationalizeGrid, which was waged by Providence DSA (now Rhode Island DSA) and the George Wiley Center. (That project has stalled because of the chapter鈥檚 shift in focus toward Medicare for All and medical debt, but the project did succeed in reducing a proposed rate hike.)

Because utility profiteering affects everyone, and because it disproportionately affects working-class New Yorkers, the issue is a natural fit for a socialist organization. Plus, a public takeover would open the door to a green energy transition.

While Providence was the inspiration, the model for how to win legislation in Albany was closer to home: . Championed by democratic socialist Julia Salazar, the first of the recent wave of DSA-endorsed candidates to win state office in New York, the new reforms made New York鈥檚 tenants possibly the best-protected in the country. In a state where the real estate industry is easily the most powerful interest group, the fight was won through targeted canvassing of rent-stabilized tenants to build awareness and organize pressure on politicians.

The New York power campaign canvassed in neighborhoods suffering unreasonably high electric rates and the fallout of climate disasters. The devastating 2019 blackout in New York City left many stranded in elevators and subways, which revealed鈥攁ccording to Amber Ruther, then an NYC-DSA member who was part of the early organizing鈥攖hat Con Edison (ConEd), a for-profit company with a monopoly, 鈥嬧�渄idn鈥檛 have the incentive to invest in even basic grid maintenance.鈥� Public power advocates argued that the government, without the profit motive and with democratic oversight and obligation, could do a better job. (Ruther, now of Syracuse DSA, also works for Alliance for a Green Economy, part of the Public Power coalition that worked to pass BPRA.)

The campaign also held town halls in affected neighborhoods. It turned out that ConEd had kept the lights on in wealthy areas but had cut off power in working-class Black communities like Flatbush. Ruther recalls 鈥嬧�渁 lot of righteous anger from the community about those blackouts鈥� during town hall events. As one Flatbush resident interviewed for a DSA video put it, 鈥嬧�淲hy are we always in the dark?鈥�

Also in 2019, newly empowered progressives in Albany passed an ambitious-sounding climate law requiring New York to reduce its economy-wide greenhouse gasses . The Climate Leadership and Community Protection Act (CLCPA) wasn鈥檛 as groundbreaking as it sounds, accompanied by few enforcement or operational mechanisms. That is typical of many climate pledges in a neoliberal system, which depend largely on voluntary corporate action.

But the CLCPA did hand socialists an argument: At the time, wind and solar made up less than 6% of New York鈥檚 energy, and complying with the new law would take massive systemic change. If New York didn鈥檛 enact public power, socialists said, the state would be breaking its own law.

Outsiders in Albany

The 2020 elections expanded DSA鈥檚 Albany slate to six (and put Jamaal Bowman, who played an unusually vocal role in advocating for BPRA, in Congress). New York鈥檚 socialists were in a unique position, with more elected officials than anywhere else in the nation, though far from a governing majority. The evolving idea of the BPRA began to attract support from some other Democrats in Albany, especially as DSA demonstrated more political power.

So DSA began experimenting. During one town hall event, Mike Gianaris, a state senator from western Queens, was put on the spot and asked whether he would support BPRA. With the growing electoral muscle of DSA in Queens, Gianaris agreed.

But not every tactic worked. DSA had previously been successful in some campaigns by organizing constituents to call their representatives. On BPRA, this approach wasn鈥檛 effective, perhaps precisely because of those previous DSA successes: Politicians had started to get hardened against mass outreach from constituents.

Still, DSA鈥檚 newly elected slate was already learning how to challenge the culture of Albany. One of these new socialist officials, Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani, from Astoria, Queens, says colleagues were puzzled by his lobbying for BPRA, since he wasn鈥檛 the sponsor鈥攍egislators customarily spent political capital only on their own bills. When he called them, they鈥檇 say, 鈥嬧�淲hy are you calling me? It 颈蝉苍鈥檛 your bill.鈥�

Assemblymember Robert Carroll, a member of the relevant committee who had agreed to sponsor the bill, was a committed progressive and an 鈥嬧�渋ncessant champion鈥� of the bill, Mamdani says, but the socialist politicians saw themselves as a necessary part of the inside-outside pressure required.

Such matters of etiquette were not the only challenges for the neophyte lawmakers. BPRA鈥檚 sponsor in the state Senate, Kevin Parker, chair of the energy and telecommunications committee, wasn鈥檛 a socialist or a passionate supporter of public power, Heller says, but DSA activists didn鈥檛 realize how little good faith Parker brought with him. According to Heller, Parker committed to pushing BPRA if the group could get other legislators to support it. But when the DSA members approached other elected officials, Heller says, they were told no one supports a bill unless the lead sponsor asks them to. 

鈥淗e just lied to us,鈥� Heller says. 鈥嬧�淲e realized that, even though we鈥檙e socialists, we weren鈥檛 cynical enough. The Democrats in Albany didn鈥檛 want to pass a climate bill because there was too much money on the other side.鈥�

DSA activists analyzed data from the National Institute on Money in Politics and found that New York state鈥檚 Democratic campaign committees had taken more than $600,000 from the energy industry since 1997. Parker himself had received more than $110,000 since his first electoral campaign in 2002. (Parker did not respond to a request for comment on this story.)

The activists asked one sympathetic senator (outside of DSA) what they should do. Should they continue playing nicely, or would a negative campaign be more effective? The response: 鈥嬧�淕oing negative is always better.鈥�

DSA activists held a sizable demonstration in 2021 with protest signs that depicted some of the politicians standing in the way of BPRA鈥攖heir faces on Venmo graphics listing all of their fossil fuel donations. The rally won both media and political attention. 鈥嬧�淭hey were fun, they were funny,鈥� recalls Paulson, 鈥嬧�渁nd the people targeted were extremely upset.鈥� BPRA did not pass in 2021, but it did move from being a fringe campaign to a focus of media attention.

Throughout this time, the group often discussed and rethought their approach, with many strategy retreats. According to Gustavo Gordillo鈥攑art of DSA鈥檚 Green New Deal committee as well as its National Political Committee鈥攖he questions they asked were, 鈥嬧�淲hat are the major conditions we鈥檙e facing? How much power do we have? Can we win? What do we need to do to win?鈥� The openness, Gordillo says, 鈥嬧�渁llowed us to be very honest with ourselves and made the strategy a lot better.鈥�

Making Them Fear You

In January 2022, as the group decided to continue the negative, confrontational approach, DSA organized a big 鈥嬧�淏uild or Burn鈥� protest with signs putting new Gov. Kathy Hochul鈥檚 face on two fake City & State magazine covers: One, in which Hochul failed to pass BPRA, featured a burning background, while the other depicted a happier scenario in which Hochul did the right thing. The message was, Heller says, 鈥嬧�淚f you don鈥檛 pass this, you鈥檙e evil. You鈥檙e condemning our future.鈥�

These tactics made headlines, but the group realized they needed to do more. 鈥嬧�渊别蝉, you can upset people with the Venmo boards,鈥� says Paulson, 鈥嬧�渂ut how do you make them fear you?鈥�

To build their bench of socialist elected officials and to strike fear into the hearts of Albany lawmakers, DSA decided to primary Kevin Parker, the BPRA bill鈥檚 main sponsor鈥斺�渘ot a Sierra Club move,鈥� laughs Lee Ziesche, a DSA member and spokesperson for the Public Power Coalition, who has also worked with Sane Energy. This move was controversial within the organization; turning on people who were, on paper, allies of the cause defied conventional wisdom. But in a series of heated meetings, they hashed it out, and the idea carried the day. They chose to run David Alexis, a serious, charismatic rideshare driver and organizer whose daughters suffered from asthma.

The group ran other ecosocialists for office in 2022, an effort that took enormous organizing capacity. Many quit their jobs to work full-time on these electoral campaigns, all of which were extremely organizing-intensive, with door-to-door outreach throughout the city and upstate. Only two of seven candidates won their seats. The experience led many to wonder whether the diversion of BPRA organizing into electoral work had been a mistake: 鈥嬧�淲e did way too many campaigns, and most of them lost,鈥� says Heller, 鈥嬧�渨hich sucked.鈥�

But the electoral campaigns turned out to be crucial to BPRA鈥檚 eventual passage in ways no one anticipated. The political effects became especially apparent during the June 2022 Democratic primary.

Sarahana Shrestha, in her Hudson Valley campaign for state Assembly, made climate and BPRA her main platform planks, defying conventional wisdom that climate was not a kitchen table issue, especially outside of the city. Plus, her opponent was already known in Albany as a climate advocate鈥攏ot the sort of politician that conventional environmentalists would oppose. But Shrestha won the primary, and her victory became understood as a mandate for BPRA and a warning to politicians who didn鈥檛 get on board. Shrestha became the bill鈥檚 biggest champion in state government.

In Queens, Kristen Gonzalez, a DSA activist who鈥檇 been a leader in a successful campaign to block fossil-fuel giant NRG from building a new gas plant in Astoria, also won her primary, crushing Elizabeth Crowley, an unremarkable mainstream Democrat (and a cousin of Joe Crowley, the incumbent machine boss ousted by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez in 2018). Gonzalez鈥檚 state Senate victory鈥攁nd the size of it鈥攚as a huge show of power for NYC-DSA. It scared mainstream Democrats and was a crucial reason why labor unions began taking BPRA more seriously.

Despite DSA鈥檚 efforts to bring unions on board as early as 2018, parts of labor had opposed BPRA, reticent because they did not believe DSA and its allies were powerful enough to ensure strong labor protections in the bill. Within DSA, the question of whether to keep campaigning for the bill without labor鈥檚 support was a fraught one.

The strong electoral challenges of 2020, and especially 2022, brought labor to the table. The labor provisions of the final BPRA bill were written by the AFL-CIO and include strong labor standards for the new public renewables sector, as well as an Office of Just Transition to train workers for the new jobs. Equally important, labor鈥檚 turn brought many Democrats in Albany on board. The New York State United Teachers鈥� full-throated endorsement of BPRA in April 2022 was an especially key turning point in winning over many legislators.

David Alexis lost his primary to Kevin Parker, but the campaign served its purpose of instilling fear. In the middle of the legislative session, a few weeks before the primary, Parker decided to bring the bill to a vote in the state Senate, removing what had appeared to be its biggest obstacle. In advocating for BPRA鈥檚 passage, Parker even used DSA talking points, insisting that BPRA would allow the state to meet its climate goals and that converting its grid to renewables was 鈥嬧�渋mperative.鈥�

The bill passed. DSA鈥檚 most maverick move鈥攖he primary challenge to BPRA鈥檚 lead sponsor鈥攈ad worked, to the astonishment of many within the organization.

Says Gustavo Gordillo, regarding the Albany establishment, 鈥嬧�淲e found out that the way to get them to do what we want is by open conflict that they can understand.鈥�

Although leadership in the Assembly, the lower house of the state legislature, still refused to introduce BPRA, DSA had built enough power that Sarahana Shrestha and other socialist legislators were able to press for a hearing. Shrestha says that hearing in itself was a sign of how far the Albany common sense had evolved, although, she emphasized, 鈥嬧�渢hat was before the Inflation Reduction Act passed and definitely before we knew what it meant.鈥�

The federal Inflation Reduction Act (IRA), passed in August 2022, provides direct funding for any public agency that builds renewable energy. The Public Power Coalition commissioned a report revealing that failing to pass BPRA would cost the state billions of dollars in federal funds, a convincing argument for many in state government. At that point, Shrestha emphasizes, 鈥嬧�渢he consensus was moving toward this bill.鈥�

The Assembly still refused to bring it to a vote. But the visibility of the issue continued. #BPRA became a top trending hashtag on Twitter in New York, even ahead of #NationalDonutDay.

In January, confirming the labor movement鈥檚 fears, Gov. Hochul tried to remove BPRA鈥檚 labor and environmental justice provisions. This watered-down version of the bill became known by activists as 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;BPRA-lite took the coalition by surprise. It was clear that the governor was trying to divide the labor, socialist, and environmental forces backing the bill. They couldn鈥檛 allow that to happen.

The usual approach in Albany by progressive lobbying forces would have been to take BPRA-lite as a partial victory, but DSA and the Public Power Coalition took the opposite approach. They saw that Hochul was vulnerable and put up a billboard in Albany pointing out that 68% of New Yorkers supported BPRA, while only 52% voted for the governor.

In May, BPRA passed with nearly everything DSA wanted, including the closure of six power plants causing asthma in Black and Brown communities. BPRA creates thousands of well-paid, green, union jobs and imposes annual checks to ensure New York is on track to meet the decarbonization targets mandated in 2019 (70% renewable by 2030, 100% clean by 2040), which had previously seen little progress.

Shrestha emphasizes that BPRA鈥檚 passage is 鈥嬧�渘ot the end鈥� of the fight. 鈥嬧�淣ow,鈥� she says, 鈥嬧�渨e have to work to make sure that, every step of the way, this is implemented correctly, something that I find very exciting.鈥�

The Horizon of the Possible

BPRA poses a challenge to most people鈥檚 modest assumptions about what is possible to win in the United States鈥攈ow far the government will veer from serving the interests of the capitalist class. Many people want climate action, and many also want more socialist policy. 鈥嬧�淭hey just don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 possible,鈥� Heller says. As Gordillo emphasizes, 鈥嬧�淲e were able to challenge the ideological consensus.鈥�

Winning a huge victory like BPRA also helps counter 鈥嬧�渄oomism,鈥� the idea that it鈥檚 too late to fix the climate crisis, which, Heller believes, is 鈥嬧�渢he worst鈥� of many prevalent climate narratives because it convinces people that 鈥嬧�渨e don鈥檛 have to do anything.鈥�

BPRA 颈蝉苍鈥檛 precisely replicable in every state. Franklin D. Roosevelt created the New York Power Authority when he served as governor of New York鈥攚hich became a precursor to such New Deal projects as the Tennessee Valley Authority鈥攁nd most states don鈥檛 have an analogous body. But this barrier 蝉丑辞耻濒诲苍鈥檛 be exaggerated. Gordillo says there are fights socialists can wage everywhere that are analogous to BPRA.

Because the Inflation Reduction Act offers direct funding to 鈥嬧�渁ny public agency鈥� that wants to create public power, Gordillo explains, 鈥嬧�渁ny DSA chapter in the country鈥� can campaign to get a school board to build solar panels, or even get a city to create large-scale renewable projects. Indeed, other DSA chapters, including in Milwaukee and Maine, are launching their own versions of the Public Power campaign now.

The BPRA fight shows that socialists can win big on climate, and its organizers hope everyone will take that possibility personally. 鈥嬧�淲e鈥檙e all total randos,鈥� says Heller. 鈥嬧�淲e didn鈥檛 know anything when we started out. If we can come together and do this, anyone can.鈥�

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission. Ivonne Ortiz provided fact-checking.

Mangca, a boat captain from Moloka鈥榠, an island 25 miles away, had been making daily boat trips to L膩hain膩 since footage of the wildfires began rolling in on social media on August 8th. After the intensity of the previous weeks, Mangca and a dozen others from the neighboring island returned for Labor Day weekend to relieve some of the resident volunteers who were cooking thousands of meals at a few of the community-led distribution hubs, and to help throw a local-style luau to bring people some normalcy and joy after what had happened.

The wildfires, which were started by downed power lines during high winds from Hurricane Dora, rapidly turned the historic town in West Maui to ash, destroying thousands of homes, businesses, and a beloved Native Hawaiian cultural center. According to officials, it also led to the deaths of nearly 100 loved ones, with several still missing more than a month later.听

Government aid has trickled in slowly, so the community from Maui and the surrounding islands have risen up to help one another. 

鈥淔or four days there was no food, no water, no supplies, no help,鈥� says Mangca about the lack of government support, which was made more problematic after the National Guard set up checkpoints and blocked delivery of mutual aid going into L膩hain膩鈥攕omething officials later said was to .

Mangca, who initially went in to rescue people while the island was still in flames, then found himself one of several in a fleet of boats, Jet Skis, and catamarans from all over the islands that came in daily to drop off food and other supplies to the Kahana Boat Ramp in Napili鈥攖o get around the checkpoints and meet the community鈥檚 needs.

West Maui Council Member Tamara Paltin, who had also been on the ground helping her constituents, spoke to the resilience and relationships of the community at a county council meeting, quoting a friend who said, 鈥淭he kupa驶腻颈苍补, the people of this place, are not the passive recipients of aid; they are the navigators.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Kahana Boat Ramp in Napili became one of the core supply centers, even as limited access opened up for those with a L膩hain膩 ID or pre-approved aid. Volunteers would pick up the supplies from the fleet鈥攕ometimes by wading through waist-deep water鈥攖hen deliver them to several shelters and other community-led distribution hubs all over the island. 

All were run by a vast ecosystem of volunteers, many who had lost everything, all of whom were navigating constantly changing needs.

鈥淪ince the beginning of the disaster, it鈥檚 been the community helping the community,鈥� said Blake Ramelb . He grew up in L膩hain膩 and has a lot of family living up the hill from the burn zone. Ramelb has been using social media as a platform to give words of encouragement and address the needs of the community so his followers can help amplify and crowdsource those needs.

He鈥檚 been able to secure hundreds of air purifiers and respirators, among other items, and is now looking for independent air specialists to test the air quality since state and federal agencies have yet to release their final results. 

鈥淚鈥檓 just a concerned citizen trying to do my best because I have people that I love who could potentially be put at risk,鈥� Ramelb says. 鈥淟et鈥檚 keep the people that are still here safe.鈥�

Providing Direct Assistance

Volunteers from the organization (HHH) were among those turned away at the National Guard checkpoints on the first day, when trying to supply meals to the West Side. Steven Calkins, one of the co-founders of the organization, whose kitchen is in Central Maui, made use of his contacts and was able to get into the area with someone who had a L膩hain膩 ID. After that, Councilwoman Paltin tapped into her connections and obtained continued access for the organization.

When other meal charities approached Calkins to see if HHH could help deliver thousands of their meals that had been turned away, Calkins reached out to West Side restaurants and instead asked whether, if HHH supplied the food, the restaurants would make the meals. Several signed on, alongside food trucks. 

Every day now, volunteers pick up and distribute 1,000 pounds of produce from , which works with local growers to supply those kitchens. Calkins says they also ride into communities ice-cream-truck-style for people to come get what they need. Volunteers then pick up more than 400 meals per day cooked by their West Side partners at to deliver to the neighborhoods that need it most, like those living on the edge of the burn zone in L膩hain膩luna. 

鈥淭hey are still without power and clean water,鈥� Calkins said at the end of August, adding that HHH had gotten the community a refrigerated truck to store food alongside big jugs of water to fill up at water tanks. 

鈥淗HH has always been a grassroots project, all directed at people helping people through the heart,鈥� he says. The goal, since the organization began during the COVID-19 pandemic, is to create a sharing economy, with partner organizations donating goods instead of money. Calkins says they never accepted a dime up until a few weeks ago, but with the abundance of donations now coming into the organization, he says they are now accepting and saving these funds to meet long-term goals like funneling money into local farms, restaurants, and businesses to pay their rent and keep them going. 

Several members of the community and other Hawai鈥榠-based organizations have also stepped up to help get financial aid directly to affected families.

Thus far, families have only received a one-time payment of $700 from the federal government, which some say is blown in one visit to the grocery store, given how high food prices are on the islands. The majority of food in Hawai鈥榠 is imported and prices are .

through direct Venmo donations. Early on, a group of community members worked tirelessly to put together an for donations to go directly to families in need, who have been vetted by the group.

There has also been a community-sourced shared on social media. It lists how much each family or business has received in donations thus far, to help donors spread wealth more evenly. So far more than $20 million has been raised among 250 fundraisers on the document. 

Other fundraisers, managed by local organizations like the Council for Native Hawaiian Advancement and the Hawai鈥榠 Community Foundation, have also funneled resources straight to the community. , for example, raised $3 million dollars and put $1 million of that toward the Hawai鈥榠 Community Foundation鈥檚 ; the organization delivered $500,000 directly to families and an additional $350,000 to nonprofits.

Staying Home

L膩hain膩, once the seat of the Hawaiian Kingdom, has long been home to a deeply rich and diverse population of multigenerational families. The population is not just K膩naka Maoli (Native Hawaiians), but, like much of Hawai鈥檌, also includes large Filipino, Chinese, Japanese, and Western populations that integrated there during the plantation era. In West Maui, there is also a large Latino population. This diverse culture of people, Mangca says, always comes together when they need to. 

Once a verdant wetland, K膩naka were upended and displaced by illegal occupation and the plantation era, which eventually destroyed the Indigenous ecology. Water diversions for sugarcane dried out the land, and the introduction of invasive plant species, paired with a changing climate, turned L膩hain膩 into a tinderbox, aiding the rapid spread of the blaze on August 8th. 

According to officials, more than 2,200 homes, apartment buildings, and other structures have since been destroyed. And the island had already been struggling with a housing shortage prior to the fires.

Mangca says many L膩hain膩 residents who have lived there for generations have refused to leave because they are afraid that when they do, they鈥檒l lose everything. They fear people will buy up their properties, leaving them with nowhere else to go. Some residents say they fear complete cultural erasure.

Many of those who did leave L膩hain膩 went to shelters. Some 6,000 people were reportedly housed temporarily in hotels or vacation rentals. Community members are hosting friends and family in their homes, often several together under one roof. Many people are concerned about what will happen next and are skeptical of FEMA, due to longtime government distrust, continuous displacement, and , which FEMA has since refuted. Some residents have already been hit up by realtors and developers trying to buy their properties, preying on them at their most vulnerable. 

Many also found themselves up against Governor Josh Green鈥檚 emergency affordable-housing proclamation, which streamlines development while suspending protections for cultural resources, iwi k奴puna (ancestral bones), and environmental resources鈥攁s well as suspending the Sunshine Law, which ensures transparent public participation in government processes. 

These actions have resulted brought by environmental law group , which represented Sierra Club of Hawai鈥榠, ACLU of Hawai鈥榠, and Kanaka Maoli鈥搇ed groups such as N膩 鈥極hana o Lele. Due to public pressure, on September 15th, Green decided to reverse those suspensions.

L膩hain膩 taro farmers have also found themselves in the midst of litigation by prominent land developers that build luxury real estate and have been notorious for trying to 鈥攁ncestral lands awarded in 1850 to K膩naka Maoli tenant farmers. 

In order to provide further support, the Council for Native Hawaiian Advancement just opened up a relief and aid services center in Kahului, called K膩ko驶o Maui. It is a culture-based hub providing wraparound services that involve financial support, legal support, and application assistance, with the goal of connecting the community to resources. The center is staffed by L膩hain膩 residents who lost their homes. 

In order to keep people in L膩hain膩, community members and organizations have again been working more quickly than the government by bringing in temporary housing. Local nonprofit Family Life Center flew in 60 quick-assembly modular homes manufactured in Hungary to be placed on a 10-acre lot owned by the King鈥檚 Cathedral church.

Farmer Eddie Garcia of Regenerative Education Centers is using his farm south of L膩hain膩 as a staging area to build 200 self-sufficient tiny homes that will be given, free of charge, to residents displaced by the fires. Garcia is also working with landowners to find locations for the homes. His goal is to keep the L膩hain膩 community in L膩hain膩.

鈥淎ll the things [that] were saved in the museums here to show what the history of what L膩hain膩 was, all of that is gone. So what do we have to tell the history of this place? It is the people who live here who survived it, they need to be able to rebuild and reintegrate,鈥� Garcia said on . 

Early in September, the governor called for tourism to reopen on the West Side of Maui on October 8th, but this has received pushback, partly because it will force some families out of the hotels, so Ramelb responded by asking for Lowe鈥檚 and Amazon gift cards to help purchase tools to build temporary housing. 

Jon Kinimaka, a L膩hain膩 resident who lost his home, has been helping run the distribution hub at Honok艒wai. He has also helped secure temporary tiny homes that will be able to house some families on Hawaiian Crown Lands property nearby, where residents will be able to stay for two years. Afterward, they鈥檒l be able to relocate that tiny home to their original properties.

Kinimaka also emphasizes the need for more land for immediate shelter, as some people have already been asked to leave the hotels and are turning up at the distribution center. 鈥淲e鈥檙e trying to be as helpful as possible and coordinate between private sector and government so that we can work together as a community,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e going to need immediate shelter, like tent villages, while we鈥檙e looking for land for temporary housing.鈥�

Many in the L膩hain膩 community, particularly K膩naka Maoli, are asking to be centered in the conversation moving forward in order to keep L膩hain膩 land in L膩hain膩 hands, and to design a future that is more sustainable for the land and its people鈥攏ot just for this generation, but future generations as well. 

Processing Grief

First, though, many people say they want the space to grieve. 鈥淗ow do we create space for healing [from] strife and conflict and devastation? It鈥檚 a difficult thing to do, but also super critical that we do it,鈥� says Kalamaoka`aina Niheu, a physician and medical director on O鈥榓hu and in California. 鈥淎nd we鈥檙e not just talking about physical injury, but emotional, spiritual, all of that community injury that happens from these types of violent acts.鈥� Niheu is the co-founder of , an organization that facilitates putting medical and traditional health practitioners on the ground, which mobilized the day after the fires.

鈥淭丑别谤别 was no FEMA, no Red Cross; 911 wasn鈥檛 functioning. When you tried to call, they鈥檇 say contact Maui Police, and you鈥檇 call them, and nobody would answer,鈥� Niheu says. And since they were stopped from bringing supplies to the community at the roadblocks, the group also organized people on Jet Skis and boats to bring those supplies to Kahana Boat Ramp. 

Wanting to be proactive in the prevention of illness, the group鈥檚 volunteers went door-to-door to warn about contaminated water and explain why it鈥檚 toxic, even before the Hawai鈥榠 Department of Health. The group also provided N95 masks, and explained to those downwind of the fires鈥� ash why the air was toxic.

Since then, the group has set up hubs with both allopathic and natural care, alongside traditional cultural modalities like lomi lomi massage and traditional mental health care like ho鈥榦ponopono to empower the patients to choose for themselves. The group doesn鈥檛 ask for IDs and doesn鈥檛 charge for its services.

鈥淎t the beginning, everything is 100% a gift we give freely, and we fund it ourselves,鈥� Niheu says. The volunteers cover the cost of supplies and their own flights if they are coming in from another island, which enables them to move in quickly. Then afterward they  and provide leaders in each area of expertise. 

Niheu says the organization currently has 150 people on the ground with another 700 who want to participate. They are prioritizing Maui practitioners first and K膩naka Maoli from other islands.

鈥淲hen you center the most marginalized, the most impacted, then you are able to take care of everyone else too,鈥� she says. 

Niheu developed this model of care in August 2016 while volunteering at Standing Rock in support of the Sioux Tribe鈥檚 protests of the Dakota Access Pipeline. She wanted to support and heal the protectors of land, water, and Native rights. 

Niheu then co-founded the Mauna Medic Healers Hui with colleague Noelani Ahia in 2017 to address police violence during protests against the telescopes at Haleakal膩 on Maui, and later during protests against the Thirty Meter Telescope on Mauna Kea. She says the model is inspired by a greater journey involving her mo鈥檕k奴鈥檃uhau, or genealogy. 

鈥淭he only way we鈥檙e able to come this far and do what we do is because our k奴puna, our elders, have laid down their own lives and blood and sweat and tears for a path so we can actually get through here. Because the path is so thorny and so difficult that we can鈥檛 do it alone,鈥� Niheu says. 鈥淭his work requires generations.鈥�

In order to be there for the long haul of the rebuilding process in L膩hain膩, Ahia, who lives on Maui and has lineage in L膩hain膩, started a sister organization called Maui Medic Healers Hui. Niheu says that it鈥檚 important to have people from the area lead, to build people up, and to connect them with like minds so they can walk into the future together. She likes to leave places better than when she arrives; Ahia told her it鈥檚 like 鈥減lanting seeds in the ash.鈥�

It鈥檚 hard to know how to act in the face of a global crisis, so I immediately knew the scope had to be narrowed way down. It鈥檚 much easier to understand how to advocate for specific, local solutions. That鈥檚 the level at which meaningful change originates anyway.

With the clock counting down to the start of COP26 on Oct. 31, I wanted to give listeners a way to support local climate organizers while also urging world leaders to protect our planet and the people on it.

So I created the podcast with as a way to reframe the climate conversation around Indigenous women and women of color who are on the front lines of preserving their homes and communities. Along the way, I expected to find organizations to support or ways to take action. What I didn鈥檛 expect to find was that my entire understanding of the climate crisis was wrong.

The Art of Expression

When I was pulling together the podcast, I knew I wanted to speak to people different from the average climate scientist or talking head on cable news鈥攃haracters who are typically very White and very male. Instead, I wanted to personalize the elusive magnitude of climate change by centering the voices of Native women and women of color.

We know that and women are disproportionately affected by climate change. Not only are women disproportionately displaced by climate change, women hold less decision-making power in global climate negotiating bodies: about 30%, according to the . That鈥檚 why .

Still, since so much of the climate crisis feels insurmountable, I turned to an artform to help express the inexplicable: poetry. I wanted to use poetry as a way to set the scene, to help a listener imagine an area they may have never experienced themselves鈥攖he Louisiana Bayou, the silent tundras of Alaska, or the receding coastlines of Puerto Rico.

The women in these communities are the ones doing the work of surviving, recovering, and building resilience. Shouldn鈥檛 theirs be the voices we listen to and follow?

Everyone Has a Role to Play

Apparently, that feeling of insignificance I was so afraid of? Well, turns out it鈥檚 kind of the point. One of my guests on As She Rises is Kimberly Blaeser, a Chippewa poet, scholar, and member of the White Earth Nation. Blaeser encouraged me to embrace the feeling of insignificance. For her, that feeling was crucial for reorienting and reapproaching one鈥檚 relationship to the Earth. Acknowledge how small you are, accept it, and now play your small part.

Blaeser also expressed, as did many of the Native poets I spoke to for the show, that humankind鈥檚 relationship to Earth has gotten wildly out of whack. In a time of extreme weather, a global pandemic, and racial inequality, that may sound obvious. But it鈥檚 more than what鈥檚 on the surface. As a society, we鈥檝e forgotten the role that human beings are meant to play in the larger ecosystem.

Just look at the scourge of wildfires that have devoured much of California. On another episode of As She Rises, I had the pleasure of speaking with Margo Robbins, the executive director of the Cultural Fire Management Council, which seeks to facilitate cultural burns on the Yurok Reservation and surrounding ancestral lands in California. Cultural burning is the Indigenous people鈥檚 practice of skillfully using low-intensity fires to manage the landscape. It removes the fine fuels on the forest floor, such as fallen leaves and twigs, kills pathogens, fertilizes soil, and stimulates biodiversity and healthy creeks. The Yurok practiced controlled burns for millennia before U.S. forest management policies forced them to stop. In the wake of these devastating fires鈥攕uch as the recent that is poised to be California鈥檚 biggest yet鈥擱obbins and her fellow Yurok are teaching California firefighters how to practice controlled burns.

For Robbins, the ability to control and thoughtfully deploy fire is the unique role humans are meant to play in our planet鈥檚 larger ecosystem. To her, the concept of 鈥渇ighting鈥� fires is entirely misguided to begin with.

It brought me back to Greek mythology, where Prometheus, the god of fire, defies Zeus鈥� orders and gives fire to humans. As a result, Prometheus is credited with creating modern civilization. For centuries, we have seen the ability to manipulate and use fire for our survival as the defining quality of our species. But we鈥檝e gotten away from that in the last several hundred years, and as a result, our forests are tinderboxes. We鈥檝e mistakenly only seen natural processes as something to prevent and not something to cooperate with. Our outsized sense of importance has distorted the world around us, to our own detriment.

Fortunately, ancestral practices like cultural burning are not entirely lost. A courageous group has kept them alive despite repeated attempts to . In August, by the Indigenous Environmental Network and Oil Change International found that Indigenous-led resistance efforts curbed the equivalent of 25% of U.S. and Canadian annual emissions.

When Native voices are at the forefront, tangible progress is made.

The Strength of Survival

Indigenous women and women of color have the capacity to lead us out of this climate crisis. At this time of unprecedented challenge, these are the survivors we must turn to. These are the leaders who are creating real results and who hold the necessary understanding of what it means to live in sustainable harmony with the land.

So in a climate movement that is with how to center BIPOC voices, one of the most important things we can do right now is amplify the work and stories of Indigenous women and women of color. In the first episode of As She Rises, released on Sept. 20, we travel to the Louisiana Bayou where I spoke to Colette Pichon Battle, executive director of the Gulf Coast Center for Law and Policy. After Hurricane Katrina, she returned to southern Louisiana to help her community rebuild. As we were concluding our interview she said to me:

鈥淚f we want to know how to survive, what is coming, we鈥檙e going to have to talk to the survivors. And I鈥檓 excited that those survivors are Native American, African American. There鈥檚 an acknowledgement that has to come in order for us to survive. And it is that the strongest, most knowledgeable people are the ones that our capitalist society values the least. But if we鈥檙e going to survive this climate crisis, we鈥檙e going to have to value them the most.鈥�

Now, as the city contends with heat, can New Yorkers once again turn to the rivers to stay cool?

The team behind , an initiative to bring a floating swimming pool to the East River, is betting on it. The organization鈥檚 proposed cross-shaped, Olympic-size pool would differ from its historic predecessors in one significant way: filtration. One million gallons of filtered East River water would flow through the pool daily鈥攐ffering a new, supervised space for New Yorkers to escape the heat. The project was first proposed in 2010, but increasingly frequent heat waves, a result of climate change, have given the project new urgency, its supporters say.

New York has the in the country. On average, its urban heat islands are hotter than surrounding areas. Low-income of color are impacted by extreme heat鈥攁 legacy of racist policies that have saddled neighborhoods with fewer green spaces and more heat-trapping asphalt and concrete. And many of these communities to safe swimming spaces.

鈥淭he increased instances of extreme heat are only making public [swimming] access more desirable,鈥� says Kara Meyer, managing director of + POOL. Cleanups, new filtration technologies, and sophisticated water-quality monitoring could make river swimming once again an appealing, and safe, option.

A Global Trend

It鈥檚 not just New Yorkers who are rethinking their relationship with their waterways. With heat waves increasing in frequency, intensity, and duration because of , a growing number of cities are opening rivers and lakes to swimming.

River swimming is a popular pastime in European cities like Copenhagen, Berlin, , , and . is spending $1.5 billion to clean up the Seine and open it to swimmers ahead of the 2024 Olympic Games. 

Cities like Boston, , ., and Portland, Oregon, have either opened their rivers to swimmers or announced plans to build swimming infrastructure.

鈥淎s a climate solution, being able to swim in your local waters just seems like a no-brainer,鈥� says Jake Madelone, senior waterfront education coordinator at , a group that advocates for making New York鈥檚 520-mile shoreline more accessible and resilient to climate change. 

Urban waters across the United States since the passage of the Clean Water Act a half-century ago. The East and Hudson rivers are significantly now than in the past, thanks in large part to investments in the city鈥檚 facilities. (The East River is actually a saltwater tidal estuary.) Competitive swimmers in the waters, although still do not meet Environmental Protection Agency for swimming.

鈥淭he cities that are really embracing urban river swimming have done massive cleanups,鈥� says Meyer. Copenhagen its sewer and wastewater treatment systems in the early 2000s and has since added and a to its harbor. Boston is some combined sewers, which carry sewage and stormwater, to limit overflow of untreated combined sewer overflows, or CSOs, into its harbor. 

But there are other ways to provide access to waterways while those cleanups are underway. officials have said they plan to use machine learning to forecast contamination in the Seine and deliver mobile alerts to swimmers. , a , mobile floating pool on a barge, already docks in the Bronx.

Building Safer Connections to the Water

Urban waterways are a crucial climate solution鈥攂ut they鈥檙e not equally accessible to all communities. Black Americans are to know how to swim and are more likely to than white Americans, that can be traced back to segregation. drained and shuttered public pools to avoid allowing in Black swimmers鈥攐r lacked resources to maintain public pools when white people fled to the suburbs. 

Urban public recreational spaces, including waterfronts and waterways, 鈥渉ave historically, in many ways, been exclusionary,鈥� says , a Portland State University professor who studies urban climate adaptation. Any plan to open up new swimming spaces needs to redress that, he says. 鈥淲elcoming people into these outdoor swimmable spaces is really important,鈥� Shandas says. 鈥淏eing explicit about [their] belonging has to go hand in hand with any physical change of the environment.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For many Americans, are too expensive, inaccessible, or unwelcoming. Lifeguards often teach swimming, but the nationwide lifeguard shortage鈥攄ue to declining pay and a 鈥攎eans even are available. In New York, the city鈥檚 were operating at limited capacity due to lifeguard shortages. 

Volunteers with + POOL have been providing free swimming lessons at pools around the city since 2015, and the organization is creating a lifeguarding workforce development program with Henry Street Settlement, a local nonprofit. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not equitable access to the river if people don鈥檛 know how to swim or don鈥檛 have the opportunity to learn,鈥� Meyer says. 

Advocates like Meyer may have the political support they need to get more New Yorkers in the water. In 2021, the city鈥檚 planning department released a that aims to 鈥減romote opportunities to get onto and into the water.鈥� The plan proposes floating river pools in addition to longer-term investments in improving water quality and coastline infrastructure.

Mayor Eric Adams has in support of + POOL, and there are currently before the City Council that would increase access to free swimming lessons, build new swimming pools in , and address the lifeguard shortage. 

If + POOL has its way, some of the barriers between communities and their surrounding waterways could soon disappear. 鈥淲e should be able to enjoy our natural environment, particularly in New York, where we have this resource all around us,鈥� Meyer says. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 so much opportunity for the taking. We just need to design specific, safe access points.鈥�

This article originally appeared in , an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow 

But repeated flooding has over the years radically remade the private beach. Slaughter has lived in the Windy City long enough to remember when it extended 300 feet. Now it barely reaches 50. Her neighborhood might not be the first place anyone would think of when it comes to climate-related flooding, but Slaughter and her neighbors have been witnesses to a rapid erosion of their beloved shoreline. 

鈥淥ut there where that pillar is,鈥� she says, pointing to a post about 500 feet away, 鈥渢hat was our sandy beach. The erosion has eaten it away and left us with this. We tried one year to re-sand it. We bought sand and flew it in. But by the end of the season, there was no sand left.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Recent years have seen high lake levels flood parking garages and apartments, wash out beaches, and even cause massive . It鈥檚 a growing hazard, one that Slaughter has been desperately fighting for years. 

鈥淎ll things considered, this is our home,鈥� she says. 

Lake Michigan has long tried to take back the land on its shores. But climate change has increased the amount of ground lost to increasingly . What was once a The problem became particularly acute in early 2020 when a storm wreaked havoc on the neighborhood, severely damaging homes, flooding streets, and spurring neighbors to to hold back the water. 

鈥淲e need to be prepared for higher lake levels,鈥� says Charles Shabica, a geologist and professor emeritus at Northeastern Illinois University. 

Though Shabica says the erosion in the Great Lakes region won鈥檛 be on par with what rising seas will bring to coastal regions, he still notes it鈥檚 an issue that Chicago must prepare for.

鈥淲e鈥檒l see climate impacts, but I think we can accommodate them,鈥� says Shabica.

Beyond flooding homes, that epic storm opened sinkholes and washed out certain beaches, leaving them eroded and largely unusable. But the people of South Shore refused to give in easily. In the wake of Lake Michigan鈥檚 encroaching water, residents have organized their neighbors and prompted solutions by creating a voice so loud that politicians, engineers, and bureaucrats took heed. In 2022, state Rep. Curtis Tarver II helped secure from the state of Illinois to help solve the issue. 

鈥淔or some odd reason, and I tend to believe it is the demographics of the individuals who live in that area, it has not been a priority, for the city, the state, or the [federal government],鈥� Tarver says.

After years of tireless work, folks in this community have convinced the city to study the problem of lakeside erosion to see how bad this damage from climate change will be鈥攁nd how fast they can fix it.

Slaughter founded the South Side Lakefront Erosion Task Force alongside Juliet Dervin and Sharon Louis in 2019 after a few particularly harsh fall storms caused heavy flooding in the area.

Chicagoans in the predominantly Black and middle-class South Shore had noticed the inequitable treatment of city . Beaches in the overwhelmingly white and affluent North Side neighborhoods received more media coverage of the problem, faster fixes, and better upkeep, according to the group. This disparity occurred despite the fact that South Side beaches have no natural barriers to the lake鈥檚 waves and tides, placing them at greater risk of erosion.

鈥淲e were watching the news coverage [of] what was happening up north as if we weren鈥檛 getting hit with water on the south end of the city,鈥� says Louis. 

The threat is undeniable to Leroy Newsom, who has lived in his South Side apartment for 12 years. Despite the fact that another building stands between his home and the lake, he and his neighbors often experience flooding. The white paint in the lobby is mottled with spackle from earlier repairs. During particularly intense deluges, the entryway can become unnavigable. A large storm hit the city on the first weekend in July, inundating several parts of the city . 

鈥淲hen we get a rainstorm like we did before, it floods,鈥� he says.

Newsom lives on an upper floor and has not had to deal with the particulars of cleaning up after flooding, but he has noticed it is a persistent issue in the neighborhood. 

Louis, Dervin, and Slaughter have spent countless hours tirelessly knocking on doors and even setting up shop near the local grocery store to teach their neighbors about lake-related flooding. They wanted to mobilize people so they could direct attention and money toward solving the issue. They also researched the slew of solutions available to stem the tide of the lake.

鈥淧eople were making disaster plans, like, 鈥榃hat if something happens, this is what we鈥檙e gonna do.鈥� And we were looking for mitigation plans, you know. Let鈥檚 get out in front of this,鈥� says Louis.

Solutions can look different depending upon the area, but most on the South Side mirror the tools engineers have used for years to keep the lake at bay elsewhere. What makes these approaches a challenge is how exposed the community is to Lake Michigan in contrast to other neighborhoods. 

鈥淪outh Shore is uniquely vulnerable,鈥� says Malcolm Mossman of the Delta Institute, a nonprofit focusing on environmental issues in the Midwest. 鈥淚t鈥檚 had a lot of impacts over the last century, plus, certain sections of it have even been washed out.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The shoreline throughout the city is dotted with concrete steps, or revetments, and piers that extend into the lake to prevent waves from slamming into beaches. It also has breakwaters, which run parallel to the shoreline and are considered one of the best defenses against an increasingly active Lake Michigan.

鈥淭he best solution that we鈥檝e learned are the shore-parallel breakwaters,鈥� says Shabica. 鈥淎nd we make them out of rocks large enough that the waves can鈥檛 throw them around. And the really cool part is it makes wonderful fish habitat and wildlife habitat. So we鈥檙e really improving the ecosystem, as well as making the shoreline inland a lot less vulnerable.鈥�

Shabica also mentions that this 颈蝉苍鈥檛 a new solution. The Museum Campus portion of the city, which extends into the lake and includes the Field Museum, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Adler Planetarium, used to be an island before .

The main component of the plan to help reduce repeated flooding in the neighborhood is to install a breakwater around 73rd Street using the funding Tarver helped earmark for the issue, according to South Side Lakefront Erosion Task Force co-founder Juliet Dervin. This solution would help prevent the types of waves and flooding that damage streets, most notably South Shore Drive, which is the extension of DuSable Lake Shore Drive. Past damage to the streets has rerouted city buses that run along South Shore Drive and interrupted the flow of traffic. 

One local resident installed a private breakwater at her own expense following the 2020 storm, just a few blocks from Slaughter鈥檚 house, and it has tempered some effects of intense storms and flooding. But since this breakwater is smaller, surrounding areas are still vulnerable. Breakwaters can range from a few hundred thousand dollars to millions of dollars, depending on size and other factors. 

Despite funding now being allocated to fix the issue and government attention squarely focused on lakefront-related flooding there are still hurdles to overcome. 

Both the and the Chicago Park District are in the middle of a three-year assessment of the shoreline to determine appropriate fixes for each area. The study will finish in 2025, decades after the last study of this kind was conducted in the early 1990s. This gives Slaughter pause. 

鈥淚f I tell you this continuous erosion has been going on for such a long time, then you would have to know, they have looked into it and studied it from A to Z,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hat do you mean, you don鈥檛 have enough statistics? We鈥檝e done flyovers and all kinds of things. People who鈥檝e been here filming it, when the water jumps up to the top of the building, they鈥檝e seen it slam into things.鈥�

For her, the damage has been clear but the prolonged period of inaction and lack of attention from outside groups means a shorter window to implement fixes. Slaughter sees this as a fundamental flaw in how we approach issues stemming from the climate crisis. 

鈥淭he philosophy,鈥� she says, 鈥渋s repair, not prevent.鈥�

This story was originally published by and is republished here with permission. Sign up for Grist鈥檚 weekly newsletter .

This story was supported by the .

This piece is part of a collaboration that includes the Institute for Nonprofit News, Borderless, Ensia, Planet Detroit, Sahan Journal, and Wisconsin Watch, as well as The Guardian and Inside Climate News. The project was supported by the Joyce Foundation. 

鈥淚鈥檓 so speechless right now,鈥� Eva, a plaintiff who was 14 when the suit was filed, said in a statement. 鈥淚鈥檓 really just excited and elated and thrilled.鈥�

The challengers鈥� lawyers described the first-of-its-kind ruling as a 鈥済ame-changer鈥� and a 鈥渟weeping win鈥� that campaigners hope will give a boost to similar cases tackling the climate crisis.

In a case that made headlines around the U.S. and internationally, 16 plaintiffs, aged five to 22, had alleged the state government鈥檚 pro-fossil fuel policies contributed to climate change.

In trial hearings in June, they testified that that these policies therefore  provisions in the state constitution that guarantee a 鈥渃lean and healthful environment,鈥� among other constitutional protections.

On Monday, Judge Kathy Seeley said that by prohibiting government agencies from considering climate impacts when deciding whether or not to permit energy projects, Montana is contributing to the climate crisis and stopping the state from addressing that crisis. The 103-page  came several weeks after the closely watched trial came to a close on June 20th.

鈥淢y initial reaction is, we鈥檙e pretty over the moon,鈥� Melissa Hornbein, an attorney at the Western Environmental Law Center who represented the plaintiffs in the 2020 lawsuit said, reacting to the news. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a very good order.鈥�

Julia Olson, who founded Our Children鈥檚 Trust, the nonprofit law firm that brought the suit alongside Western Environmental Law Center and McGarvey Law, said the case marks the first time in U.S. history that the merits of a case led a court to rule that a government violated young people鈥檚 constitutional rights by promoting fossil fuels.

鈥淚n a sweeping win for our clients, the Honorable Judge Kathy Seeley declared Montana鈥檚 fossil fuel-promoting laws unconstitutional and enjoined their implementation,鈥� she said. 鈥淎s fires rage in the west, fueled by fossil fuel pollution, today鈥檚 ruling in  is a game-changer that marks a turning point in this generation鈥檚 efforts to save the planet from the devastating effects of human-caused climate chaos.鈥�

The challengers  that they 鈥渉ave been and will continue to be harmed by the dangerous impacts of fossil fuels and the climate crisis.鈥� Similar suits have been filed by young people across the U.S., but Held v. Montana was  to reach a trial.

Among the policies the challengers targeted: a provision in the Montana Environmental Policy Act (MEPA) barring the state from considering how its energy economy impacts climate change. This year, state lawmakers amended the provision to specifically ban the state from considering greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions in environmental reviews for new energy projects.

That provision is unconstitutional, Seeley ruled.

鈥淏y prohibiting consideration of climate change, [greenhouse gas] emissions, and how additional GHG emissions will contribute to climate change or be consistent with the Montana constitution, the MEPA limitation violates plaintiffs鈥� right to a clean and healthful environment,鈥� Seeley wrote.

The legislature had previously amended the law to prevent environmental reviews from considering 鈥渞egional, national, or global鈥� environmental impacts鈥攁 provision the original complaint called the 鈥渃limate change exception.鈥� When lawmakers changed the provision again in 2023, the state鈥檚 attorneys said that should have rendered the lawsuit moot, but Seeley rejected the argument in May.

In her Monday ruling, Seeley also enjoined another 2023 state policy that put stricter parameters around groups鈥� ability to sue government agencies over permitting decisions under the Montana Environmental Policy Act. That policy 鈥渆liminates MEPA litigants鈥� remedies that prevent irreversible degradation of the environment, and it fails to further a compelling state interest,鈥� rendering it unconstitutional, Seeley wrote.

At the trial in June, attorneys for the state  Montana鈥檚 contributions to the climate crisis are too small to make any meaningful contribution to the climate crisis. But in her ruling, Seeley found that the state鈥檚 greenhouse gas emissions are 鈥渘ationally and globally significant.鈥�

鈥淢ontana鈥檚 GHG emissions cause and contribute to climate change and plaintiffs鈥� injuries and reduce the opportunity to alleviate plaintiffs鈥� injuries,鈥� she wrote.

She also confirmed the lawsuit鈥檚 assertions that fossil fuels cause climate change, that every additional ton of greenhouse gas pollution warms the planet, and that harms to the plaintiffs 鈥渨ill grow increasingly severe and irreversible without science-based actions to address climate change.鈥�

鈥淛udge Seeley really understood not only the issues of law, but the very complex scientific issues surrounding the climate crisis as well as clearly the impacts on these particular plaintiffs,鈥� Hornbein said.

Michael Gerrard, the founder of Columbia鈥檚 Sabin Center for Climate Change Law, praised Seeley鈥檚 order.

鈥淚 think this is the strongest decision on climate change ever issued by any court,鈥� he said in an email.

Several other states and around 150 other countries have a right to a healthy environment explicitly stated in their constitutions. This ruling may inspire similar lawsuits around the world.

The plaintiffs鈥� lawyers very effectively put on the stand several young Montana residents who testified how they were personally affected negatively by climate change. Putting a human face on this global problem worked well in this courtroom, and may well be followed elsewhere.

Montana succeeded in narrowing the scope of the lawsuit during pretrial motions. The lawsuit originally challenged the state energy policy, which directs statewide energy production and use, for promoting fossil fuel development, but this year, lawmakers overturned that law and weeks later, Seeley dismissed that part of the case.

The state, which previously vowed to fight the decision if the plaintiffs won, now has 60 days to decide whether to appeal the decision to the Montana supreme court.

The verdict sets a positive tone for the future of youth-led climate lawsuits.

鈥淭his is a huge win for Montana, for youth, for democracy, and for our climate,鈥� said Olson. 鈥淢ore rulings like this will certainly come.鈥�

Youth-led constitutional climate lawsuits, brought by Our Children鈥檚 Trust, are also pending in four other states. One of those cases, brought by Hawai鈥榠 youth plaintiffs, is set to go to trial in June 2024, attorneys announced .

A similar federal lawsuit filed by Our Children鈥檚 Trust, 2015鈥檚 Juliana v. United States, is also pending. This past June, a U.S. district court ruled in favor of the youth plaintiffs, allowing that their claims can be decided at trial in open court, but a trial date has yet to be set.

鈥淭he case in Montana is a clear sign that seeking climate justice through the courts is a viable and powerful strategy,鈥� said Delta Merner, lead scientist at the Science Hub for Climate Litigation at the Union of Concerned Scientists.

This story originally appeared in and is part of , a global journalism collaboration strengthening coverage of the climate story.

Over the past six years, Puerto Rico has been hit hard by back-to-back natural disasters: the devastating hurricanes Irma and Maria in 2017, a series of destructive earthquakes in 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic, and 2022鈥檚 Hurricane Fiona. Many residents are still rebuilding their homes. The disasters have exposed and exacerbated long-standing struggles for Puerto Rico鈥攃ultural identity, personal trauma, mental health crises, and challenges related to gentrification and developing tourism鈥攁ll further complicated by the island鈥檚 economic and political status as a United States territory and the ongoing legacy of American exploitation.

Beyond these plights, however, is another reality: People are thriving, and using artistic expression to rebel, create, and heal.

Walking outside that same crumbling seaside building, its sea-facing facade is filled with colorful murals of coquis, the island鈥檚 beloved frogs.

In these times of resilience and recovery, Puerto Rican artists are using their talents to express their identities and cultural heritage, and to contribute to their communities in countless ways: beautifying and refurbishing structures, helping islanders recover from the trauma of the disaster, fighting gentrification, and ensuring Puerto Ricans benefit from tourism.

In the aftermath of the hurricanes, the San Juan theater company Y No Hab铆a Luz鈥攚hich in English means 鈥淎nd There Was No Light鈥� or 鈥淣o Power鈥濃�攈as brought hope and healing through performance and interaction. The company provides art workshops for different communities, encouraging audiences to use paper pulps and recycled materials to make masks and puppets for their performances. The company also comforts and enlightens children and teens through plays like 鈥淓l Centinela de Mang贸鈥� (鈥淭he Mango Sentinel鈥�), a show inspired by a beloved tree that fell during Hurricane Maria in the town of Orocovis.

鈥淔or us, it鈥檚 very important that Puerto Ricans know that the possibility of making society better exists,鈥� says Yussef Soto Villarini, one of the troupe鈥檚 founding members. 

For many people on the island, their nightmare did not end when Maria was over鈥攖hey鈥檙e still experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder today, six years later. While the Category 4 hurricane was considered the worst disaster ever to hit the island, that year also saw a spike in suicides: died by suicide in 2017. Isolation and depression also rose. More than one in five islanders reported needing or receiving mental health services, while 13% said they started taking new or higher doses of prescription medication to treat emotional problems, according to conducted in 2018. 

Troupe members acknowledge they themselves need support, but they use their work to help children who are struggling move beyond the traumas they鈥檝e experienced. 鈥淲e never try to tell them what is right, what is wrong,鈥� says Yari Helfeld, executive director at Y No Hab铆a Luz. 鈥淲e always try to highlight the beauty and the possibilities, the desires and the dreams. We never try to make them remember the bad and feel the pain again.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Self-Expression and Representation

The devastating hurricanes did not sway Afro-Puerto Rican painter and sculptor Samuel Lind from continuing to embrace nature in his works. 鈥淲e鈥檙e not owners of nature, we鈥檙e part of it,鈥� Lind says. 鈥淲hen you receive that expression from nature鈥� I found beauty everywhere.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

After the back-to-back hurricanes, Lind鈥檚 two-story wooden home studio was without power for more than half a year, and some of his paintings were covered in mold. But Lind says that鈥檚 not a bad thing: 鈥淎ll this is open. The window inside, the unbroken wall, and the building structure support me to embrace nature. Nature gave me the opportunity to be prepared and to be my best.鈥�

Nature is a central theme in his work. Many of his screen prints are of Lo铆za, a tropical coastal town in Puerto Rico and his lifelong home, with motifs of palm trees, blue sea, and fishing boats. Lind depicts local residents, bomba dancing, and the annual weeklong Festival of Saint James in his paintings. He also makes clay and bronze sculptures of Afro-Puerto Rican women and gods. 

鈥淚n my art expression, I send a message of what I believe our nation is and how beautiful our culture is,鈥� Lind says. 鈥淥ur expression of identity as Puerto Ricans is important.鈥�

Lind鈥檚 efforts at cultural preservation matter. Lo铆za is the heart of Puerto Rico鈥檚 African heritage. Founded in the 17th century by formerly enslaved African people, today of its nearly 3,000 residents are Black. 鈥淭丑别谤别 is so much discrimination against this area,鈥� Lind says. 鈥淲hen I came out here to study art and to show my art [in the mainland United States], I realized that I needed to express our culture in my own way.鈥�

Connecting With Community

Artist Don Rimx also credits art for making him 鈥渇eel connected with the community鈥� and inspiring the locals to 鈥渇eel more united.鈥� Born in San Juan, Rimx has been painting murals for 25 years. 鈥淔or me, art is something everybody carries. It鈥檚 good to spread love and civility,鈥� Rimx says. 鈥淚鈥檓 interacting with the people. I鈥檓 sharing knowledge. I learn something from them, too.鈥�

Inspired by the communities he encounters, Rimx has painted large-scale murals around the world, including the Dominican Republic, Panama, Ecuador, and Japan. 鈥淚 like to paint in public spaces. Because everybody can have access and enjoy it,鈥� he says.

Despite leaving the island in 2009, Rimx says he still wants to 鈥渞epresent and work for the island.鈥� In Bayam贸n, a community that is deteriorating due to challenges like addiction, he has created murals featuring local boxers outside the Monterey Boxing Club. This is part of his effort to support gym owner Emilio Lozada鈥檚 vision to 鈥渃lean up the space鈥� through sports, by getting more people to train. In April, Rimx returned to Bayam贸n, interacting with the kids there while completing a basketball-court mural project. 

Though Rimx has always known that public art has a limited lifespan and can be 鈥渆asily damaged,鈥� he still hopes to leave uplifting, beautiful works for his hometown, the local community, and the public square in interactive and collaborative ways.

鈥淎rt should be related to the neighborhood,鈥� Rimx says.

With a similar mission to 鈥渃lean up and stop vandalism鈥� and 鈥渂eautify and revitalize spaces鈥� through public art, Santurce-based design company Robiaggi Design + Build has been doing mosaic projects for 20 years. Alvaro Racines, the company鈥檚 project manager, says they now have more than 140 public pieces around the island, in the mainland United States, and in other countries. 

While the colorful and durable tiles can withstand hurricanes, mosaics also help preserve the history and people on the island. Creating the projects can take as little as a week to complete or as long as six months. Racines, the company鈥檚 owner; local artist Roberto Biaggi; and other members of the company create portraits on street walls of 鈥渉eroes鈥� in the local community, including local government officials, activists, and others. These giant mosaics educate and uplift the community while also attracting tourists, as many visitors will stop to take pictures in front of them, Racines says.

After the hurricanes in 2017, the Puerto Rican government enacted tax incentives to attract investment across the island. Real estate agents poured in, and the Airbnb and short-term vacation rental industries surged. This flood of gentrification, and increasingly high rents in particular, plagues many Puerto Ricans. 

However, the island still gains something. In 2021, guest spending on bookings through Airbnb produced $872.4 million鈥攁lmost 1% of the island鈥檚 GDP that year鈥攁nd created 24,000 local jobs, according to .

Boosted by the booming tourism industry, Robiaggi Design + Build has gotten the opportunity to do mosaics for small businesses, hotels, and Airbnbs in Calle Lo铆za. 鈥淎ctivating a little bit about the neighborhood, and highlighting the different areas there is pretty exciting for us,鈥� Racines says.

Now, members are working with the Municipality of San Juan to reenergize the area of R铆o Piedras with murals and mosaics. 鈥淚n Puerto Rico, I see a lot of positive things going on through art intervention and commissions,鈥� Racines says. 鈥淭丑别谤别 are more and more movements of construction, refurbishing, and remodeling.鈥�

Polishing La Perla

Bordered on one side by the Atlantic Ocean and on the other by the historic walls of Old San Juan lies La Perla, a community with beautiful beaches and decaying buildings鈥攁nd one of the island鈥檚 most notoriously dangerous areas thanks to its and . 

After Hurricane Maria, about fled the island for a better life elsewhere. Despite the growing exodus to places outside Puerto Rico, some young people still want to stay on the island and claim a future there.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a lot of community effort to bring [La Perla] back to life and nourish it with art,鈥� says Dalila Pinci, an art student at the School of Plastic Arts and Design of Puerto Rico.

Pinci鈥檚 mural debut, a portrait of a woman surrounded by tropical flowers and green foliage, is one of dozens of murals in La Perla. Pinci鈥檚 mother is Puerto Rican and her father is European, so she grew up on the island but later moved to Switzerland. Pinci moved back to Puerto Rico in 2021 when she was 20 years old, saying that she wanted to be close to her culture and get back to her roots and family.

Pinci returned to the island with 鈥渁 passion for painting and drawing鈥� that she says she鈥檚 had since childhood. She heard complaints from her peers about the lack of support from the government and a sense that 鈥渢he art culture is dead.鈥� But this challenge, Pinci says, also stirs up the younger generation of creators to fight for themselves. 

Art can breathe new life into an island still recovering from natural disasters, Pinci says, and she hopes young people will continue to push boundaries and create new forms. 鈥淎t the end of the day, we are the ones who are learning, innovating,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hat can help with the world in this darkness.鈥�

It is a love affair, for sure. But Lohrengel is no tree hugger, out to preserve a special, pristine place. He is a timber harvest administrator, overseeing logging in one of the most remarkable working forests in the United States鈥攏early a quarter-million acres of trees that occupy almost the entire Menominee Indian Reservation in northern Wisconsin.

鈥淭he forest looks pristine,鈥� he says, as a flurry of snow falls through the open canopy. 鈥淭hese big maples and basswoods are around 150 years old. But we have been logging here for over a century, and we still have more trees than when we started.鈥� In June, the tribe鈥檚 forestry officials began exploring the potential for selling the carbon accumulating in the forest on the 鲍.厂.鈥檚 growing market for carbon-offset credits.

There are probably more than a billion trees today in the Menominee forest, which is an hour鈥檚 drive west of Lake Michigan. We were there in late February, the day after the biggest snowstorm of the winter. We were standing near the Menominee鈥檚 sawmill in Neopit village, from where trucks move the lumber across America to make everything from basketball courts to domestic furniture and handcrafted toys. But even close to the mill, big healthy trees with the highest potential price tag get to grow old.

The trick, says Lohrengel, is husbandry for the long term. 鈥淲e come in every 15 years, take out the weak trees, the sick trees, and the ones that are dying, but leave the healthy stock to grow some more and reproduce,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 plant anything. This is all natural regeneration, and the way we do it the forest just gets better and better.鈥�

Lohrengel is not a Menominee tribal member. He is the son of a pulp-mill worker who has been devoted to the tribe鈥檚 harvesting philosophy since first working on the reservation inventorying the trees in 1990. Most U.S. foresters, he says, are trained to cut the best trees and leave the sick ones behind. The result is a forest with deteriorating genetic stock. But the Menominee are 鈥渄oing the opposite, and making the forest healthier.鈥�

鈥淲e make our decisions based on what鈥檚 best for the forest,鈥� says Lohrengel鈥檚 boss, the Menominee鈥檚 veteran head forester Ron Waukau. 鈥淥ur logging schedules and management are purely for the forest. I am really humbled to be able to work like that. The sawmill knows what it will get and sells accordingly.鈥�

For the Menominee, says head silviculturist Tony Waupochick, it is not just a matter of maintaining the volume of timber. 鈥淲e are also managing the forest to maintain its diversity and integrity, and to keep it healthy for wildlife.鈥�

The Menominee adopted their enlightened approach soon after the creation of the reservation in 1854. It has worked spectacularly well, says Patrick McBride, sales director of the Pennsylvania-based lumber company MacDonald & Owen, which buys most of the output from the Menominee sawmill. In almost 170 years, the tribe has harvested nearly twice the forest鈥檚 former volume of timber, yet it still has  more standing wood than when they started. 鈥淎nd by leaving the best trees, the old and sick lumber they harvest is now better than the best from most everyone else,鈥� says McBride, who pays a premium price for it.

The 235,000-acre Menominee reservation is 93% forested, and visible from space as a dark green block of trees.

Professional U.S. foresters today like to say that America鈥檚 shift from blindly clear-cutting trees to managing them more sustainably began in the 1890s, with the founding of the Biltmore Forest School in North Carolina, followed in 1900 by the founding of the Yale Forest School. But the Menominee were decades ahead of them, argues Michael Dockry, who researches American Indian and Indigenous natural resource management at the University of Minnesota. In the mid-19th century, , they already practiced 鈥渁 new form of forest management that stood in stark contrast to the cut-and-run harvesting occurring through the rest of Wisconsin and the United States.鈥� It was 鈥渢he first sustained-yield forest management system in the country.鈥�

The 235,000-acre Menominee reservation is today 93% forested and famously visible from space as a dark-green block of maple and aspen, birch and hemlock, ash and basswood, red oak and white pine, surrounded by dairy pastures long since cleared of trees by immigrant farmers. Some trees are more than 200 years old and more than 200 feet high. Around a quarter are left unharvested, mostly in swamp areas, at sacred sites, and in important wildlife refuges, says Waukau. Foresters come from across the world to walk the reservation with him and see how the Menominee harvest the rest. 鈥淏asically, we are taking tribal knowledge and blending it with today鈥檚 ecological science.鈥�

The Menominee forest was among the first to be certified by the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), after its formation in 1993. That recognition of sustainability was a no-brainer, say FSC insiders. The Menominee鈥檚 crews currently cut only around a third as much timber as the forest grows each year鈥�8 or 9 million board-feet each year, compared to growth of around 24 million acre-feet.

A  by Nicholas Reo of Dartmouth College and Donald Waller of the University of Wisconsin, Madison in 2018 found that, after more than a century of logging, the Menominee forest was 鈥渕ore mature, with higher tree volume, higher rates of tree regeneration, more plant diversity and fewer invasive species than nearby nontribal forest lands.鈥� The FSC  the majority of the forest as of 鈥渉igh conservation value鈥� with large expanses where 鈥渘aturally occurring species exist in natural patterns.鈥�

The Menominee鈥檚 forestry approach was the brainchild of the tribe鈥檚 revered 19th-century chief, Oshkosh. After negotiating the 1854 treaty that secured the reservation for his people, he codified how they should harvest its forest. 鈥淪tart with the rising sun and work towards the setting sun, but take only the mature trees, the sick trees, and the trees that have fallen,鈥� . 鈥淲hen your reach the end of the reservation, turn and cut from the setting sun to the rising sun, and the trees will last forever.鈥� His words are inscribed on a plaque at the entrance to the tribe鈥檚 forestry offices.

Menominee forestry practices are underpinned by their cultural and spiritual traditions, conveyed by their ancient language.

Logging techniques have changed since Oshkosh鈥檚 day. Handsaws and horse-drawn skids have been replaced by chainsaws and heavy dragging equipment. In an hour, a drone can see what would have taken human eyes many weeks. But Oshkosh鈥檚 philosophy persists, says McKaylee Duquain, who runs today鈥檚 forest inventory.

Among the mostly older male Menominee foresters, Duquain stands out as young, female, and tech-savvy. After studying conservation sciences at the University of Minnesota, she returned to the reservation three years ago to take charge of the logging schedule. 鈥淚 decide what areas are going to be cut next, figure out how much is in there, whether the trees are mature enough, and so on,鈥� she says.

Each year, her team surveys thousands of acres of the forest, often delving deep into its history, comparing today鈥檚 aerial images with maps hand-drawn on acetate sheets by predecessors who paced out the land, compass in hand. But Duquain and her colleagues also put on their boots to identify and mark individual sick or old trees for harvesting, and to ensure that those with a diameter less than 10 inches are spared. Only then do Menominee and other local contractors bring in their chainsaws鈥攎ostly in winter when the ground is frozen hard, so removing the logs does not damage the ground.

Besides this continuous cycle of selective forest thinning, some small areas are clear-cut. This is to help the growth of species such as oak that require plenty of sunlight, says Duquain鈥檚 boss, Waukau. Fire is another important tool, he says, burning undergrowth and logging leftovers at the start of the summer to remove material that could fuel major fires later in the season.

The Menominee fire team spends as much time starting fires as stopping them, says Curtis Wayka, who runs the burning program. In quiet times, the team travels the U.S. sharing their expertise. That expertise has a long heritage, says Waukau. 鈥淥ur ancestors understood and used fire well. We are going back to that.鈥�

Many Menominee forestry practices are underpinned by their cultural and spiritual traditions, often conveyed by their ancient language, which is now being revived in the tribal school. The tribe鈥檚 creation story puts its roughly 9,000 members into five clans, each named after animals of the forest: bear, wolf, moose, crane, and eagle, all of which are revered and protected. Don Reiter, the reservation wildlife manager, identified around 25 wolves in the reservation last winter, in five packs. He estimates there could be as many as 250 black bears.

The reservation is estimated to be making a net capture of more than 30,000 tons of carbon dioxide from the air annually.

Many Menominee craft traditions use materials from their forest: black ash for basketry, basswood for wigwams and rope, and birch for canoes. 鈥淭he ironwood tree is too strong for our mill to utilize, but we have always carved it,鈥� says Joey Awonohopay, director of the Menominee Language and Culture Commission, who identifies as a member of the bear clan. Traditionally, it made warriors鈥� clubs. The tapping of maple trees for their syrup each spring remains hugely popular, and some people still gather medicinal plants such as bitterroot and ginseng.

But it is lumber sales that dominate the Menominee economy, accounting for around half the reservation鈥檚 economic activity. The business is run by Menominee Tribal Enterprises (MTE), a body elected by the tribe to operate commercially but sustainably. Its newly elected president, Michael Skenadore, says he faces some pressing issues to ensure its future viability. The sawmill, which was erected in 1908 and last refitted in the 1980s, needs heavy investment. And it is increasingly difficult to find young people willing to work as loggers in the forest during the long cold winters. Many prefer employment in the reservation鈥檚 other major concern: the casino.

But Skenadore has an eye to the future. He has begun investigating the potential to profit from selling carbon credits generated by the forest鈥檚 accumulating timber. 鈥淎long with a number of tribes from all over the country, we are exploring our options,鈥� he says. According to , the reservation could currently be making a net capture of more than 30,000 tons of carbon dioxide from the air each year.

Will the forest continue to thrive? However good the management, there are growing environmental threats. Changing climate is bringing more windstorms, says Lohrengel. The most recent blast, in June 2022, consigned 12 million board-feet鈥攎ore than a year鈥檚 typical harvest鈥攖o the forest floor in 20 minutes. The foresters were out the following day flying drones to identify the damaged areas, and for the next nine months abandoned their logging schedules to concentrate on salvaging the downed timber.

Invasive pests can be a menace, too. The emerald ash borer, an Asian insect that has spread to 36 states since its arrival in the U.S. in 2002, finally entered the reservation last fall. 鈥淲e were the last place in Wisconsin to get it,鈥� says Waukau. He fears the worst. 鈥淚t鈥檚 hard to imagine the ash not being in our forest, but it may be inevitable.鈥� Despite such threats, he believes the large, biodiverse, and sustainably managed forest he oversees is more resilient than most. 鈥淢aybe in 30 or 40 years we will have lost some species, but I fully expect the forest will be thriving.鈥�

Back in the forest, Lohrengel points to a clutch of tiny maple saplings reaching up to light streaming through the canopy after recent felling. 鈥淭hey look small now,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut future generations will be marveling at how big they become.鈥�

This story was originally published in and is reprinted here with permission. Fred Pearce traveled to the Menominee Indian Reservation with the support of the American Hardwood Export Council.

Cooper experienced what she describes as an , feeling terrified of what would happen in her lifetime and worried that it may already be too late to act.

鈥淚 needed to be able to talk,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd express myself about the emotional reaction I was having.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Climate change wasn鈥檛 something she felt she could discuss deeply with the people in her life, as is the case for most Americans. Though , and about about it, just 37% say they discuss the issue occasionally or often, according to a from Yale University.

But talking about climate change is important. Researchers have found it can cause of climate science and, among those who already accept the science, inspire action. That, in turn, has been shown to .

Like so many Americans, Cooper felt scared, stressed鈥攁nd largely alone. 鈥淚 was reading a lot of articles, listening to podcasts, but I had no real dialogue about it,鈥� she says. Then she heard about the , an initiative created by , who co-edited an anthology book of the same name. Launched when the book was published in 2020, the Circle is a decentralized, 10-course book club aimed at helping readers develop communities around climate solutions. 

Cooper realized she could create a space for the conversations she wanted to have. Using her , word of mouth, and social media, Cooper recruited a group of nine people鈥攕ome climate activists, others, like her, newer to the conversation鈥攖o meet virtually. Over the next six months, they discussed ways they were experiencing the climate crisis and created a shared , including ways they could take action in their own communities.

鈥淐oming together with people who had all kinds of emotions and to see them still [taking] climate action鈥攄aily, weekly, or monthly鈥攖hat was really inspiring,鈥� Cooper says. 

Cooper is part of a growing movement of Americans who are seeking out solace鈥攁nd power in numbers鈥攊n climate conversation groups. More than 3,000 people have formed All We Can Save Circles, according to the All We Can Save Project. The , a nonprofit peer support network on 12-step addiction programs, has more than 50 climate support groups nationwide. , founded by climate psychologist Margaret Klein Salamon, convenes small group conversations online that anyone for free.

These are all aimed at reversing what researchers describe as the 鈥溾�� around climate change.

鈥淲e know that humans avoid uncomfortable emotions,鈥� says Sarah Schwartz, associate professor of psychology at Suffolk University, who researches climate anxiety. She explains that climate change is stressful in ways direct (not being able to breathe the air in your city, for example) and indirect (like constant worry about an uncertain future). 

鈥淏ut when we talk about grief processing [or] trauma鈥攚e need to turn towards rather than away from these hard emotions,鈥� she adds.

Schwartz co-authored a 2022 that found that collective climate action may mitigate climate distress. But, she says, 鈥淚f you just jump into action and don鈥檛 make any space for conversations, support, and sitting with the uncomfortable emotions鈥攖hat鈥檚 a recipe for burnout.鈥�

Conversations, support, and collective action all require building community, which is key in addressing challenges that seem insurmountable, Schwartz says. 鈥淭he role of relationships and social support is huge in the difference between 鈥榳e can do something鈥� and 鈥榣et鈥檚 all just hunker down and isolate in our own anxiety and paralysis,鈥欌�� she says.

According to an internal 2023 survey conducted by the All We Can Save Project, 89% of Circle participants reported feeling an increased sense of community and 90% said they took climate action, such as switching to climate-focused careers, after joining a conversation group. 

For Inemesit Williams, former co-leader of the social justice working group at (CANIE), being part of a Circle inspired her to advocate for public transit funding and spread awareness about local bus routes. 鈥淚鈥檝e never owned a car鈥擨鈥檝e always taken public transit, ridden my bicycle, walked, carpooled,鈥� she says. 鈥淪o that鈥檚 something I鈥檓 really passionate about: transit equity.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Williams, who identifies as 鈥渁 queer, Black American descendant of chattel slavery,鈥� says she is the only participant in her Circle who identifies as Black. It鈥檚 a problem, she says, that is reflective of the broader among leadership at environmental organizations. 

Williams was familiar with most of the members in her Circle and felt comfortable talking about the ways the climate crisis disproportionately impacts communities of color. 鈥淚 already had a feeling of safety with this group,鈥� she says, but adds that her experience might be an exception. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 really engage in that kind of space if you don鈥檛 feel like what you have to say is going to be welcome.鈥�

Creating that safe space is why psychotherapist Taryn Crosby, who is also Black, co-organized , a climate conversation specifically for Black women and nonbinary people.

鈥淲e want to create a space where our experiences are prioritized,鈥� she says, adding that generations of trauma in nature due to slavery and lynchings, segregated state and national parks, and economic oppression have pushed and from the outdoors.

She says she hopes We Outside helps attendees understand and value their own connections to nature, and prepares them to take part in broader conversations and influence greater climate action.

鈥淏ecause we haven鈥檛 felt necessarily welcomed or invited into other climate conversations, we kind of need this to build that muscle,鈥� she says. 鈥淎nd that can equip us to have these conversations before mixed company.鈥�

Leaders from the All We Can Save Project and Good Grief Network, two of the largest climate conversation networks, acknowledge that the majority of participants are white and say they are currently taking steps鈥攊ncluding partnering with Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC)鈥搇ed organizations and aiming to train more BIPOC facilitators鈥攖o diversify their ranks.

鈥淎s we think about plans for addressing diversity and inclusion in Circles鈥攁cross the Project and climate movement broadly鈥攚e think partnerships, intentional outreach, and relationship-building are vital,鈥� says Amy Curtis, learning and community lead of the All We Can Save Project.

Crosby says she hopes initiatives like We Outside will be a starting point for more inclusive conversations about climate change. The goal, she says, is to hold space 鈥渨here people can be open and curious about the way that they are affected by their environment and nature, and [also] how they affect their environment and nature鈥攗ltimately encouraging them to move that into action.鈥�

This article was originally co-published by and . is an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow .

鈥淲e鈥檝e been crossing our fingers and toes that [wouldn鈥檛] dry our well up. Due to the fact that we live in an agricultural area and this is a little community, we would be devastated,鈥� he says. Prado worries that if the town鈥檚 remaining up-to-standard well dries up, even more residents will have to before using it or rely on bottled water. 鈥淲e are in dire need of a new well,鈥� he says.

Prado鈥檚 neighbors are far from alone. Millions of people in the to safe drinking water. Rural communities of color like Sultana, which is Hispanic, are disproportionately affected by this crisis. There, some families spend up to 10% of their monthly income on water. And yet the federal government underfunds communities of color when it comes to water infrastructure, according to a recent from the , a California advocacy group. 

鈥淭hese racialized disparities in access to safe drinking water and effective wastewater services are occurring because of decades of disinvestment,鈥� says Jenny Rempel, co-author of and a Ph.D. candidate at the University of California, Berkeley. In California alone, 300 towns do not supply safe drinking water to residents, the report found. 

Advocates say the Farm Bill, a massive piece of legislation that is voted on every five years and determines how the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) disburses billions in federal funding, is a chance to finally invest in these communities鈥� water systems.

鈥淭he Farm Bill has funding that can really help address a lot of these gaps,鈥� says Susana de Anda, executive director of the Community Water Center. She says the legislation should increase investments, particularly grants, in rural Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) communities; fund an annual audit of the USDA to determine which communities actually receive water infrastructure funding; and push the agency to deepen relationships with community-based organizations to ensure long-neglected populations have a voice in the planning process. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 clear that [low-income people of color] have been left out of water planning, and more importantly, they鈥檝e been left out of intentional funding designed for them to really meet their needs and solve the issue,鈥� de Anda adds.

When reached for comment, a USDA Rural Development spokesperson said that the administration is 鈥渃ommitted to addressing the infrastructure needs of America鈥檚 most historically underserved communities鈥� and added that the agency is 鈥渟trengthening its efforts to provide technical and financial support to BIPOC communities and historically underserved areas that need it most.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The racial and rural water gap has its roots in historic neglect. For decades, the Central Valley has attracted migrant farmworkers, many of whom were without basic resources like electricity or running water. Many of these settlements, like Sultana, became permanent, but never received municipal services.

Rural communities of color were historically excluded from being annexed into cities with utility services, a phenomenon known as 鈥�,鈥� says Camille Pannu, an associate clinical professor at Columbia Law School who has water access issues in California.

This led to communities like Sultana remaining unincorporated and lacking many public services鈥攍ike adequate wells and water treatment systems. 鈥淵ou end up having this upside-down water system where you have the lowest-income people paying the for terrible water,鈥� Pannu says. She says that weak water infrastructure often forces residents to turn to building their own private wells or purchasing bottled water.

In agricultural communities like Sultana, water 颈蝉苍鈥檛 just hard to access. When it comes from the ground, it鈥檚 often with nitrates, arsenic, and pesticides; these contaminants are linked to cancer and lung and heart disease, among other ailments. Treating that water to residents鈥� yearly water and sewer bills, according to a recent report from the Environmental Working Group. 

Federal funds can help ease the burden, but only if these communities are able to access them, says Rempel, the doctoral researcher. 鈥淐ommunities need a lot of capacity and resources to be able to apply for and access these federal funding programs,鈥� Rempel says. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 a huge opportunity for technical assistance to start to close this gap.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Even Prado, who has worked in community services for over 25 years, says he has struggled to navigate the system of applying for federal loans and grants. 鈥淣obody really knows about USDA funding,鈥� he says. 

Despite these obstacles, Prado has seen the benefits of federal assistance. In 2017, the USDA helped to fund a $2.1 million project to drill a new community well for Monson鈥攐ne of Sultana鈥檚 neighbors鈥攕upplying with safe water. That same year, Prado, with help from a local nonprofit, applied for $7 million in funding for a well in his town.

Now, more than six years later, Sultana is slated to get the new well it so desperately needs. Construction crews broke ground in May, and the well is slated for completion in May 2024. 

Prado says he鈥檚 excited about the new well鈥攂ut access to clean water 颈蝉苍鈥檛 something he and his neighbors should have had to fight for. 

鈥淚 keep telling the state what they need to do is get off their chair, come to the valley, and see all the rural communities,鈥� Prado says. 鈥淪ee what their needs are, hold outreach meetings, and start finding out what they need here. I don鈥檛 think there鈥檚 enough of that really going on.鈥�

This article was originally copublished in Nexus Media News with  as part of a series that looks at ways the 2023 Farm Bill can help address the climate crisis.  is an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow .

The Himalayan region is often called 鈥渢he water tower of Asia鈥� or 鈥渢he third pole.鈥� Glaciers, along with approximately 3 million springs and 10 major rivers that flow from these peaks, have historically been the main sources of water in India鈥檚 Himalayan states, including Uttarakhand and Sikkim. But many of these water sources have disappeared in the past decade.

More than half of the perennial springs in the Garhwal region of Uttarakhand have dried up or become seasonal, according to by the Indian government鈥檚 think tank, the . The potential reasons are many: road development, hydroelectric projects, earthquakes in the region, large-scale deforestation, and changes in rainfall patterns and other climate shifts.

The loss of springs affects the flow of rivers as well as the availability of water for community use. Baran Devi, 34, wakes up every day at 4 a.m. in her village in Nainital district, Uttarakhand, India, to make the daily 5-mile trip to a spring to get drinking water for her household. Though this trudge is laborious, her real worry is the summer months, when the spring dries up and she has to look for another source of water. In Uttarakhand, the Himalayan state where she lives, 90% of the drinking water supply is spring-based.

鈥淚n Uttarakhand more than 794 villages have become ghost villages thanks to nonavailability of water and migration to cities,鈥� says Badrish Singh Mehra, executive director of the , a development organization based in the Kumaon region of Uttarakhand.

Reviving an ancient water-management practice may be just what these communities need to move forward.

Water Temples

Dharas, or natural springs, can emerge from an aquifer through cracks in the Earth鈥檚 surface, or they can emerge from rocks and systems that have the porosity and permeability to retain water.

In the past, Himalayan communities held and passed on this local water knowledge. They also designed water-management systems around a deep reverence for water sources. All across the region, the temple-like naula structures were designed to collect water from underground springs.

Local rulers and elite families would dig a hole to access a spring, and then use local stone to construct walls to protect it. Usually, the naulas included a statue of a god like Vishnu and had designs carved on their facades. The tiny, covered structures were usually accessed through a narrow opening and a short flight of stairs, so that cattle could not enter and pollute the water. People were not allowed to wash clothes or dirty the water around these structures either.

In the past, naulas catered to the water needs of local communities, where worship of water was embedded in the local psyche. Many local brides visited the naulas after their weddings to offer their prayers and be blessed. Today these structures are ancient remnants of local architecture, as well as evidence of long-held ecological knowledge.

Mehra says there are an estimated 16,000 naulas in the Himalayan region of India today. But through the years, many of these once-revered water temples fell into disuse, thanks to the advent of piped water to villages and large-scale migration to cities where employment and piped water made life easier.

But climate change is revealing the limits of these modern alternatives. Frequent floods and earthquakes in the region have blocked pipelines and dried up historic water sources. The Chamoli earthquake in 1999, for example, killed more than 100 people, and the shifting ground caused changes in water flow. So, too, with the floods in 2013, which killed more than 5,700 people.

As a result of these growing uncertainties, there is a movement today to revive communities鈥� naulas.

Ancient Science

Bishan Singh Baneshi realized how acute the problem was while living in a remote village in the Ranikhet district of Uttarakhand in 2017: His mother died, and he did not have enough water to perform her last rites. Along with local women, he started restoring local naulas. They formed the community-based nonprofit in June 2018, and have since been involved in restoring more than 150 dhara-naula systems in the Kumaon region of Uttarakhand.

The Naula Foundation is in good company when it comes to organizations rediscovering the value of these structures and knowledge ways鈥攁nd a deep reverence for water. The Central Himalayan Rural Action Group, too, works to recharge dharas and restore naulas.

鈥淕lacial contribution to water supply is only 16%, and the rest is from springs in the Himalayan region,鈥� Mehra says. 鈥淭hanks to climate change and people migrating to cities, water bodies all over the region [have] been declining at an alarming rate.鈥� He says the Rural Action Group was the first to look at the problem from a springshed-management perspective, going beyond a single watershed to identify recharge areas through hydrogeology and community knowledge.

The group鈥檚 work to restore water sources starts by addressing potential sources of contamination from uphill grazing, open defecation, or sewage tanks being built in the recharge area. Then they turn to the water itself. 鈥淲e look at the catchment area of a particular spring, its depth and direction, the nature of the rock bed, and take steps to recharge that with community participation,鈥� Mehra says. 

Community participation is key, and the organization approaches this work with great sensitivity to make sure it meets the needs of the people and doesn鈥檛 spoil their sacred sites. 鈥淚n the past, rampant use of cement in these structures has led to water sources being blocked,鈥� Mehra says. 鈥淲e also identify the leakages in the system and attempt to plug them.鈥�

So far the Rural Action Group has revived 494 springs and 189 pipelines to villages, as well as improved community water management. Their efforts involve local people in the revival process and provide them with work. Elders and naula makers in the community are consulted for their experience. The group also transfers necessary knowledge to local workers so that the community water sources can be self-sustaining.

While donations from corporations and individuals pay for much of the project costs, villagers contribute 20% to 40% of the funds to ensure that the local community is invested in the project. Thanks to the group鈥檚 intervention, one spring, for example, now generates an additional liter of water every minute, adding some 525,000 liters to the local water supply over the course of a spring.

Functional Ecosystems

The Central Himalayan Rural Action Group鈥檚 intervention is multifold, starting with an assessment of the health of the spring, its volume of water, and the number of people dependent on its water. Abhishek Likam, head of springshed management for the group, says that the terrain is also important (whether it is rocky, etc.), as intervention in certain areas could lead to landslides.

The next step is to dig either trenches or percolation pits to conserve the rainwater. Finally, Likam says, the group plants indigenous trees like oak and deodar around the springs, as 鈥渃ertain species of trees are good for recharge of groundwater.鈥�

Sheeba Sen of Alaap, a nonprofit organization that does reforestation work in Uttarakhand, says pine forests, which were brought in during colonial times, are the bane of their ecological development work. These introduced tree species led to a decline in the native species that allow for better water percolation and storage.

鈥淎s we work in regeneration of indigenous forests and mapping catchment areas, we also work indirectly with naulas and their regeneration,鈥� Sen says. 鈥淚n many cases, the forest departments own the lands where the naulas are located, and it becomes complex as more permissions are needed to access the naulas.鈥�

Many organizations that work in the region, like Alaap and People鈥檚 Science Institute, a nongovernmental organization based in Dehradun that works with sustainable development and natural-resource management, have been engaging with local communities, especially women, to revive these ancient water temples and improve lives. 鈥淎ny work on these springs has to include financial benefits for the local people鈥攐nly then it will work in the long run,鈥� Sen says.

Women, many of whom were spending several hours traveling many miles away to get water for their households, play a critical role. Maya Verma, a resident of Chamoli village in Uttarakhand鈥檚 Almora district, has revived the naulas in as many as 15 villages with other women from these villages. She organized community meetings and street plays, and formed water-user groups as part of her awareness-raising campaign.

Pooja Arya, 30, and her friend Kiran Joshi, 32, from Raushil village in Nainital district, have been working with the Rural Action Group in the regeneration of naulas in their village the last couple of years. The naulas now support as many as 50 families in their village, and in the summer, even families from other villages.

鈥淲e can see the area transformed thanks to working on the naulas,鈥� Joshi says. She and Arya have been involved in the whole process, from digging trenches to working in catchment areas. Excess water is stored in tanks, which can then be used for irrigation to grow various crops like wheat and garlic. 鈥淚n previous years we used to suffer water shortages in the summer,鈥� Joshi says, 鈥渂ut now we have water throughout the year.鈥�

鈥淲ell, the first year was like, 鈥極K, it鈥檚 my foot in the door. Just get my foot in the door, introduce people to new things, and see how the second year goes.鈥� The rice at the market is like $3.50, and people are thinking it鈥檚 too expensive. But a few customers buy it. And then they come back and they say, 鈥極h my gosh, I paid $3.50, and it鈥檚 worth more than that!鈥欌��

Seven years later, Lee鈥檚 sticky rice鈥攁nd other varieties she sells with her husband, Tou Lee鈥攈as become a hit at farmers markets in Asheville and nearby Black Mountain. It can even be found in several upscale restaurants in the Asheville area.

The Lees, Hmong immigrants born in Laos just before the end of the Vietnam War, own Lee鈥檚 One Fortune Farm. Officially headquartered in Marion, North Carolina, about 40 minutes east of Asheville, the farm operates under something like a cooperative system. The Lees grow their rice, and different varieties of fruits and vegetables native to Southeast Asia, on eight small plots, many of them not much larger than an acre. Some of the plots, scattered around McDowell County (where Marion is) and adjacent counties, are owned and leased by relatives, but the Lees harvest everything and sell it under the Lee鈥檚 One Fortune Farm name.

Many people are surprised to learn that you can grow rice in the mountains, the Lees say. The vast majority of rice grown in the U.S.鈥攜our basic white or brown variety鈥攃omes from just four regions: the Mississippi Delta, the Arkansas Grand Prairie, the Gulf Coast, and the Sacramento Valley. The crop has a rightful reputation for growing in hot, flat areas that can be easily flooded.

As it turns out, though, heirloom rice from the Laotian highlands grows very well in parts of the Southern Appalachians, with its similarly hot days and cool nights. An 鈥渦pland鈥� rice, it grows on drier ground and consumes less water than standard varieties, and it can be planted like corn.

According to the Lees, Laotian sticky rice first came to the U.S. in the late 鈥�80s or early 鈥�90s when a Laotian woman immigrating to California 鈥渟muggled鈥� a few ounces of seeds in her coin purse. They made their way to cities in California鈥檚 Central Valley, home to some of the largest Hmong communities in the U.S., but the results were disappointing: The rice stalks never grew higher than about a foot or yielded more than a few dozen grains.

鈥淔amilies gave up on [it] and said, 鈥榃ell, it鈥檚 no good. [This rice] will never grow in America.鈥� So they shipped it up here to some of the families that we know of,鈥� Tou Lee says. 鈥淎nd they give it a shot. The first year it came up, the rice was over 5 feet tall.鈥�

In 2017, the Hmong population of the U.S. was estimated to be around 300,000. North Carolina鈥檚 population is concentrated in Hickory, in the Piedmont. Hmong presence in the mountains is tiny鈥攜ou can count it 鈥渂y hand,鈥� Chue Lee says. By the Lees鈥� estimate, every Hmong person in their area is either a blood relative or related by marriage.

As a result, after the Lees first started farming, they focused on satisfying demand for Laotian rice among the greater Hmong diaspora in the U.S., sending freezer bags to Minnesota and California, which have the largest concentrations of Hmong immigrants in the country. At the time, Chue was working as an office manager and Tou as an engineer. Today she grows and manages the farm full time; Tou splits his time between farming and working as a product manager for a pharmaceutical company.

Eventually, however, they started looking for distribution outlets closer to home. This search brought them into contact with the Appalachian Sustainable Agriculture Project, a nonprofit based in Asheville that promotes family-owned farms in Western North Carolina and provides resources to farmers. That鈥檚 how the Lees wound up at the East Asheville farmers market.

The project’s director Molly Nicholie confirms that  in the region. 鈥淚t requires specific processing and equipment that most farmers don鈥檛 have, or certain know-how.鈥� Local growers, she says, can鈥檛 just decide to plant it on a whim, like they would, say, tomatoes. 鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 so much more involved.鈥�

A grant from, the agricultural endowment created from North Carolina鈥檚 1999 Master Settlement Agreement with tobacco companies, helped the Lees buy a harvester last year, increasing their harvesting capacity twentyfold. Up until then, all of the Lees鈥� rice was cut by hand, though certain varieties鈥攕uch as their fragile green rice, picked before it matures鈥攚ill continue to be.

On the flip side, the lack of locally grown rice in Western North Carolina has contributed to its novelty and appeal, at least in the Asheville area, where, the Lees say, many residents and visitors are well-traveled and willing to try unfamiliar foods. They don鈥檛 go to farmers markets in the Marion area because there hasn鈥檛 been much demand for their offerings.

鈥淚 think that part of what makes their products so unique is that you can鈥檛 find it anywhere,鈥� says Nicholie. 鈥淢ost places don鈥檛 have a purple sticky rice or even some of the sweet sticky rice varieties that they brought over from Laos.鈥� As a result, people are 鈥渨illing to pay a premium for it.鈥�

While the Lees鈥� story of hard work, sacrifice, and success may feel familiar, their beginnings are anything but.

The Lees, like most Hmong immigrants in the United States, arrived in the country as refugees after the U.S. military withdrawal from Vietnam and the takeover of the Laotian government by the Pathet Lao communist group in 1975. During the twin conflicts, many Hmong villagers, who were concentrated in the highlands in the northern part of Laos, allied with the U.S. against both Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese forces; Chue鈥檚 father was in the anticommunist Royal Lao Army, and Tou鈥檚 father worked with the CIA. After Pathet Lao came to power, Tou and Chue (who did not meet until they were in the U.S.) were forced to run for their lives.

Tou Lee was born in Long Cheng, the military headquarters of the Royal Lao Army and the base for a secret CIA-run airline nicknamed 鈥淎ir America.鈥� Born just before the Pathet Lao took power, he spent the first five years of his life hiding in the jungle before escaping with his family to a refugee camp in Thailand, where he lived for a year and a half. In 1979, his family moved to North Cove, just outside Marion, to live with an uncle who sponsored them. 鈥淭he first time I ever wore shoes was on the bus to the airport and inside the airplane to the United States,鈥� he says.

Chue arrived in the U.S. in 1984, after two years in a refugee camp in Thailand and 鈥渞oaming the jungles of Laos鈥� before that. 鈥淢y dad said, 鈥榃e got to leave. Because once they find out who I am, we鈥檙e not going to make it here.鈥欌�� Her family moved to San Diego to be with an uncle who was sponsoring them.

After the deep instability of his early life, Tou had a regular American childhood in the Marion area, he says, and he never felt mistreated because of his identity. 鈥淚 was one of the hillbillies here. I felt at home.鈥� And, he says, there are actually lots of similarities between his area of Laos and Marion. 

鈥淚f you go anywhere in the villages of Laos and if you need something, chances are people will help you obtain it or provide it. And when I came here, that was the similar feeling that I had, culturally. As far as geographically, the hills [are] very reminiscent of Laos鈥攖he heavy, tall trees everywhere, all kinds of little creeks and springs everywhere.鈥�

In 1984, Tou鈥檚 family moved to the San Diego area temporarily; he met Chue the year after. They now have six children and a granddaughter.

According to Melissa Borja, a professor at the University of Michigan who researches Hmong refugee resettlement, the resettlement pattern of immigrants from Southeast Asia was very different than it was for previous immigrants to the U.S. from Asian countries. Instead of being concentrated in a specific area (like, say, a Chinatown), Hmong, Vietnamese, and Cambodian immigrants were 鈥渟pread out鈥� throughout the country 鈥渟o they wouldn鈥檛 locally burden particular communities鈥� and 鈥渨ould assimilate more quickly.鈥�

Eventually, many Hmong wanted to reconnect with others who shared their background and cultural and ritual practices, and distinct communities started to coalesce, especially in California and Minnesota. Nevertheless, Borja says, an interest in farming鈥攁 historical Hmong occupation鈥攁ttracted immigrants to smaller or more rural communities, such as those in North Carolina.

While Lee鈥檚 One Fortune Farm is now deeply embedded in the food scene of Western North Carolina, the Lees鈥� mission goes beyond simply growing and selling unique, hard-to-find food. At this point, they see education as just as much a part of their calling. 

鈥淭he best part of marketing is sharing information with my customers,鈥� says Chue. She and Tou say they never tire of explaining the ins and outs of Asian pears, Thai eggplant, sweet sticky rice, and their many other offerings. 鈥淚 can have 1,000 customers. And about 60% of them asking the same question during the whole market. And I鈥檓 willing to explain the same thing, even when the other person is no more than 5 feet behind them,鈥� Tou says.

In fact, their long-term goal is to buy a larger site that doubles as a learning center where groups can come to learn about all of their crops in a single place. Their other plan is to get into the wholesale market and supply rice and Asian vegetables to the mid-Atlantic鈥檚 growing Asian population. They may even try growing those more familiar brown and white rice varieties. 鈥淲e鈥檙e crazy enough we might [try],鈥� Tou says.

The Lees鈥� relationship to their homeland is bittersweet. Although they have dedicated much of their adult lives to carrying on Hmong traditions through farming, neither has returned to Laos since fleeing it as a child. 鈥淏ecause of my family service, I am not a really accepted or liked person over there,鈥� says Tou. 鈥淎t 3 months old, I was slated to be found and picked up鈥� by communist forces. 鈥淎t 3 months old.鈥�

鈥淭his is hope,鈥� he says, gesturing toward a modest field full of spent sticky rice stalks. 鈥淚 know that [Laos] is where I came from. I know that that was the original place that I was born, and that was my first home. . . But as far as, you know, how I feel about here versus there? This is more home than that over there is.鈥�

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission.

Perdue was one of nine comedians who took part in a nine-month fellowship where they learned about climate science and solutions and collaborated on . The Climate Comedy Cohort produced shorts, toured together, and pitched ideas to television networks. Their work is part of a broader effort to bring some levity to a topic that is increasingly present in everyday life. 

For Perdue, that meant bringing race into the conversation about sustainability and clean energy. 鈥淸Solar power] is free labor, and the most American thing to do is to use free labor,鈥� he says in one of his sets. 鈥淲e just have to tell people the sun is Black.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Climate change is increasingly featured in . But comedians like Perdue, as well as higher-profile acts, like Michelle Wolf and Joel Kim Booster, are also . (Wolf, in her HBO special, says 鈥渕other nature is trying to kill us in the most passive-aggressive way possible. She鈥檚 like, 鈥榃hat? I raised the temperature a little.鈥欌��)

By talking about climate, even irreverently, social scientists say, they may be helping to combat and boost civic engagement. 

Comedy鈥攅ven if it鈥檚 about heavy topics like climate change鈥攃an motivate feelings of hope and optimism, says Caty Borum, a professor at American University and author of . 鈥淭hose are routes to persuasion because we鈥檙e being entertained and because we鈥檙e feeling emotions of play鈥攁nd this is particularly important for climate change,鈥� she says. 

Just because climate change is heavy and important doesn鈥檛 mean comedy about it can鈥檛 be really silly.

The Climate Comedy Cohort, a joint project between American University鈥檚 Center for Media & Social Impact, which Borum runs, and Generation180, a clean-energy nonprofit, announced earlier this month. 

鈥淎s it just turns out, the very unique qualities of comedy that allow us to break through taboo, allow us to use social critique and translate topics, all of that really contributes鈥� to people feeling like they can take action, Borum says.

Actor and former Obama aide Kal Penn hosts a on Bloomberg called 鈥淕etting Warmer鈥� that focuses on climate technology and solutions 鈥渨ith a dose of humor and optimism,鈥� according to its tagline. And in April, a group of comedians is putting on a show called lol climate change: a show in Los Angeles. 

A say climate change is real and caused by humans, but only about half think there鈥檚 anything they can do about it, according to a . 

Borum says programs like hers can help combat and inaction. 鈥淭he goal of the program is not to have comedians tell more scary stories about climate change, but to really dig in on the solutions,鈥� she says. 

Just because climate change is heavy and important doesn鈥檛 mean comedy about it can鈥檛 be really silly, says , a comedian who helped create the Climate Comedy Cohort. 

He notes that comedy often draws from tragedy. Marc Maron鈥檚 new special, From Bleak to Dark, delves into the death of his partner, Lynn Shelton; in Nanette, Hannah Gadsby opens up about being sexually assaulted.  鈥淚t鈥檚 the comedian鈥檚 job to pull from that,鈥� Gast says. 

On stage, Katie Hannigan, part of the Climate Comedy Cohort, notes that . She says, 鈥淚 am doing my part for climate change. I have never even used my gas stove 鈥� since I started that fire.鈥�

Kat Evasco, one of the lol climate change comedians, has a joke connecting her mother鈥檚 skepticism about climate change to her denial about being gay鈥攅ven though she鈥檚 shared a bedroom with a woman for 25 years, Evasco quips. 鈥淚t鈥檚 about moments that might not center on climate change, but can tie back to it,鈥� she says.

鈥淲e aren鈥檛 big on sharing data and statistics,鈥� Evasco says. 鈥淲hat we are looking for is: How does this show up in human experience? How do you laugh about death?鈥� 

Max Boykoff, a professor in environmental studies at the University of Colorado Boulder, says he believes comedy can help drive the conversation forward on polarizing topics like climate change. (The majority of Americans with their neighbors or co-workers.)

鈥淭he comedic approach is not just simply a matter of making someone laugh. It鈥檚 actually a way to open people up,鈥� he says. In 2018, Boykoff and Beth Osnes, a professor of theatre, developed a creative climate communication course in which students developed their own comedy skits. At the end of the semester, 90% of students feeling more hopeful about climate change, and 83% said they believed their commitment to taking action on climate change was more likely to last.

Borum says that when comedy is done well, it can change minds on almost any topic鈥攕he has studied how comedy can create social change around poverty, inequality, and human rights. 鈥淭he best comedy that inserts something important about the world is not boring and lame,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd that鈥檚 true from a science perspective, but also a comedy perspective.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was originally co-published by , , , and , an editorially independent, nonprofit news service covering climate change. Follow .

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:31 p.m. PT on April 17, 2023, to correct the spelling of Esteban Gast鈥檚 name. Read our corrections policy here.

Sage Lenier attended her first environmental class as a high schooler in Corona, California, in 2015. It was an AP course that addressed some of the urgent problems facing the natural world, issues like biodiversity loss, climate change, and the ravages of industrial-scale farming. 

One lecture stood out to her in particular: The teacher told the class about the crisis of topsoil loss, or the layer of dirt where most plants鈥攊ncluding the crops we eat鈥攇row and flourish. According to the United Nations鈥� Food and Agriculture Organization, the world is expecting to lose 90% of its topsoil by 2050 if countries don鈥檛 take action.

She remembers her teacher talking about this fact almost casually, pointing out that once we鈥檝e depleted the topsoil, people will face extreme hunger. Lenier wanted to know what governments were doing about it, but her teacher鈥檚 answer was disappointing: World leaders would need to cooperate politically on an international scale that had never before been accomplished. In short, the planet was screwed. 

The whole class made her feel helpless. 

鈥淚 was really, really panicked, obviously,鈥� Lenier said over a Zoom call. 鈥淓nvironmental education as it stands is extremely alarmist, and I was freaking out.鈥�

Her best friend dropped the course because she found it too depressing. Lenier also felt scared by what she was learning about the future of the planet. Instead of ruminating in that fear, Lenier began to wonder what she could do to change things. Her parents and friends weren鈥檛 talking about these issues, and this was a few years before the climate youth strikes had raised the profile on the climate crisis. 

鈥淚 was really confused, really panicked, and wanted to do something,鈥� she said. 鈥淲hat I realized is that maybe our biggest problem is that no one knows any of this stuff.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

After she graduated high school, Lenier began to develop the kind of curriculum she wanted to be taught鈥攐ne focused on solutions. The University of California, Berkeley, where Lenier attended, offers a unique opportunity for students to teach their own university courses. The classes vary in subject matter from the whimsical鈥攖hink Harry Potter鈥攖o the technical, like computer coding and software engineering, but they all have to meet academic standards to be certified and sponsored by a faculty member. 

Lenier鈥檚 class, Solutions for a Sustainable and Just Future, was radically different from the environmental education norm, focused on both explaining the most pressing environmental issues of our time and then offering solutions. 

She taught it for the first time in 2018. It broke records for student enrollment, growing from 25 students to over 300 a semester at its peak. So far, over 1,800 people have taken the course, including 200 students who took the class virtually during the pandemic through Zero Waste USA. Though Lenier has graduated, it鈥檚 now being taught by student teachers she鈥檚 helped train. It also won a best practice award from the California Higher Education Sustainability Conference. 

According to data Lenier collected from her students, two-thirds of those who took the class came from non-environmental majors, and more than 70% said they had been inspired to become, or were becoming, involved in environmental work and activism. 

Now 24, Lenier is aiming to take her curriculum to universities and high schools across the country. She is at the forefront of a growing movement to integrate environmental curriculum into the education system, equipping students with the knowledge they need to help solve some of the largest environmental issues of our time. 

The state of environmental education in the United States can be described as either nonexistent or woefully inadequate. Radhika Iyengar, director of education for the Center for Sustainable Development at Columbia University, said most students are having to seek out information on their own through the internet and social media. There is no federal push to teach environmental education, and only a handful of states, like New Jersey and Connecticut, have made strides in incorporating the curriculum in K-12 schools. When climate change is taught, it is often through a side project or a single lesson. 

鈥淭his is just the tip of the iceberg that we鈥檙e touching,鈥� said Iyengar. 鈥淲e鈥檙e just now trying to integrate climate education when the climate is falling apart, and the Earth is falling apart.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The predominant model of engaging students in environmental work has also overwhelmingly focused on the existential problems at hand. Sarah Jaquette Ray, a professor and chair of environmental studies at Cal Poly Humboldt and author of A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety, describes the typical style of teaching about the environment鈥攖he kind Lenier encountered in high school鈥攁s the 鈥渟care to care model.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淭he vast majority of environmental, climate, and sustainability educators got Ph.D.s under the assumption that nobody cared or knew enough about the environment and needed to get more educated about it, in order for us to fix this problem,鈥� she said. 鈥淟ike, if we tell them how horrible it is, if we give them a litany of problems, they will know what to do to go out and fix them.鈥�

But instead, it was having the opposite impact, Ray said. 鈥淭he barrage of problems, the doom and gloom, in general 鈥� is having the effect, increasingly, of leaving people more apathetic, more desiring to numb out, [and] more likely to be in denial.鈥�

It is contributing to a growing feeling of despair about the environment among young people. A 2021 survey of 10,000 youth from across the world found that many are suffering from what is known as eco-anxiety, or a sort of existential dread about the state of the planet. Nearly 60% of respondents said they were very or extremely worried about climate change. 

Students are going to school seeking answers. Lenier鈥檚 class provides them.

The course itself not only centers solutions, but justice too. What drives Lenier is the people being impacted by climate change and the sometimes faulty response to it. She draws a distinction between capitalism, green capitalism (think Elon Musk and Tesla), and radical environmentalism鈥攖he latter being the version she focuses on in class. One that not only upholds care for the planet, but care for the people living on it too. 鈥淚 care about human rights, first and foremost,鈥� she said. 

The course starts with the history of consumption and chronicles the country鈥檚 waste streams, pointing out that most of what Americans consume ends up in landfills. This 鈥渓inear economy鈥� means resources are extracted, consumed, and then disposed of, leading to a rapidly degrading planet and conflict over its finite resources. 

But Lenier doesn鈥檛 stop there. Her class offers an alternative to the status quo, by explaining the possibilities found within a 鈥渃ircular economy,鈥� one in which things don鈥檛 lose their value in a landfill, but instead are recirculated as new items, or are in continuous use, without being viewed as disposable. 

Repairing clothing instead of throwing it away, or resoling shoes, could be an aspect of the circular economy, versus the fast fashion Americans have become accustomed to replacing at the smallest tear or hole.

It鈥檚 just one example Lenier offers as a window into how an alternative, regenerative future could take shape, one that prioritizes caring for the Earth and helps students imagine how they might fit into making it a reality. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 really about getting people excited about what a better world can look like,鈥� Lenier said. 

The class offers practical ways students can take steps in their own lives to limit their consumption, by offering alternatives to daily disposables, like paper towels and plastic bags, or providing examples of how to engage in the circular economy in small ways, like composting. 

This method of focusing on individuals鈥� actions does face criticism from some environmental activists, who say it detracts from the focus on industry players, like oil producers, which are responsible for a majority of carbon emissions.

Lenier sees the argument as a cop-out. 鈥淎mericans, or people of privilege globally, are so willing and able to just absolve themselves of any accountability,鈥� she said. 鈥淏ut if you can see your power as a person in the Global North, it would be transformative.鈥�

Lenier is advocating for systemic change too. Her class delves into the topics of decarbonization and degrowth鈥攁n argument for shrinking the economy鈥攖hough she thinks individuals, particularly in the U.S., should take responsibility for the harm they are causing to the rest of the world. 

Ray said a focus on providing people a blueprint of what they can do in their own lives to limit their impact on the planet has been shown to alter the way they behave. 

鈥淚t has a psychological effect of making people get more engaged,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t gives them a model of what they might be able to do in their own community. 鈥� So there鈥檚 sort of multiple psychological buttons that solutions push when [students are] in classes.鈥�

In some regards, American students are just now catching up to their peers in other countries in simply recognizing that climate change is real. This was something that struck Lovisa Lagercrantz, one of the co-facilitators of the Berkeley class, when she first moved to the states from Sweden when she was 15. 

鈥淚 felt like my discussions with my peers at school lunches were like, 鈥極h, do you believe in climate change?鈥� 鈥� like it is not something to be believed in,鈥� she said. 鈥淭he framework in Scandinavia was so far past that. Like it wasn鈥檛 a question to be taught, it was a fact. And that was something we were taught in school growing up.鈥�

Ray said there has been an ongoing shift among young people in their awareness of these issues. 鈥淚ncreasingly, the climate is an emotional thing,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t is intimate, it is a form of trauma, it is a form of fear. It is an emotional topic for many students.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The climate youth strikes, led by Greta Thunberg in 2018, helped bring the climate crisis to the forefront of students鈥� minds. But Iyengar also sees this activism as a reflection of societal failure to address the problem to begin with. 鈥淲e have pushed our students to a last resort,鈥� she said. 

Anu Thirunarayanan, another of the current co-facilitators, began teaching the class after they became drained by that kind of activism. 

鈥淚 think a lot of environmentalists burn out, in a sense, because they see so many of the negative aspects of what climate problems or environmental problems look like. And they are forced to deal with the underbelly,鈥� they said. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 hard to find hope in that.鈥�

They found out about Lenier鈥檚 class through a student club called the Students of Color Environmental Collective, and decided they wanted to shift gears to education and organizing instead of being active in campus rallies. 

As a co-facilitator, Thirunarayanan has added to the course curriculum, creating a module focused on environmental justice. This collaboration and student-led approach is what drew them to teaching the class to begin with, and it differed from most faculty-led courses in an important way.

鈥淭he identity of our faculty, a large portion of them are white, and most of them are men. And I think the fact that this class has been entirely taught by women and nonbinary students, and at least around half of us have been people of color, I think, adds that additional intersectional identity to how the course is taught,鈥� they said. 

Now, Thirunarayanan and Lagercrantz are helping Lenier turn the class into an exportable curriculum that could be taught at other universities and high schools through her recently launched nonprofit, Sustainable & Just Future. Her tagline? 鈥淵outh-led environmental education for the revolution.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For Lenier, the goal is simple: educate as many millions of people as possible to tackle the problem of climate change. 

While still in the early stages of getting funding and figuring out how to run the nonprofit full time, already she is fielding hundreds of inquiries from students at other universities who are seeking to bring the program to their schools. She has plans to develop a digital version of the course offerings, and eventually would like to see the course integrated into K-12 education across the country. 

It鈥檚 about more than providing solutions; in Lenier鈥檚 eyes, it鈥檚 about empowering students from across disciplines to 鈥渄ig into their community鈥� and find the ways in which their skill sets can contribute to solving one of the biggest challenges of our time. 

鈥淚f we start raising people who have the Earth as a priority and also a knowledge of how these systems impact them, and their role in it, and instead of churning out hundreds of thousands more people with business degrees 鈥� we churn out people who are empathetic and curious about the world and looking to make it a better place, genuinely,鈥� she said, 鈥淚 think that is revolutionary.鈥�

This story was originally published by . To read more of its stories answering the 鈥渉ow鈥� and 鈥渨hy鈥� of the intersection of environment and race news, .

Dead branches were still dangling a month later. But rows of mustard greens were unfurling nearby, and a thicket of green vines reached toward the sun, dotted with tangy orange bulbs.

鈥淭hese sungold tomatoes were toast,鈥� Gentry said, sounding almost astonished. 鈥淏ut now look at them. They鈥檙e coming back. It鈥檚 like spring again.鈥�

Over the past four years, Gentry has transformed 2 acres of trash-strewn dirt on Long Island鈥檚 southeast coast into a profitable organic farm by betting big on soil. Instead of pumping her crops with pesticides and petrochemical fertilizer, Gentry grows vetch, a hardy pealike plant, and rye to cover the exposed soil between the rows of greens intended for harvest. She layers the soil with specially mined rock dust that replenishes minerals and pulls carbon from the air. And in the spring and summer, she uses a system of crop rotation鈥攕hifting around where different crops are planted鈥攕o that one plant鈥檚 nutrient needs don鈥檛 drain the soil. These practices are collectively known as regenerative farming.

Tests of the soil show the organic content is now seven times higher than when she began. The result is produce so flavorful that she can鈥檛 keep up with the number of restaurants and home cooks looking to buy shares. 

Gentry鈥檚 farm is also resilient, one where healthy soil soaks up rainwater like a sponge and replenishes the crops. She barely missed a delivery after the storm. 

At a moment when fires and storms are wreaking havoc from coast to coast, mounting research suggests that practicing the soil techniques Gentry uses on a much wider scale could remove climate-changing gases from the atmosphere and provide a vital bulwark in the fight to maintain a habitable planet. They鈥檙e part of a mix of solutions experts say are needed to keep global temperatures from surpassing 1.5 degrees Celsius above pre-industrial averages, beyond which projections show catastrophic threats to our coasts, ecosystems, and food and water supplies. 

Regenerative practices range from growing trees and reverting croplands to wild prairies, to rotating crops and allowing remnants after harvest to decompose into the ground. The techniques, already popular with small-scale organic growers, are steadily gaining traction among big farms and ranches as the chaotic effects of climate change and financial pressure from agribusiness giants eat away at their businesses.

鈥淭his is about covering the soil, feeding the soil and not disrupting it,鈥� said Betsy Taylor, the president at Breakthrough Strategies & Solutions, a consultancy that focuses on regenerative agriculture. 鈥淭hose are the basic principles.鈥�

Countries such as France are promoting large-scale government programs to encourage farmers to increase the carbon stored in soil. Members of Congress have also proposed legislation to push regenerative farming in the U.S., and several states are designing their own policies. Progressive think tanks call for small shifts in existing U.S. Department of Agriculture programs and beefed-up research funding that could trigger the biggest changes to American farming in almost a century. Nearly every Democratic presidential candidate pitched paying farmers to trap carbon in soil as a key plank of their climate platform, including nominee Joe Biden.

鈥淲e should be making farmers the recipients of a climate change plan where they get paid to absorb carbon,鈥� the former vice president said during a CNN town hall this past week. 

While the benefits to soil and food nutrition are difficult to dispute, regenerative farming has its critics. They argue that its climate advantages are overhyped or unproven, the product of wishful thinking about a politically palatable solution, and that the focus on regenerative farming risks distracting policymakers from more effective, if less exciting, strategies. 

Industrial Agriculture鈥檚 Bill Is Coming Due

At the end of World War II, federal farming policy started to transform the breadbasket of the Midwest into vast plains of corn, soybeans, and grains. The same principles of mechanized bulk production that turned the United States into a military powerhouse capable of fending off the Japanese and Nazi empires were applied to farming. Surplus chemicals from weapons manufacturing found new uses eradicating crop-eating insects, and nitrogen plants that once made components for bombs started producing ammonia to feed fields. 

Geopolitics only hastened the trend, as widespread Soviet crop failures forced Russian officials to buy grain from overseas and the Nixon administration capitalized on the opportunity. Agriculture Secretary Earl 鈥淩usty鈥� Butz, who served under Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford, directed farmers to 鈥減lant fence row to fence row,鈥� and quantity trumped all else. Farmers took out loans to expand operations, turning 鈥済et big or get out鈥� into a mantra, as Butz promised that any surplus could be sold overseas. 

The damage to farm soil kicked into overdrive as farmers planted the same monoculture crops year after year and added more chemical fertilizers to make up for the sapped minerals and dead microbes. The cumulative effect has been twofold. The U.S. loses top soil at a rate than it鈥檚 replenished. And carbon and other gases seep from the plowed, exposed soil into the air, contributing to the emissions rapidly warming the planet and increasing the frequency and severity of destructive droughts and storms. 

Less than two weeks after Tropical Storm Isaias made landfall over Gentry鈥檚 farm, a powerful storm known as a derecho鈥攐r 鈥渋nland hurricane鈥濃�攆ormed in Iowa, some 1,100 miles west. The storm destroyed nearly half the state鈥檚 crop rows. 鈥淭his will ruin us,鈥� one farmer told a . Another called it a 鈥渃atastrophic scenario.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Losses from extreme weather are only expected to grow in the years ahead. Even if warming is kept within a 2 degrees Celsius warming scenario, the less ambitious goal spelled out in the Paris climate accords, U.S. corn production will likely suffer an 18% hit, according to a published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. 

For many farmers, the federal crop insurance program has been a lifeline in tumultuous times. But it also encourages them to plant in harm鈥檚 way by providing incentives to cultivate every inch of land, including marginal acres prone to flooding, and it  by making it difficult for farmers to insure a variety of crops at once. In 2014, the federal  found that, as a result of the insurance program鈥檚 policies, farmers 鈥渄o not bear the true cost of their risk of loss due to weather-related events, such as drought鈥攚hich could affect their farming decisions.鈥�

鈥淎s farmers, we鈥檙e trying to make rational economic decisions in an irrational system,鈥� said Matt Russell, a fifth-generation Iowa farmer who promotes regenerative soil practices. 鈥淲e have externalized the pollution so the public pays for those costs and nobody in the supply chain pays for it, while at the same time, when I do something good, I can鈥檛 externalize the cost at all.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥榊ou鈥檝e Got A Win鈥�

Plans to shift federal incentives to favor regenerative farming aim first to loosen big agribusiness鈥檚 grip on the industry. 

The think tank has proposed overhauling the federal crop insurance program to limit the total acreage eligible for coverage, phase out incentives for single-crop planting and create new tax credits designed specifically for family-owned farms, restricting how much corporate giants could benefit from the subsidized insurance. 

With that stick would come a carrot: Under Data for Progress鈥� plan, Congress would increase the budget for the USDA鈥檚 existing conservation programs. 

As farmers, we鈥檙e trying to make rational economic decisions in an irrational system. Matt Russell, a fifth-generation Iowa farmer

The Conservation Stewardship Program already provides farmers with cash payments of up to and technological assistance for steps such as assessing which plots of farming and grazing land should be allowed to go natural. With an expanded mandate to sequester carbon dioxide, the program might fund a national assessment to determine which areas are best suited for rewilding or carbon farming and compensate farmers directly to do that. 

The program paid out $1.4 billion last year alone. Data for Progress proposed that the USDA significantly increase funding for both the program and research, and provide employees in all its conservation programs with training to understand and help regulate regenerative farming practices. 

鈥淭丑别谤别 are so many wins in regenerative agriculture,鈥� said Maggie Thomas, a former climate policy adviser to the presidential campaigns of U.S. Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) and Washington Gov. Jay Inslee (D), who serves as political director of the progressive climate group Evergreen Action. 鈥淵ou鈥檝e got a win for farmers. You鈥檝e got a win for soils and the environment. You鈥檝e got a win for better food. There鈥檚 no reason not to do it.鈥�

The hopes for such changes are dim under the Trump administration, which spent its first three years sidelining climate science and spurring an from the USDA as frustration over political appointees鈥� meddling with research grew. (A five-year proposal the agency released in February did seem to show a growing acceptance of the need to address climate change, offering what called 鈥渉opeful signs.鈥�)

Maryland already pays farmers  for fields maintained with cover crops. Montana state officials collaborated with a nonprofit consortium paying ranchers to adopt that increase carbon storage in the soil. 

In January, Vermont proposed a plan to incorporate by farmers into the Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative, a cap-and-trade scheme that includes most of the Northeast states. In March, Minnesota officials gathered for a to combat climate change. In June, Colorado solicited input for a state-level aimed at 鈥渁dvancing climate resilience.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Investors see potential profit in the shift to regenerative agriculture. In January, the Seattle startup Nori was able to raise $1.3 million to fund its platform using blockchain technology to pay farmers to remove carbon from the atmosphere. And Boston-based Indigo Ag, a similar startup, announced in June that it had brought in another $300 million from investors, becoming the world鈥檚 highest-valued ag-tech firm at an estimated $3.5 billion.

But some fear these platforms offer dubious benefits, particularly because the credits generated by the farmers鈥� stored carbon could be bought by industrial giants that would rather offset their own pollution than eliminate it.

鈥淚t鈥檚 right to be skeptical of these companies,鈥� said Mackenzie Feldman, a fellow at Data for Progress and lead author on its regenerative farming proposal. 鈥淚t has to be the government doing this, and it can be through mechanisms that already exist, like the Conservation Stewardship Program.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Are The Benefits Being Oversold?

But not everyone is jumping on the regenerative farming bandwagon. In May, a group of researchers at the World Resources Institute , arguing 鈥渢hat the practices grouped as regenerative agriculture can improve soil health and yield some valuable environmental benefits, but are unlikely to achieve large-scale emissions reductions.鈥�

鈥淣o-till鈥� farming鈥攁 seeding practice that requires growers to inject seeds into fields without disturbing the soil, which became popular with environmentalists several years ago鈥攈as had only limited carbon benefits because farmers inevitably plow their fields after a few years, WRI argued, pointing to a in the journal Nature Climate Change. 

And cover crops can be costly to plant and difficult to propagate in the weeks between a fall harvest and the winter months, WRI said, highlighting the findings of an . The group also cast doubt over the methods used to account for carbon added to soil.

In June, seven of the world鈥檚 leading soil scientists  to WRI鈥檚 claims, which they said drew too narrow conclusions and failed to see the potential of combining multiple regenerative practices. 

WRI researcher Tim Searchinger renewed the debate this past month with his own response to the response, accusing the critics of his critique of relying on misleading information from a 2007 United Nations report to inflate the potential for capturing carbon in soil at large scale. 

鈥淭he realistic ability to sequester additional carbon in working agricultural soils is limited,鈥� he wrote. 鈥淏ecause what causes carbon to remain in soils is not well understood, further research is needed, and our views may change as new science emerges.鈥�

Rock You In A Hurricane

Some of the latest science sheds light on one aspect of regenerative farming that didn鈥檛 factor into the recent debate at all. In July, a published in the journal Nature found that spreading rock dust on soil at maximum scale in the world鈥檚 three largest carbon emitters鈥擟hina, the United States and India鈥攃ould collectively remove up to 2 billion metric tons of carbon dioxide from the air per year. 

The process, known as 鈥渆nhanced rock weathering,鈥� occurs when minerals in the rock dust react with carbon in rainwater and turn into bicarbonate ions. Those ions are eventually washed into the oceans, where they鈥檙e stored indefinitely as rock minerals. 

鈥淭he more we looked into it, the more it seemed like a no-brainer,鈥� said David Beerling, a soil researcher at the U.K.鈥檚 University of Sheffield and the lead author of the study. 

That鈥檚 a leap Thomas Vanacore took nearly four decades ago. The Vermont farmer and quarryman realized in the 1980s that mineral-rich dust from basalt and shale quarries could replenish nutrients in soil without using synthetic fertilizers, which would appeal to his state鈥檚 organic farmers. But as he studied climate change, he also concluded that his product could help pull carbon from the atmosphere. 

鈥淵ou can鈥檛 do what modern farming has done for years, where you kill everything and expect to grow life,鈥� Vanacore said, standing before a pile of black shale at a quarry in Shoreham, Vermont. For farmers looking to make the shift to regenerative practices, 鈥渞ock dust is the jumpstart,鈥� he said. 

This month, he delivered his largest shipment to date to an industrial farm supplier in the Canadian province of Saskatchewan. Vanacore said he expects to ship an added 245 rail cars full of rock dust over the northern border in the next 12 months. 

His customers swear by the stuff鈥攊ncluding Gentry, who started buying bags of his brix-blend basalt when she first started her farm. Without the rock dust, Gentry doubts that her soil would be as fertile as it is today. Her embrace of pioneering techniques is reflected in the name of her plot: Early Girl Farm. 

This story originally appeared in and is republished here as part of Covering Climate Now, a global journalism collaboration strengthening coverage of the climate story.