Protected by the jungle canopy, crickets and frogs emit a gnawing chorus. There’s a moment in the early hours of the morning when their frenetic singing gently subsides, and you can enjoy the dance of the foliage caressed by the wind. It was during these couple of hours that I sleeplessly paced the streets of San Gabriel village. Despite my best efforts to walk gently, after a short time it seemed that all the dogs in the village had registered my presence. Furious barking came from all directions. For the distrustful canines, a stranger that prowls at unusual hours near their domain can only be interpreted as a menace.

I was heading to an appointment, with a 4 a.m. start necessary for the long round trip. The purpose: transporting charcoal to the city of Playa del Carmen. Around 4:15, the rumble of a Ford F350 lorry managed to drown out the canine cacophony, rudely interrupting what had started as a peaceful early morning in a village in the Mayan Rainforest.

The driver Norberto, President of the Commissariat of the Ejido[1] and Director of the cooperative Carboneros del Sureste (CASUR), greeted me with unusual lethargy. “Won’t Mr. Alberto come?”, I asked him. “Alberto is busy today”, he replied, “but Aureliano will be coming instead”.

Shortly, Aureliano approached the lorry with a similar countenance to Norberto’s – that of a sleep deprived man with an empty stomach.

With reluctant haste, Norberto and Aureliano cleared out the load compartment of the lorry, until only a heavy, dusty tarp and a set of thick and splintered ropes remained. The three of us climbed inside the driver’s cabin. I occupied the middle position. At 04:30 a.m., the lorry began to move. We left for Chacte’ob Ejido, where we would pick up our cargo.

Charcoal is produced year-round in San Gabriel, but that week the charcoal warehouse was almost empty. The Ejido San Gabriel has a Forestry Management Plan that allows it to commercialize approximately 200 tons of charcoal annually. CASUR is part of a peasant-lead commercialization mechanism, through which they can sell their commodities directly to hotels and restaurants on the touristic Mayan Riviera. The commercialization platform has a warehouse in Playa del Carmen, and they co-manage it with other rural organizations and civil society entities. One of the objectives of the project is to get rid of middlemen and thereby obtain larger profit margins, in parallel to incentivizing the orderly management of the forest.

Whilst the cooperative’s marketing channel seems to show promise, it poses challenges for the members of CASUR. Its clients – hotels and restaurants – demand small quantities of the product delivered on a weekly basis, unlike the former middlemen who bought whole trailers at a time, picking up the charcoal in the village themselves when the Ejido had enough product in its warehouse. Since its creation in 2017, CASUR’s commercialization project has achieved some of its objectives. In recent months, however, the cooperative has found it difficult to collect enough charcoal. In the village, other families became eager to collect and sell charcoal supported by the former middlemen, who were upset by the cooperative’s aspiration to sell directly to hotels and restaurants.

To solve the friction and disagreement among its members, the Ejido assembly agreed to divide the total authorized charcoal production among every Ejido member so that each person could sell to whoever they chose: to the cooperative or to the former middlemen.

The previous arrangement in San Gabriel Ejido granted CASUR the exclusive use of the authorized amount of charcoal, to strengthen the position of charcoal producers in the market. Now the cooperative is unsure how much charcoal they can produce and collect each week. This situation has hindered its capacity to meet the goal of regularly supplying its clients in the Mayan Riviera with charcoal.

Along with its external allies, CASUR determined that it should buy charcoal to other Ejidos who have legal permits to produce and transport it. With such agreements, CASUR can maintain a constant supply to its customers whenever there is not enough charcoal in San Gabriel due to internal competition in the village. Therefore, CASUR forged an alliance with the Ejido Chacte’ob. They would provide the amounts that CASUR could not produce. The alliance implied that CASUR would be in charge of loading the charcoal in Chacte’ob and would take it to the warehouse in Playa del Carmen.

At 5:15, we stopped for breakfast at the municipal food market of José María Morelos. After a couple of tortillas filled with pork, Norberto and Aureliano regained vitality and exchanged some chat in Mayan over an ice cold Coke. I ordered a papaya juice. We resumed our journey. I tried to engage Norberto in conversation.

“It is a pity that the wood that is cut down in the Milpa just stays there, and it is not possible to legally produce charcoal with it, don’t you think?”, I asked Norberto.

“Yeah. In the Milpa a lot of wood ends up lying there. If it is not transformed into charcoal, most of it rots. People are looking for high forest to cut because the corn grows better there – but when you cut tall trees, not all the wood will burn. The wood that does not burn is what people use for charcoal”, Norberto explained.

In San Gabriel, CASUR enforces compliance with the forestry law by persuading charcoal producers to restrict their activity to the areas authorized for forestry management by the Secretariat of Environment and Natural Resources. Nevertheless, many Ejido members have fought for permission to produce charcoal with wood obtained at their Milpas, outside the area of forestry management. To make Milpa – the traditional technique used for corn, beans and squash crops – it is customary to cut down and burn patches of forest to prepare the soil for sowing. In San Gabriel, it is a common practice to reserve a quarter of the wood that lies on the ground after cutting, to make charcoal in situ. This practice is not in accordance with Mexican environmental legislation, which states that wood can only be extracted or transformed in fixed areas authorized by the Secretariat of Environment and Natural Resources. The law does not consider Milpa to be a valid forest management technique.

We drove in a south-easterly direction. This dry season was preceded by almost zero rainfall the previous winter. The low forest already looked defeated by the lack of water, their leafless branches pointed at the sky imploring the summer rains. As we turned to the east at an almost imperceptible pace, we left behind the landscapes of short vegetation that characterize the northern and central Yucatan Peninsula. The foliage became greener and more elevated as we penetrated the evergreen rainforests that foretell the proximity of the Caribbean beaches. Our view of the road became momentarily blurred by strips of fog that ran across the windshield like transparent fingers. Despite the difficult visibility, Norberto drove smoothly, managing to avoid the cracks in the ground that became more recurrent, threatening to devour  the tires at every turn. Aureliano took a nap.

Before reaching Chacte’ob, we crossed two towns. We passed school children in their neat school uniforms and young women waiting for public transport. Groups of men gathered separately on their small motorbikes. A few minutes down the road, this scene was replaced by small motorized congregations of youngsters equipped with tarnished chainsaws and ragged backpacks.

“The wood brings them into action here”, said Norberto, referring to the youngsters from Ejido Chacte’ob beginning their working day.

Chacte’ob is one of the largest Ejidos in Quintana Roo, at more than 150 square miles. Here, communitarian forestry is an essential economic activity that provides sustenance to a large portion of its approximately 1,000 inhabitants. Its dense evergreen forests not only protect a blazing universe of tropical birds and endangered mammals, they are also home to a wide variety of tree species of high commercial value. The multi-layered canopy that protects the terrestrial fauna from the relentless sun is sustained by hundreds of tree species that  the youngsters of Chacte’ob selectively extract for sale at the market. Other activities linked with the forested landscape, such as ecotourism projects, beekeeping – and charcoal production – complement the income of the Chacte’oban families.

Itching to load the charcoal, Norberto parked the lorry in the area surrounding the main square of the town. His haste was justified; our journey would not take us back to San Gabriel before dusk unless all the manoeuvres were executed with utmost efficiency.

The person in charge of coordinating the delivery of charcoal in Chacte’ob was not at home, we were told. We had no choice but to wait.

After 20 minutes, a dilapidated Tsuru parked next to us. It was driven by Mariano, member of the directive board of the Ejido and the man in charge of the charcoal. He greeted us with contagious enthusiasm. He explained that he had been “supervising work inside the forest”, that he did not have the permits ready, and that he still needed to find the keys of the Ejido office and fill in the documents. More waiting.

Mariano left then returned, accompanied by two young men. Now with diminished fervour, he explained that the Ejido had ran out of permits. As an alternative, it was possible to ask the neighbouring Ejido Doroteo Arango for help. Norberto and I got in the Tsuru while Aureliano and Mariano’s two companions began loading the sacks of charcoal into the lorry.

“Can we get a permit from the Doroteo Arango people?”, I asked. “Don’t worry, Mister – it won’t take long”, answered Mariano. The town of Doroteo Arango lies beside a heavily transited federal motorway, but has an ambience of quietness in its streets that contrasted to the hectic morning activity that we witnessed at sunrise in Chacte’ob. After a brief pilgrimage, we found the man in charge of the forestry permits. Mariano explained in succinct terms what our mission entailed. Without much hesitation, the man nodded, got on his motorbike and came back half an hour later with a folder packed with green sheets of paper. He delivered the desired document to Norberto, who proceeded to diligently read the permit.

“This demands patience…”, I said to Norberto as he finished filling in the permit. “That’s right – and we haven’t even started yet”, said Norberto calmly as the clock hit 9:30.

Back in Chacte’ob, the refreshing humidity of the early morning was substituted by intense, cloudless heat. Aureliano sheltered himself under the gentle shade of a Ramón tree (Brosimum alicastrum), approximately 65 feet high. His face and arms were covered by a fine layer of black particles, as were the faces of the two young men that Mariano brought for loading the charcoal. 160 sacks of charcoal were neatly stacked onto the lorry. A couple of empty Coke bottles rolled next to their feet. A reward for getting the job done.

We left Chacte’ob for the north-east wanting to make up lost time. The series of obstacles we had faced so far made me think about the controversial infrastructure project, the Mayan Train. The project is promoted with vehemence by the Federal government. It’s depicted as the key transformation that will unleash development in an ‘abandoned region’, as President Andrés Manuel López Obrador refers to the Yucatan Peninsula’s rural areas. The Mexican government claims that the train will exponentially increase the flux of tourists in rural areas beyond the touristic cities of the Mexican Caribbean. The train stations will be accompanied by ambitious urbanization projects that intend to attract large touristic and agro-industrial private investments in impoverished areas of the Peninsula.

The development promises of the Mayan Train has been contested by multiple activists, academics and indigenous organizations that fear the train and the urbanization project will oversee environmental regulations, and open the door to extractive industries whose effects have largely proven to be detrimental to the environment and local populations. Aureliano is critical towards the train. He has actively participated in workshops led by the Assembly of Territory Defenders Much Xiin Baal, where indigenous leaders disseminate critical reflections about the Mayan Train and Mayan culture with communities that will be affected by the mega-project.

“It is a project that will benefit big companies who are looking for new territories. It won’t benefit us”, reflected Aureliano. Norberto has a more nuanced view, but is still sceptical. “The government plans sound OK, but you can never tell what will really happen”.

As I saw in CASUR’s income statements, transportation and logistics are their most significant cost. A railway network connecting the rural areas with the dynamic markets of the Mexican Caribbean could be a convenient, cost shrinking tool for communitarian initiatives like CASUR, which are trying to improve their position in value chains. It could also, however, reinforce the former middlemen’s strength, if the latter are the ones who use the train to enhance their businesses.

We slowly traversed the lonely country roads of the Mayan rainforest, the recurrent dips on the road keeping us alert. At around 10:30, we merged onto federal road 307, which connects the touristic destinations of the Mayan Riviera. We passed the city of  Felipe Carrillo Puerto, the spiritual and organizational headquarter of Mayan rebels at war with the Yucatecan elites settled in Merida during the second half of the 19th century. Today, the city marks the start of the most dangerous section of the road.  Towards the north, a track of 60 miles separates Felipe Carrillo Puerto from Tulum. Accidents, kidnappings and robbery have occurred with increasing frequency here in the last 5 years.

In the State of Quintana Roo, the violence associated with drug cartels pulses from the north-eastern tip to the rest of the Peninsula, with Cancun its point of origin. Whilst the zone between Carrillo Puerto and Tulum is the most recent frontier of criminal violence, these risks were not the ones that distressed Norberto and Aureliano. Their worries were triggered by the anticipation of an encounter with the Federal Police – recently transformed into the National Guard. Weeks before our trip, Norberto told me about these incidents:

“Almost always, they tell us that the charcoal should have a sales invoice. I tell them, ‘No, Boss, because this charcoal goes to a warehouse from the same cooperative. The permit should be enough’. Usually, the police take the permit and, contravening the correct legal procedure, they say: Follow me folks, we will meet on the next bridge”, obliging Norberto to drive the lorry with charcoal for which he can no longer legally account for if the military or police pulls them over again.

Norberto recounts that on one occasion, the Federal Police pulled them over in Carrillo, and then again before reaching Playa del Carmen. “I told the second one ‘hey boss, we already offered our share to the policemen of Carrillo’. He answered: ‘It doesn’t matter! Those were state troopers, we are something different’. It is part of the game. What can we do about it?”

Aureliano also has plenty of anecdotes about these encounters. “They tell us: ‘Instead of moving your charcoal from the village to the city, you should simply sell it in your Ejido and release an invoice. Why are you complicating your life?’. There is no way to win over them. They have suggested we go and talk to the regional manager to reach an agreement. People say that all the major transport companies go through them to avoid problems. I don’t know, that sounds expensive”.

For each journey to Playa del Carmen, CASUR budgets around $500 mxn for bribing the Federal Police.

Aureliano recalls: “The first time they pulled us over we offered a $200 mxn bill. We had no more. ‘Don’t fuck with me’, the policeman told me”.

“They always find something”, Noberto adds. “It can be the insurance, the invoice, having old tires. We know those are only pretexts. Even if we had everything in place”.

A quarter of an hour later, after passing Carrillo Puerto, my sleepiness was interrupted when Norberto stopped on a parking shoulder in front of a patrol vehicle of the Federal Police.

“Are they pulling us over?”, I asked. “Yep. I’ll be right back”, answered Norberto, while he grabbed a folder and put some bills in his shirt pocket.

Norberto chatted with two uniformed agents. Their verbal exchange projected an air of cordiality, at least from the perspective offered by the wing mirror. Aureliano got out of the car to make a phone call. I followed him to stretch my legs and get a bit closer to the agents of the National Guard. I placed myself a couple of metres away from Norberto displaying a big smile, sunglasses on.

“It was about time to stretch the legs!”, I said with a friendly tone. The policemen looked at me for a couple of seconds without any major reaction. They paused their chat. One of them said, “Alright. Wait for me in your vehicle. We will check this out”.

We all went back inside the lorry. After a quarter of an hour, one of the policemen made a hand gesture to Norberto through the wing mirror. The driver got down immediately and came back in less than a minute.

“It’s done. I had to give them $800 mxn. They said it was because our suspension was crooked, that we exceeded 100 km/hour when the limit for load trucks is 80, and because we are carrying more than 3.5 tonnes. They always find something. The fine would have been of around $6,000 mxn”.

Indeed, the lorry has an authorized load capacity of 3.5 tonnes and in Chacte’ob we loaded almost 4. About the speed, it was hard to tell because our speedometer didn’t work, but I doubt that we were close to 100 km/hr with the 160 sacks on board. Acknowledging the meagre profit margins and the huge scalability challenges that CASUR’s business model faces, I wonder whether it would be economically viable to keep up with all the legal and technical components needed to avoid extorsions or fines in the Mexican motorways. I thought again about how convenient it would be to move larger volumes of charcoal by train. Luckily, we did not find any other patrol ahead.

Soon, we had lunch in the next city: Tulum. This time, instead of eating in a traditional food market – places rarely found in the young cities of the Mayan Riviera – we entered a small restaurant next to the motorway. Our jeans and shirts stained with black spots contrasted with the bright colours and light beach clothing worn by the other customers. I noted that Norberto and Aureliano were struggling, uneasily turning the pages of a menu that offered a wide variety of dishes in contrast to the pork tacos on offer at the food market in José María Morelos. I recommended some options, but when the waiter came over, they simply said, “The same as him. And a Coke”.

We hit the road again. After Tulum, the road shifted from being a two laned semi-motorway to a full motorway of four or five lanes. The flux of vehicles became denser and more frenetic as we approached Playa del Carmen. The transit is composed of lorries of all sizes, vans packed with tourists and private cars with one or two passengers, all in a hurry. Heading north, the road is no longer flanked by tall trees, but by majestic entrances of all-inclusive hotels displaying Anglo-Saxon names evocative of sun and beach paradise scenery. The vast gardens and monumental signs of the hotel corporations stand with pride between the road and the highly valuable Caribbean sands. Passing the hotel area, the hasty drivers seem to disregard the low-skilled workers running with reckless hurry across the motorway to reach the public transport on the other side of the road. The cooks and maintenance personnel standing at the roofless bus stops, juxtaposed against the grandiose hotel entrances.

We arrived at the warehouse in Playa del Carmen at 14:00. The staff there told me they recently moved to a new location because the former warehouse was smaller. The neighbourhood had registered a frightening increase in robberies of businesses and households.

“The situation here is dire. Last week a guy was shot to death on this street”. The staff showed me a newly installed security camera system that they bought after the store next door was robbed. The locals refer to this city as Playa del Crimen (Crime Beach).

“Are you still selling as much charcoal as before? Hasn’t COVID hit the city yet?”, I asked them. “It seems that orders are slowly going down, but we are still delivering a lot of charcoal”, the chief of staff replied.

In less than an hour, Norberto, Aureliano and the staff discharged the lorry and filled in administrative forms. When the clock hit 15:00, we were back on the road. At least now our vehicle didn’t tilt.

The journey back home went without interruption. There were no encounters with the police – they never occur on the return trip. We stopped only once to get refreshments. In the rural areas of the Yucatan Peninsula, buying something to drink is a synonym of buying Coke or related sugared alternatives. In the small shops of villages and towns, sometimes it is hard to find bottled water. The music selection changed to an eclectic mix provided by Aureliano, consisting of reggaeton alternated with the folk songs of Vicente Fernandez. The journey was much shorter since we didn’t deviate to Chacte’ob.

After passing Tulum, we left the federal motorway and re-joined the country roads right around the time when the sun stops irradiating heat and the fresh winds from the north descend upon the forest. In the first town we crossed, I observed a modern bus stamped with the flashy logos of a big hotel. From it emerged workers carrying small suitcases. They wore tidy white uniforms with golden letterheads attached to their shirts. I imagined these people going home, taking off their uniforms, putting on shorts and light shirts and maybe watching television whilst swinging on their hammocks. Maybe the next day they’ll join a family member to the Milpa, and through these actions they’ll reintegrate into the Mayan lifestyle – which seems like a distant universe here next to the touristic corridor . The modern hotel bus looked alien rolling along the streets of this town. Our creaky lorry went unnoticed, blended with ease into the rural scenery. It was the sensation of being home again.

By 5 p.m. I was already exhausted, and my buttocks were seriously numb. Norberto, on the other hand, looked vital and in a rush to reach the town Tihosuco. He expected to buy construction material there before the sun went down.

Mr. Alberto asked me to get some sand. That’s a good way to avoid coming back with an empty trunk, Norberto explained.

I could only observe with astonishment how Aureliano and Norberto shovelled a significant number of kilos of sand at a fast pace. Fortunately for me, there were only two shovels available.

An hour later we were back in San Gabriel, with no sun in the horizon but still a dim blue sky. That is the precise moment when mosquitoes are out to feast.

“We’ve been at this for 14 hours!”, I exclaimed when I saw my watch as we entered San Gabriel.

“That’s how it is. A long trip”, replied Norberto, now with visible signs of exhaustion in his eyes.

I said goodbye to my travel companions in the main square of the village where people always hang out, be it under the protection of an old palm-leaf roof or in the soccer courtyard next to it. This evening, the neighbouring village of San Jorge joined a friendly soccer match against the San Gabriel team. A couple of lamps hanging loose from 4m high poles illuminating the ball and the players. Seated in a dispersed pattern at the sides of the courtyard, a dozen youngsters followed the match, their attention and jokes alternating between their cell phones and the players. Aureliano joined the spectators and Norberto went home.

I have seen most of these young people actively participating in the production of charcoal, in the Milpas and in the Ejido assemblies. Some of them have shared with me their past experiences as low skilled workers in Playa del Carmen and Cancun. Most of them came back to San Gabriel when charcoal became a prominent activity and decided to establish themselves permanently in the village. Even though charcoal and Milpa offer a comparatively lower income than the salaries of the city, it seems to be good enough to access what they say is a good life in an environment that offers them less dangers than urban life.

The current preference of San Gabriel youngsters to make a living in their village seem so different to what I heard in the consultations on the Mayan Train. There, Ejido leaders of the Yucatan Peninsula claimed that they would support the governmental plans to build the train and establish new urban centres if new jobs will benefit their youngsters. Critics to the Mayan Train warn that the jobs created by the construction of the train and the touristic and agro-industrial investments will be precarious and hyper concentrated in the new urban areas. It seems uncertain whether the rural lifestyle of the Mayans will be strengthened by a virtuous interaction with market forces, or if their indigenous culture will be further marginalized.

The youth of San Gabriel dress and speak in different ways from their parents. They listen to different types of music and project different values, but they share with the previous generation the quality of being an Other, an alien group, which is at the same time linked with the political and financial forces that pulse with increasing vigour from the touristic cities of the Mayan Riviera. As I talk to them and they invite me to enjoy the match with another Coke, I wonder what their situation will be in the following years.

[1] Ejido is a collective property form of land tenure created during the agrarian reform that the Mexican State brought about throughout the 20th century.

_____________________

To protect the identity of the protagonists, the names of some places, all of the people and organizations that appear in this article were modified and faces in the images have been blurred.

Noé Mendoza is a PhD Fellow at the Department of International Environment and Development Studies (Noragric). His research seeks to enhance our understanding of the relationship between economic inequality and environmental change, focusing on a case-study in the Mayan Rainforest.

The post Long read: A Mayan quest for a market economy appeared first on Noragric blog.

With several Gigafactories planned to be built over the coming decade, Norway is taking strides in the battery business. The country’s new ‘industrial adventure’ is promising a ‘green’ and ‘sustainable’ form of economic value creation, bringing jobs and innovation. However, batteries depend on minerals, such as lithium, which are extracted abroad. Therefore, it is important to inquire on what material basis the emerging industry is built, and with what consequences beyond our borders.

Norwegian battery visions

In the past months, electric vehicle (EV) batteries have received enormous attention in Norway – not only due to the country’s high percentage of fossil-free cars on the roads. Several companies are developing factories to produce the world’s ‘greenest’ battery cells, primarily based on lithium-ion technology.

After a new large-scale battery project was announced last December, the national broadcaster NRK reported that potential hosts were “queuing to become battery-municipalities”. The world’s largest aluminum producer Hydro, the state-owned former oil and gas – now energy – company Equinor and Panasonic initiated a battery partnership. Their so-called Joint Battery Initiative is looking for a suitable location for their plants – 82 municipalities across the country have applied to host it.

In the meantime, three other projects aspire to deliver lithium-ion batteries within half a decade. One of them is in Mo i Rana, an industrial town just below the arctic circle. Freyr, which recently got listed on the New York Stock Exchange, is constructing four battery plants with up to 43 GWh capacity by 2025. These factories could produce cells for up to 800’000 electric cars a year. The Rana municipality is optimistic: Expecting 1500 new jobs, it bought shares in Freyr worth 10 million NOK last year, and is even considering to build a new airport.

The new battery industry in Norway promises economic growth, up to 30’000 jobs, regional development and technological innovation. In its latest climate action plan, the government identified industries along the battery supply chain as key to ‘green growth. Battery technology also speaks to desires of mitigating climate change: According to Morten Halleraker, Head of Batteries at Hydro, lithium-ion batteries are “one of the solutions to our generation’s biggest challenges: global warming”.

The initiatives in Norway are in line with the European efforts to ramp up battery production. More importantly, however, batteries and other renewable technologies are envisioned by industry experts to guarantee Norway’s future as an “energy superpower” in light of decreasing demand for fossil fuels. In other words: “Putting its industrial capacity and financial strength to use in the green transition could turn the country from a ‘climate villain’ to a green giant”, a recent UCL policy brief stated.

Even though it remains to be seen how, and if at all, the Norwegian battery dream becomes reality, it is certain that a shift from oil and gas production to renewable energy technology would still depend on forms of extraction. Battery manufacturing relies on vast amounts of minerals such as lithium, which are mostly sourced from abroad.

Critical towards the ‘green’ and ‘responsible’ promise

The battery projects aim to manufacture ‘green’ batteries in Norway. A low carbon footprint is on one hand guaranteed by Norway’s electricity supply – 98 percent of its electricity comes from renewable sources. On the other hand, ‘green’ batteries are understood as being based on low-carbon and responsibly sourced raw materials. For instance, on their website, Freyr declares their intention to develop a ‘green’ value chain and to produce ‘clean’ battery cells made from raw materials “with the lowest possible carbon footprint and socially responsible production”.

The environmental organization Naturvernforbundet (Friends of the Earth Norway) is sceptical towards the emerging battery industry’s promises. The regional sections of the organization in Nordland and Trøndelag raised concerns about how ethical and carbon-neutral sourcing of battery minerals in reality can be, and condemned the industry’s claim to be ‘green’. When the plans for a gigantic battery plant in the North were announced, the Nordland section criticized a possible windmill park accompanying the project and the grand scale of the plans. Yet, with the decreasing relevance of wind energy for Freyr, they showed themselves more supportive. Surprisingly, with the notable exception of Naturvernforbundet, Norwegian civil society has been rather quiet about the new large-scale industrial visions.

The organization is concerned about environmental damage and social problems resulting from the extraction of battery materials, such as nickel, cobalt, graphite, manganese and lithium. For instance, they raise environmental concerns caused by the vast consumption of water and land due to lithium extraction. In the so-called ‘lithium triangle’ in South America, extreme water shortages and increased risks for soil and air contamination are affecting local residents’ livelihoods. Currently, most battery-grade lithium is sourced either from brine in Chile and Argentina, or from hard-rock deposits in Australia. Some lithium projects have been facing strong opposition, as the protests by indigenous activists in Chile amidst the country-wide protests against social inequality exemplify.

The Norwegian Naturverforbundet is not only questioning how, but also on what scale and intensity, the extractive rush for lithium and other battery raw material are taking place. Their criticism is relevant: Phasing out fossil-fuel driven cars – i.e. Norway bans their sale from 2025 – the demand for ‘critical raw materials’ is rising quickly. The latest International Energy Association report, for instance, expects the demand for lithium in batteries to grow 30-fold until 2030 and more than 100-fold by 2050. As a consequence, lithium mining will inevitably increase.

Lithium from Europe?

The European battery sector has been concerned by the Chinese dominance in the lithium supply chain, and by the increasingly important labeling of metals with carbon tags and environment, social and governance (ESG) standards. As a consequence, governments and mining industries are eying new mineral reserves to tap into, in order to secure steady supplies of lithium in the future.

Norway has increased its geological mapping to identify underground resources – including in the deep sea. On land, Norway does not have any economically viable lithium deposits, according to the Norwegian Geological Survey. On the seabed, however, recent expeditions have discovered high concentrations of lithium, amongst other minerals, along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. When, and if at all, these deposits will be ‘harvested’ remains unclear.

In Europe, a number of hard-rock mining projects have been announced in Serbia, Finland, Portugal and Spain. However, Bloomberg Metals analyst Kwasi Ampofo, believes that by 2030, Europe will still have no significant capacity in producing lithium chemicals. Considering that Chinese actors largely control the lithium supply chain, lithium will likely still be shipped across the globe, at least for the first generations of Norwegian batteries. In the future, European mining could lower carbon emissions of European batteries by shortening transport routes, and increase supply security for Norwegian and European battery producers.

Expanding mining of battery raw materials in Europe is strongly supported by the European Union. According to the EU, a ‘reliable, secure, and sustainable access to raw materials is a precondition for Europe’s Green Deal’. Recent efforts to develop battery policies and regulations have implied mandatory supply chain due diligence: The latest proposal for the EU batteries regulation recommends to include lithium in the scope of the supply chain due diligence obligations and requires its sourcing to be sustainable. The Norwegian government will adapt its law accordingly, and has already proposed a new human rights transparency and due diligence regulation. These steps seem to move into a positive direction in terms of responsibility and accountability of lithium sourcing.

Mining projects in Europe, however, have not been less contested than elsewhere. In Spain or Portugal, for instance, people have opposed lithium mining plans in local and national protests. For them, open-pit mines threaten local heritage, natural environments and livelihoods. Local activists and residents in Northern Portugal fear pollution and destruction and in the name of ‘green’ mobility and ‘clean cities’.

Decarbonising (individual) transportation with battery driven EVs is bound to rely on minerals such as lithium. And while increasingly attention is paid to responsible, transparent – and shorter – supply chains, the projected spike in extraction creates ambiguities in perceptions of what ‘green’ and ‘sustainable’ futures are.
________________

Anna-Sophie Hobi is a PhD Fellow at Noragric. With an interest in themes of energy transition and extractivism, her research focuses on lithium and its role in the futures of Zimbabwe and Norway. Previously, Anna-Sophie worked on transparency and responsibility in the commodity sector as a Mercator Fellow on International Affairs. She studied Social Anthropology and Prehistoric Archaeology at the University of Basel and Linnaeus University.

________________
This article is also published on the Lithium Worlds website.

The post Norway’s next industrial adventure is built on lithium appeared first on Noragric blog.

Well, if everything happens for a reason, then the crooked ‘P’ is representative of this conference

Tomohiro Harada spent almost 2 long weeks at the Conference of the Parties (COP) to the UN’s Convention on Climate Change  in Madrid this December. Here are his take-home thoughts.

LOSER: Spirit of Paris and Ambitions

Whatever spirit and ambition that came out from the Paris Agreement, it was dead on arrival by the second week of this COP. The Parties continue to politicise the legitimacy of science and traditional knowledge behind the need (or lack thereof) for ambitious climate action, as well as the social and environmental safeguards that protect those exposed to market forces. Scientists observing COP had their worst fears realised as the gap between actions required according to science, and political will to do so continues to grow.

LOSER: Party-driven process

This lead to another blow to the very idea of climate action being Party-driven. COP25 clearly demonstrates that States are incapable of ambitious climate action, as they continue to kick the can down the road on Paris Rulebook. It’s a massive dent to the UNFCCC as an institution that is supposed to provide solutions through multilateralism. This is an increasingly massive problem that stands in the way of climate justice.

LOSERS: Chile

It was all done with good intention. Chile stood up when Brazil bailed in hosting the COP, and nobody in Latin America stood up except Costa Rica. Then came the protest, and everything went pretty much down hill from there. Chile desperately needed something good to come out of the longest COP in history. However, they go home pretty much empty handed, except for a number of watered down decisions that will not satisfy millions of people on the streets in Chile and around the world.

WINNER: Greta Thunberg

Coming in as TIME Person of the Year, she used her media platform strategically to bring out the voices of others who needed to be heard. Her press conference, where the media were treated to the voices of Indigenous youth, was empowering and remains a highlight.

LOSERS: Mainstream Media

With all the talk about fake news, the media’s obsession with Greta Thunberg was simply unbearable and ethically questionable. Greta told the media to listen to Indigenous Peoples, and whilst the media published her words, they continue to fail to deliver her message. They only follow those making the biggest noise, forgetting that those being silenced by their actions are the ones that need to be covered in this climate crisis.

WINNERS: Indigenous Peoples

Indigenous Peoples are finally being acknowledged by other constituencies in civil society as those living on the frontline of climate change, but perhaps more importantly, as rights holders with solutions to fighting climate change. But let’s not forget that this is only happening because Indigenous Peoples took it upon themselves to take leadership in lobbying not only the states, but also other constituencies, to prioritise the rights of indigenous peoples and human rights generally in the context of climate justice. They got the work plan for the Platform, made important connections with key players in negotiations, and bowed out with the Ray of the Year. They are here and ready for the long haul.

WINNERS: Women

The Gender Action Plan is set to realise womens’ full, equal and meaningful participation and to promote gender-responsive climate policy. By all measures, women were under-represented at COP25 and this plan will empower UNFCCC to actively pursue a whole host of measures to realise gender balance in bodies under the UNFCCC and to monitor their implementation.

WINNER: The People’s Plenary

This event, which took place in parallel to the Parties’ Plenary by civil society at COP25, is sure to become a tradition at future COPs. Inspired by Indigenous Peoples, this event will deliver the message that people are united and Parties are the only roadblock to achieving high ambitions. Yes, there was a protest. Yes, there was a march. Yes, someone dumped horse manure outside the COP venue, but if the Peoples’ Plenary grows into something bigger, this could become a contesting ground for the legitimacy of Party-driven climate action.

WINNERS: Low-ambition coalitions

But all things considered, the irony is that at this COP, the spoilers won the battle. They were the master of obstructing progress, wasting over 50% of consultation hours by repeating laundry lists of dissatisfaction in the mode of work and the substance of draft text, clause by clause. It worked. Time ran out. None of the texts are ambitious. They will be back, and they will win again unless high-ambition coalitions come back with a better game plan.

LOSERS: The EU’s Green Deal

The announcement of EU’s Green Deal in the second week of COP25 came little too late to add any thrust to its already deflated atmosphere. It gave little time for others to gain insight of the Deal, and the lack of commitment by Poland was more newsworthy than the Deal itself. The EU’s inability to champion the discussion on social and environmental safeguards deeply disappointed many countries that expected EU to come out strongly.

LOSERS: AOSIS

Isolation is one way to pressure your opponents into submission, but it was the small island states who publicly tweeted that they found themselves being excluded from the 11th-hour negotiations. In fact, Papua New Guinea also claimed that 90% of the Parties were excluded. The COP Presidency didn’t have any sympathy for them either. Their time is running out.

LOSER: Indigenous Peoples’ Pavilion

Whoever set up the green zone this year has done a poor job of setting up the Indigenous Peoples’ pavilion  (or ‘alley’) this year. In an open space like the green zone, the Indigenous Peoples’ alley was pretty much walled in behind the space for youth, and was rendered almost invisible. I know it was a last minutes set up, but come on.

WINNER: Burger King at Hall 6

This will be remembered as the only COP where American enterprise has done something good to keep the delegates happy. They cashed in from Parties, Observers, Secretariat, Press, Police and Security Guards. I couldn’t help but to notice that even the Chinese delegates had to be powered by freedom burgers. Irony.

WILD CARD: Extinction Rebellion

Extinction Rebellion came prepared. They danced their way through the city dragging a papier mâché whale carcass, dumped horse manure at the gate of the COP venue and put nooses around their necks as they stood on melting blocks of ice. They certainly managed to bait media attention, but at the end of the day the activists who show up at COP and climate marches as a whole are fighting for the same cause. It’s okay to protest against governments and demand actions through civil disobedience, but they need to stay clear of those who bring real solutions to the table.

RED HERRING: COP26

I wouldn’t expect COP26 to bring anything new. Of course, by then, Brexit would have taken place and the US would have left the Paris Agreement and may have elected a new president. But given the decimated status of climate science and the zero-sum view by some of the Parties, the Party-driven process as it is will never overcome the urgent challenges facing our planet. But the People are waking up to this reality and they are starting to do something about it.

Tomohiro Harada is a PhD Fellow at the Department of International Environment and Development Studies (Noragric) at the Norwegian University of Life Sciences. He has a Master’s in International Relations from the Moscow State Insitute of International Relations and the University of St Andrews, UK. His research is focused on global environmental politics, indigenous politics, diplomacy and the politics of the Arctic region.

The post Winners and Losers at COP25 appeared first on Noragric blog.

Olav B. Soldal offers his impressions from a trip to Costa Rica earlier this year where he was part of an NMBU field course working with a community struggling to resist the pressures of the dominant pineapple corporation in the region. 

Costa Rica, known to most as a land of lush rainforests and a biodiversity hotspot, is at a crossroads. The country of about 4.9 million people has experienced rapid economic growth and urbanization over the last decades, and is now considered one of the most developed countries in Latin America.

The country is internationally renown for its remarkably peaceful history in a region otherwise marked by violent conflicts and political upheavals, and the abolition of its armed forces in 1949. Since a largely peaceful revolution in 1948, the country has avoided the disruption of democratic due process. Yet today, Costa Rica’s economy is fragile, with government debt at record levels, and political backlash to recent VAT adjustment and growing food prices. In common with other countries in the region, Costa Rica is also feeling the pressure of a changing climate, with longer dry seasons and more extensive forest fires.

Despite ambitious policies on climate action, its role as a world biodiversity hotspot and its efforts to regenerate forests, Costa Rica is struggling to conserve its ecosystems. Agri-business, in the shape of plantation production with the export of tropical produce such as coffee, bananas and pineapple, is the mainstay of the Costa Rican economy. Pineapple now tops the list of the country’s exports, surpassing the historical dominance of bananas. With its economic dependence on this sector, growing pressure is being placed on large swathes of Costa Rica’s rainforest ecosystems. The multinational corporations that hold a firm grip on the country’s primary production sectors are accused of increasingly malign political interventions in order to maintain their favourable conditions. A large proportion of Costa Rica’s lower income population work on the plantations, and politicians tout the importance of the sector for employment opportunities.

Has the pineapple industry become bitter sweet?

There is an inherent contradiction between ecological conservation and expanding plantations in Costa Rica, and the pineapple is at the centre of it all.  As more attention is given to deforestation caused by encroaching plantations, environmental organizations  have been putting increasing pressure on wealthier nations to limit their import of these tropical products. The Costa Rican government has vowed to protect and reforest up to 60% of its land area and reverse the “degradation of marine and terrestrial ecosystems” by 2050. At the same time, it has committed to deliver ‘green growth’ and to stimulate its growing plantation economy. Whilst being a steady source of income and positive to the Costa Rican terms of trade, has the pineapple industry become rather bitter sweet?

Pineapple farming and land-use conflict

In June 2019, I participated in a practicum course jointly run by NMBU, the American University in Washington and the UN Peace University as part of their ongoing cooperation on research-based training. The specific purpose of the fieldtrip was to examine the roots of land use conflict caused by the expansion of pineapple farming in Costa Rica.

Pineapple has become Costa Rica’s largest export crop over a short period. It uses high quantities of pesticides and research has illustrated the negative impacts on ground water and on biodiversity. It encroaches protected and indigenous land and threatens forests. The social conditions of workers as well as those living around the plantations violate human rights (e.g., life, food, water). Pesticides flow into the drinking water surrounding plantations. Workers and community members report health impacts and birth defects.

The focus of our study was the community development association of Longo Mai in southwestern Costa Rica. Through the practicum, we were primarily concerned with providing answers that could be of value to the community and its long-term autonomy, sustainability and development.

I was part of a group of students focused on health issues and environmental impacts related to pineapple production including how pineapple plantations have impacted land-use, ownership and economic opportunities in the region.

Why Longo Mai?

Longo Mai is a small, diverse community in the San Jose region region of Costa Rica, with residents originating from El Salvador, Nicaragua, Switzerland, Germany, and elsewhere in Costa Rica, including some of indigenous heritage. During the 1970’s, there was a great deal of civil unrest throughout Central America, as well as in Pinochet’s Chile. The Somoza family had been running Nicaragua as if it were a business, controlling the majority of the country’s production and export. In 1978, the government of Nicaragua assassinated a conservative party critic named Pedro Juaquin Chamorro resulting in large protests, which were forcefully quashed leading the opposition to take to arms. In 1979, Nicaragua underwent a revolution led by the Sandinista movement against the Somoza regime. El Salvador also experienced a civil war between 1980 and 1992. Salvadoran armed forces committed human rights violations, including a number of massacres during the early 1980’s. It was to this backdrop that the Longo Mai movement in Europe decided to establish a community in Central America in 1979, to create a refuge for those fleeing persecution and civil unrest in the region.

An oasis in a desert of pineapple

Upon arriving in Longo Mai, my first impression was how pristine the nature and landscape was. The built environment blended into the forest, creating a unique, fresh micro-climate  in contrast to the surrounding arid plantation landscape. Our interviews with community members soon revealed, however, that things were far from perfect in paradise.

Environmental contamination and loss of biodiversity

The community had experienced rapid change over the past two decades, mainly due to the ever-expanding plantations in the neighbouring landscape. There was an acute sense of biodiversity loss, perceived risks of harm from pesticides and contamination of aquatic resources. A study the by University of Costa Rica found traces of six different pesticides in the Terraba-Sierpe Wetlands located in the neighbouring municipality. There is also a sense that the ownership and use of the land is changing rapidly, perhaps most acutely in the neighbouring town of Volcán, where most smallholder farmers have sold of their land to large pineapple-plantation companies. Today, there are almost no smallholders left, expect for in Longo Mai, and almost no-one owns the land on which they work.

There is a schism between the generations when it comes to defining what is appropriate land-use and good farming. The older generation has a strong connection to the land and would prefer to work it independently, whilst the younger generation regard the plantation jobs as a good source of income and an important driver of economic development.

The shift to employment-based income has altered the lifestyles and social dynamics among people in the region, and many report an increasing reliance on imported goods. This shift has generated tension over land management, with more community members expressing doubt over land ownership structures as the land-use practices have changed with the generations. There is real concern in the community that the cooperative structure of land management is faltering under ever-increasing pressures from the plantation industry and public authorities.

Our own research indicates that the unique model of land ownership of Longo Mai, where land is collectively held and managed, has protected the community from encroachment by the pineapple company, PINDECO. In contrast to the neighbouring community of Volcán, land has not been sold off to the company, and the pastoralist lifestyle has been maintained. As a result, ecological impacts were seen to be significantly lower in Longo Mai.

Finding common ground

The community of Longo Mai faces a bumpy road ahead. Pressure from the authorities and plantation industry are unlikely to subdue in the near future.

When asked what characterises the identity of Longo Mai today, a common emphasis was placed on cultural pluralism, peace and environmentalism. Topics that represented disagreement amongst the community included tolerance, respect for the elderly, and increased involvement with the pineapple industry. Overall, we found that the values that people associated with the community stemmed from their motivations to move to Longo Mai in the first place; families who had come from situations of war and violence identified peace as the main value of the village and those who came to escape economic hardship emphasized the opportunities available in Longo Mai if one works hard enough.

Regarding aspirations for the future, the theme was largely the same across the community: Better schooling options, including for older children (Longo Mai only has a primary school), more teaching on organic agriculture, more solidarity between groups, and a more representative community leadership (not just Europeans and men, as one interviewee pointed out). Many also voiced concern for alternative economic opportunities, so that youth don’t have to leave the community to make a living.

By the end of our stay, we realized that the community was more or less unified in their desire to identify routes to a greener, healthier future.

I left Longo Mai with the realization that our research had revealed something unexpected. Despite the challenges faced by communities on the margins of pineapple plantations such as Longo Mai, it is still possible to conceive a peaceful and prosperous society, through dialogue and living in harmony with the natural surroundings.

This could be a lesson for the rest of Costa Rica, and indeed the Western hemisphere, as we all strive to find a balance between economic and ecological sustainability. While Costa Rica is a highly developed and peaceful part of a largely troubled region, it is also a country marked by high levels of inequality, corporate cronyism and political corruption. The Costa Rican rainforest represents one of the world’s greatest biodiversity hotspots – and mitigating global climate change hinges on succeeding in forest conservation. So, before we next indulge in a sweet bite of pineapple, we might first ask if the plantation economy that underpins it is just too hard to swallow.

Olav Soldal is a student on Noragric’s MSc programme in International Environmental Studies.

The post Bittersweet fruits: Costa Rican pineapples and the road ahead for ecological conservation appeared first on Noragric blog.

Ola Tveitereid Westengen, Førsteamanuensis, Noragric, NMBU

Kjøtt og klima – og andre sammenhenger mellom mat, mennesker og miljø er i fokus i samfunnsdebatten. Norge har til og med fått en handlingsplan for bærekraftige matsystem i utenriks- og utviklingspolitikken.

Etterspørselen etter fakta om disse sammenhengene er derfor stor og media hiver seg begjærlig over «rapporter» om temaet. Kanskje husker du EAT-Lancet rapporten fra januar, FNs Naturpanels rapport fra mai, FNs Klimapanels rapport fra august eller FOLU-rapporten fra september?

«Verden må begynne å lage mat på en helt ny måte. Det mener FN, som tenker både på klima og på samfunnsøkonomien.» Slik innleder NRK Dagsrevyen mandag 16 september innslaget om FOLU-rapporten som viser at vi «samtidig kan oppnå klimamål, bevaring av natur og biologisk mangfold, bedre helse for hele jordens befolkning og bedre økonomisk vekst». Det er selvsagt for godt til å være sant.

Jeg forsker selv på mat- og miljø tematikk, men som de fleste forskere jobber jeg bare med en flik av bildet. For å se det større bildet forholder jeg meg til rapportene fra FN-panelene hvor meritterte forskere oppsummerer kunnskapsfronten på sine felt. Men hvordan skille mellom skitt og kanel i underskogen av rapporter? Her er tre kritiske spørsmål journalister og andre kan starte med å stille:

– Hvilke miljøfaktorer er inkludert i analysen?

– Hva er det vitenskapelige grunnlaget?

– Hva er avsenderens interesser?

Mer enn klima

Årets rapporter fra FN-panelene har satt fokus på at miljø mer enn klima. Skal en måle miljøavtrykket av noe må en gjøre rede for hvilke miljøfaktorer en undersøker. Er det tap av biologisk mangfold, avskoging, avrenning fra gjødsling, plastforurensning, vannforbruk, utslipp av miljøgifter, klimaendringer eller andre faktorer? Og hvilke deler av matsystemet regner man med? Produksjonen av innsatsmidler, selve matproduksjonen, transporten, salget, konsumet og svinnet – eller bare én eller noen av disse komponentene? Ofte er slike premisser for analysen gjemt i en vanskelig tilgjengelig metodedel og enda oftere blir de «lost in translation» når rapportene omtales i media.

Blant faktorene FOLU-rapporten ser på er det særlig avskoging som skiller seg ut; rapporten legger til grunn et ønskescenario som innebærer at 1,2 milliarder hektar land som i dag brukes til landbruk er tilbakeført til naturlige økosystem i 2050 – altså et areal betydelig større enn Europa! For å komme dit stiller de på ti brytere de sier finnes på dashbordet til myndigheter, næringsliv og folk flest. Forbruket skal ned til EAT-Lancet diettnivå og matproduksjonen skal intensiveres på den jorda som ifølge FOLU kan avses til formålet. Å si at dette handler om hva som skal til for «å unngå en sultkatastrofe» slik NRK gjør, er å bruke sult som argument for vern og påskoging.

Grenser for grenser

Eat-Lancet rapporten definerer at de måler hvordan tre komponenter av matsystemet virker inn på seks miljøfaktorer. De seks miljøfaktorene er et utvalg «tålegrenser» fra analyserammeverket Planetary Boundaries. I dette rammeverket blinker det rødt for tålegrensene for utrydding av biologisk mangfold og utslippsnivået av fosfor og nitrogen. Men å definere grenser i dynamiske økosystem er komplekst. Det reflekteres for eksempel i at rammeverkforfatterne har flyttet på tålegrensen fra førindustrielt nivå i den første versjonen fra 2009 (dvs. null kunstgjødsel) til EAT-Lancet versjonen som sier jorda kan tåle noe nær dagens totale kunstgjødselforbruk om lekkasjene til vann og luft tettes. Så i tillegg til å holde styr på hvilke miljøfaktorer som studeres og hvilke aktiviteter som regnes med må en også følge med på premissene i forskningen som legges til grunn.

Jeg sier ikke dette for å så tvil om miljøforskning, men for å si at forskning handler om kritisk undersøkelse og vanligvis ikke er i sannhetsdefinisjonsbransjen, slik man kan få inntrykk av fra rapport-rapporteringen.

Makten i systemet

FN-inngangen til Dagsrevyens reportasje om FOLU-rapporten er misvisende i og med at FOLU (the Food and Land Use Coalition) er en allianse av internasjonale ikke-statlige organisasjoner som EAT og AGRA (A Green Revolution for Africa) med økonomiske støttespillere som inkluderer Yara og Norges Klima- og Skoginitiativ, men ikke FN

Av det «enorme økonomiske potensialet for næringslivet på verdensbasis», som Dagsrevyen sa FOLU-rapporten lovet, er businessmulighetene størst i handelsleddet for den nye dietten, fulgt av investeringsmuligheter i produksjonsleddet. «Teknologien skal redde oss» rapporterer NRK og presenterer nye kule apper fra Microsoft og IBM. To dager senere melder statskanalen med referanse til samme rapport at Yara og Orkla er klare til å sette i gang med klimamerking av matvarer. Med FOLU-rapporten har altså Klima- og Skoginitiativet fått sitt med målet om massiv påskoging og næringslivet har fått oppmerksomhet om sine grønne planer.

Jeg er ganske teknologioptimistisk selv jeg, men syns allikevel det er problematisk at NRK først framstiller en rapport fra en allianse av nærings- og utviklingsaktører som en FN-rapport, lar dem definere premissene for bærekraft for så å videreformidle markeds- og teknologiløsninger som ligger klare til å rulles ut – noen av dem fra aktørene selv. Hvor er de kritiske spørsmålene om forskningsgrunnlaget og definisjonsmakten?

Som en kollega har påpekt har det skjedd en «panelifisering» av forskningen de siste årene. Det er bra at forskere og andre aktører kommer sammen for å lage mer helhetlige analyser og presentere dem med mer proff grafisk design enn de lite tilgjengelige artiklene og bøkene vi vanligvis publiserer. Samtidig må media ha oppfølgingsspørsmålene klare.

This article was published in Klassekampen on 29 September

Ola Tveitereid Westengen, Førsteamanuensis, Noragric, NMBU

The post Mat, miljø og media appeared first on Noragric blog.

Indigenous peoples are no longer ’observers’ at the UNFCCC. As effective ’contributors’ to shaping the plans for the Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples’ Platform (The Platform), Indigenous Peoples have unprecedented opportunities to enhance their participation across UNFCCC processes. So what happens now?

A new alliance

At COP24 in Katowice, the Parties passed a landmark decision to establish a Facilitative Working Group (FWG) of the Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples Platform (LCIPP). The establishment of this group, whose mandate is to create a work plan for the LCIPP and implement its functions, is historic in the context of indigenous movement. It constitutes the beginning of a new partnership with the Parties, based on the principles of equal status of indigenous peoples and Parties, including in leadership roles. Furthermore, the Platform enhances indigenous peoples participation and visibility in UNFCCC’s processes.

For the indigenous peoples, the Bonn Climate Change Conference (SB50) started with the gathering of 13 FWG members, six from the Parties and seven indigenous peoples, as well as other indigenous peoples and Parties interested in the Platform.  The first task of the FWG was to develop a two-year work plan for the Platform to be decided by the Parties at the COP25 in Santiago, Chile.

During this meeting, I witnessed the extraordinary process of Indigenous Peoples’ direct contribution to crafting the activities of the LCIPP, as the FWG took an inclusive, open and transparent approach to the development of the work plan. Every idea was considered and reflected in the first draft of the work plan during the meeting. What was also interesting to observe was the layout of the meeting room, which resembled the setup from the Talanoa dialogue, an indigenous way of conducting open, inclusive and transparent dialogue. This may be interpreted as a way of indigenising the conversation on climate change, to help build a relationship with the indigenous peoples. It seemed that the ‘Observer’ tags around the necks of these people no longer characterized their identity in the UNFCCC. The only observer of course, was me, observing the meeting for research purposes. The work plan remains a work in progress at the time of writing.

In the context of UNFCCC, the Platform is one of a number of constituted bodies within the Convention. Others include the Adaptation Committee and the Warsaw International Mechanism for Loss and Damage.  These bodies provide advice and expertise to advance the implementation of the Convention, the Kyoto Protocol and the Paris Agreement. In practical terms, this not only puts the Indigenous Peoples and the Platform on a radar within and outside of the Convention, but also means that the Platform and by extension, Indigenous Peoples, are now invited to collaborate across various constituted bodies both within and outside the Convention to provide inputs to their respective activities.

What happened to the Spirit of Paris? Indigenous Peoples at COP24 in Katowice, Poland

As the Platform appeared on the radar of the SB50, the response by other constituted bodies was immediate. In the first workshop, a number of constituted bodies within the Convention showed a great deal of interest in the Platform. At the second workshop on collaboration with bodies outside of the Convention, a variety of actors such as UN Specialized Agencies, charities, and universities, offered their ideas for synergy with the Platform. What these interactions indicate is that the work of FWG extends far beyond the implementation of the functions of the Platform. As a constituted body, the recognition also brings about new opportunities for Parties to encounter and understand the value of traditional knowledge, as well as the requirement for Indigenous Peoples to engage effectively with a variety of actors on themes ranging from adaptation and mitigation, technology, methods and observation to loss and damage.

Meanwhile, important discussions continue amongst Parties at SB50. The language of human rights – including those of indigenous peoples – still remains bracketed (i.e. not agreed upon) in many of the key draft texts under consideration, such as on the implementation of Article 6 of the Paris Agreement. Recalling that the Platform is only as strong as the degree to which various decisions by the Parties respect human rights and the rights of indigenous peoples, there remains significant work ahead in terms of lobbying the Parties, in unison with other actors advocating a rights-based approach to climate policy and action. Equalization and protection of indigenous peoples’ knowledge is an important aspect of Indigenous Peoples’ diplomacy in this context.  

Indigenous Peoples embody 80% of the world’s cultural and biological diversity

For the last five years, indigenous peoples have made great sacrifices to contribute to the UNFCCC, taking time away from their families and communities to travel around the world, in order to create a permanent space for indigenous peoples and to get the Platform off the ground. This achievement cannot be underestimated, though everyone knows that this is only the beginning.

Significant work lies ahead in terms of getting the Parties to agree on a more ambitious and bold target to address the adverse effects of climate change. Even more difficult challenges lie ahead for indigenous peoples in attempts to sway the Parties to safeguard their rights. The recognition of indigenous peoples’ rights enhances their capacity to take care of their environments using their own knowledge. We mustn’t forget that indigenous peoples embody and nurture 80% of the world’s cultural and biological diversity.

Just the beginning…

Progress will require close and transparent collaboration between the Indigenous Peoples Caucus and the FWG, so as not to create a disconnect within Indigenous Peoples at the UNFCCC. Indigenous Peoples may now be required to look beyond the Platform in order to cover the gaps as they appear as a consequence of the establishment of the Platform, and the immediate expansion of Indigenous Peoples’ possibilities at the UNFCCC. The Platform opened up many spaces for Indigenous Peoples at the UNFCCC to take their voices beyond the plenary sessions and interact with the Parties to build mutual understanding. It is still unclear how it will pan out, but one thing is certain:  everyone is watching.

Tomohiro Harada is a PhD Fellow at the Department of International Environment and Development Studies, focusing on indigenous diplomacies in global politics, specifically Sami diplomacies in global environmental politics.

The post Indigenous Peoples: Moving beyond the UNFCCC Platform appeared first on Noragric blog.

Written by Tomohiro Harada, PhD Fellow, Noragric

This last week 30,000 people from across the world gathered at the heart of Europe’s coal mining region to address the biggest threat to humanity: the adverse effects of climate change. During the first week at COP24 in Katowice, I followed the footsteps of Indigenous Peoples at the frontline of diplomacy at the Climate Change Summit. Three years after Paris, the Parties and Indigenous Peoples came to a consensus on the draft text for the operationalization of the Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples Platform (LCIPP). It is the first milestone for the establishment of a partnership between Indigenous Peoples and the Parties under the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC). The agreement offers a glimmer of hope for Indigenous Peoples around the world, who because of their livelihoods are often the first to experience the worst consequences of the radical shifts taking place in the environment. However, as nothing is decided until everything is decided, Indigenous Peoples remain concerned about the declining “Spirit of Paris” as COP24 enters its final rounds of negotiation.

At the frontlines of climate change

Indigenous Peoples are at the frontlines of climate change. From day one of the COP negotiations, Indigenous Peoples Organisations representing their respective communities have participated in the plenaries, informal consultations, side-events and press conferences at the event. They have also been able to enter a dialogue with the COP Presidency on how they are affected by climate change. One indigenous youth representative from the Pacific gave an account of how her community will be under water within her lifetime because of the rising sea level. Another from the Arctic conveyed fear for his life and community as he described how the melting permafrost has made his land increasingly dangerous and unsuitable for traditional use. Youth participation at Climate Change Summits has grown in recent years, and indigenous youths are no exception. At COP24, all these youths argue that their future is at stake and that immediate actions are necessary to address the adverse effects of climate change.

The Indigenous Peoples Caucus at COP, represented by International Indigenous Peoples Forum on Climate Change (IIPFCC), is one of the nine constituencies recognised by UNFCCC. There are 370 million Indigenous Peoples across 5,000 nations around the world, each with its own distinct language, culture, and social and political institution apart from mainstream society. They are united by a common cause to address historic inequities that have resulted in their communities being marginalised and victimised. In the context of climate change, Indigenous Peoples do not only stand at the frontline where they are most vulnerable to the changing climate, but they also offer solutions as they guard over 80% of the remaining biodiversity with knowledge and practices specific to their respective environments.  Indigenous Peoples come to COP to make a unique contribution to ensure that climate actions are more effective, inclusive and just.

One of the most important processes for the Indigenous Peoples at COP24 has been to determine a new decision text for the operationalization of the Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples’ Platform. The Paris Agreement and Decision adopted at COP21 in Paris in 2015 (Decision 1/CP.21) acknowledges that “climate change is a common concern of human kind”, and that when the Parties take action to address climate change, they should respect, promote and consider their respective obligation on the rights of indigenous peoples. Having recognised the need to strengthen knowledge, technologies, and practices, the Paris Agreement established LCIPP to enable the exchange of experiences on mitigation and adaptation in a holistic and integrated manner.

At COP23 in Bonn in 2017, it was agreed that the LCIPP will have three main functions:

1. Knowledge: Promoting the exchange of experiences and best practices
2. Capacity building: Enabling local communities’ and indigenous peoples’ engagement in the UNFCC process
3. Climate Change Policies and Actions: Facilitating the integration of diverse knowledge systems

Additionally, COP23 requested the establishment of a facilitative working group (FWG). The decision recommended that the four key principles proposed by Indigenous Peoples Organisations should be taken into account:

1. Full and effective participation of indigenous peoples
2. Equal status of indigenous peoples and Parties, including in leadership roles
3. Self-selection of indigenous peoples representatives in accordance with indigenous peoples’ own procedures
4. Adequate funding from the secretariat and voluntary contributions to enable the functions of LCIPP

I have been following this particular negotiation process, from various informal consultations and workshops in Helsinki in February, to Bonn in May, Cochabamba in October and now to Katowice.         

The Spirit of Talanoa

The negotiation over the establishment of the FGW and operationalization of LCIPP has been a delicate process since the adoption of the Paris Agreement. There has been a great deal of diplomacy in all directions imaginable and Indigenous Peoples have worked in partnership with Parties, forging mutual understanding and respect, and perhaps most importantly in this case, friendship. Since COP23 in Bonn, it became customary for the Parties to invite Indigenous Peoples into the negotiation space and have their representatives participate in the drafting of the text, to ensure that they are part of this consensus building process.

As the days went by, the strict diplomatic protocol that governs Party consultations had given away to what some have called “the spirit of Talanoa”. Storytelling was an important part of this process. In articulating the necessity of the LCIPP and the Indigenous Peoples’ participation in addressing climate change, elders have often shared, in session, their vulnerabilities and how, in partnership with the Parties, their traditional knowledge can contribute to saving Mother Earth. During the break, many Indigenous Peoples, in the presence of several Party representatives, took to the floor to share their music, dance and traditional knowledge. It is important to mention here that, like any other consultation process under UNFCCC, negotiation was both a tough and delicate game. In Bonn in May and in Katowice, many Indigenous Peoples felt that they had reached a seemingly irreconcilable impasse. However, unlike any other Party Consultations, this particular one enabled the equal participation of the Parties and non-Party stakeholders (i.e. Indigenous Peoples), as they shared their stories without apportioning any blame.

It is in this spirit that we saw an evolving relationship among the Parties and Indigenous Peoples in the room. As a result, the notion of “friendly Parties” started to materialize, with more openness and inclusiveness. In Bonn in May, it seemed clear to many Indigenous Peoples which of the Parties posed the greatest challenges to drafting process of LCIPP. China, for instance, insisted that a language of “territorial integrity and political unity of sovereign and independent States” be used in the draft text. This was a  language that was not acceptable to Indigenous Peoples and their supporters, including the EU, Canada and Norway. However, as the consultation continued, I witnessed an increasing interaction between Indigenous Peoples and “non-friendly Parties”. Their respective pains and desires became more contextualised through storytelling; China began to share their vulnerabilities and their vision of LCIPP through storytelling. This not only helped many in the room to understand exactly what their main concerns were, but also showed that China believes its traditional knowledge can contribute to LCIPP. What transpired in Cochabamba and Katowice is a transformative process where “friendship status” is no longer defined by common position, but by openness to dialogue and a prioritisation of inclusiveness. The day after the Indigenous Peoples and the Parties reached consensus on the text, the mood in the Indigenous Caucus was jubilant. Amazingly, in the middle of the Caucus, the Chinese negotiator has now become a friend of the Indigenous Peoples, even connecting through WhatsApp. According to the Indigenous COP veterans, this was an unprecedented event in the history of the Caucus.

The importance of storytelling

We have all learned, through the repeated interventions by Indigenous Peoples, the potential of not only traditional knowledge in addressing the adverse effects of climate change, but also storytelling as a way to relate, share vulnerabilities and potentials, and to build mutual trust and understanding. This unique process enables us to visualise how Indigenous Peoples can transform diplomacy when given the space, rights and recognition to share their stories in their own way. Through this practice, the consultation demonstrated a lot of promise as to what the FWG and LCIPP could be when they are fully operational. By carrying out diplomacy in accordance with the “Spirit of Talanoa” –  the indigenous way of doing diplomacy –  this consultation process was already beginning to perform the functions of the LCIPP.

Erasure of human rights and the rejection of the Special Report

When one zooms out from the LCIPP consultation to the rest of COP, however, a different impression is gained – “Spirit of Paris” and the “Spirit of Talanoa” has gone AWOL. For the last couple of days, we have started to see, one by one, the languages associated with rights-based climate action, including human rights, bracketed and erased from the drafted texts of the agenda items under Paris Rulebook. The weakening of the rights-based approach to climate action also dilutes the effectiveness of LCIPP, being based as it is on a respect for indigenous rights. Another big blow is that the Parties have failed to adopt the IPCC Special Report on 1.5 degrees released this October, following a series of objections mounted by the United States, Russia, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia who jointly refused to welcome the report at the plenary session. It is expected that the proponent Parties of this report will attempt to revive this discussion next week. However, time is running out. Without the IPCC Special Report on 1.5 degrees as a basis for further negotiation, the Paris Rulebook – should it be adopted – is bound to fall far too short of the recommendations of the IPCC Report, as well as the expectations set forth in the Paris Agreement.

So where does this leave the Indigenous Peoples for the remainder of COP24? Indeed, nothing is decided until everything is decided. The adoption of LCIPP still depends entirely on the outcome of the high-level segment, which is set to begin this week. Some see that it is already out of their hands. The conversations are highly technical and political and their resources are thin. An indigenous delegate commented:

Back home… they maybe don’t see climate change in terms of a rulebook. They maybe don’t see climate change in terms of specific little paragraphs with specific wordings… that can absolutely screw you over

Their stories are buried altogether by endless political bickering, an alphabet soup of acronyms, catch phrases and complicated concepts, which are completely devoid of any meaningful connection to those who stand at the frontline of climate change.

But they refuse to remain silent. In the Spirit of Talanoa, they continue to share stories about their mountains, rivers, forests and oceans in their own way and at every opportunity they can find.

The Indigenous Peoples’ fight continues because, as they proclaim, “we are still here”.

I wish to express thanks to Ghazali Ohorella, co-chair of the International Indigenous Peoples’ Forum on Climate Change, and to the many Indigenous Peoples who introduced me to the Caucus in the spirit of openness and friendship.      

Tomohiro Harada is a PhD Fellow at the Department of International Environment and Development Studies, focusing on indigenous diplomacies in global politics, specifically Sami diplomacies in global environmental politics.

The post What happened to the Spirit of Paris? Indigenous Peoples at COP24 in Katowice, Poland appeared first on Noragric blog.

Written by Hans Nicolai Adam, Postdoctoral Fellow, Noragric

The worst floods in living memory

Disaster struck the Indian coastal state of Kerala at an unprecedented scale this month. The worst flooding in living memory inundated large parts of the state, in addition to causing landslides across the fragile Western Ghats mountain range. In the wake of the flooding, hundreds of people lost their lives, with many more injured and hundreds of thousands of people forced to evacuate to temporary shelters. The sheer scale of the disaster was captured in aerial footage that showed swathes of human settlements; forests and agricultural lands replaced by a turbid waterscape, with entire housing complexes swept away in landslides.

Amidst the gloom of this catastrophe, a remarkable sense of activism, solidarity and generosity characterized rescue and relief efforts. Fisher folk lent themselves to rescue efforts deep inland, people cutting across societal sections opened their doors to strangers in need, and donations poured in from across the state, country and abroad. These efforts were supplemented by state and central government activity, who mobilized significant resources (including all branches of the armed forces) to stave off the worst effects from the disaster.

What caused the flooding in the first place?

Heavy monsoon showers are not unusual over this period. However, according to the IMD (Indian Meteorological Department) between 8 and 15 August, rainfall was recorded at 250 percent over and above the long term average, and 42 percent over normal between 1 June and 18 August. An extraordinary deviation from the normal. As an emergency response to cope with the massive downpours, the shutters of all major dams in Kerala had to be opened to prevent structural breaches. As a result, torrents of water poured downstream and overwhelmed the already swollen rivers. Some commentators here pointed towards poor disaster management, by not releasing water gradually earlier. The incessant rains also provoked more localized flooding and numerous landslides – the latter responsible for the bulk of deaths reported. Could early warning have helped in this situation? Uncertainty in climate science and meteorology remains writ large and the predictability of such extreme events during the monsoon period remains low, as my colleagues and I pointed out recently (Adam, Mehta and Srivastava 2018).

Understanding Kerala’s present day context

As the flooding subsides, the true human, economic and ecological costs continue to emerge. Along with the shift from disaster relief to rehabilitation and reconstruction, questions need to be posed as to whether only excessive rainfall can be held responsible for the extent of the damages caused. It is important here to consider the socio-economic and ecological backdrop of the state. Kerala sits perched between the Arabian Sea and the Western Ghats mountain range (a biodiversity hotspot) on a narrow, densely populated strip of land. In many places, the distance from the coastline to the initial mountain slopes is less than 50 km. A total of 44 rivers drain water from the highlands, and provide sustenance to a mosaic of wetlands in between, which also act as buffer zones and floodplains. Famed for this unique ecology, diversity of landscape and culture, the state emerged as a major global tourist destination. It is also internationally acclaimed for its ‘Kerala model of development’, which has historically combined the ‘paradox’ of high levels of human development (high life expectancy, educational achievement and quality of life), with low rates of economic growth.

While the destructiveness of the flooding caught most people and public authorities by surprise, experts, social activists and indeed lay people sounded alarm bells long ago (Anand and Praveen 2018). Indiscriminate land use conversion of wetlands, fragile forest tracts and associated abuse of environmental planning principles and laws, such as the Kerala Conservation of Paddy Land and Wetland Act 2008, have been well-documented (e.g Chitra 2016). In Kuttanad, one of the worst affected areas in this year’s flooding, 63-76 percent of the total wetlands were filled up and diverted towards other uses since 1995 (Raj and Azeez 2009).

A human-induced calamity?

Unregulated development activities of booming tourism, real estate and plantation agriculture in the high lands across the state can be partly held accountable in this process too. The effects from these developments, ill-conceived construction activities (often in the periphery of burgeoning urban agglomerations) and rapacious mining relate directly to the intensity of the impacts from the flooding. For example, excessive soil erosion and landslips limited the holding capacity of major dams, and rampant construction and mining activities along precarious slopes furthered landslides, as experienced around the popular tourist destinations of Idukki and Munnar.

Indiscriminate land use conversion impeded the ability of wetlands to act as flood plains in many locales. In addition, the taming and exploitation of rivers contributed to soil deposit and solid waste accumulation that obstructed drainage channels along a highly urbanized coastal zone. The capital of Kerala state, Thiruvananthapuram, for instance, has not had a well-functioning, institutionalized waste management system for years, despite rapid urban growth. A number of committees and studies (including the Gadgil committee report) have testified to the ecological-sensitivity of the state in this context and argued for a different approach to development, but with little avail (Anand and Praveen 2018). In the aftermath of the floods, a widely circulated video footage on social media depicts a bridge across the Periyar river inundated not by water, but garbage – the same being directly returned to the river in clearance efforts.

Building back better

Much of the present narrative in the state hinges upon ‘nature’s fury’ and ‘diluvial rains’. However as much as incessant and extraordinary rainfalls are responsible for this disaster, it is a human-induced calamity as well. Climatic changes will likely add to this situation and increase the state’s vulnerability. In this context, it is indeed a wake-up call for Kerala’s approach to development. Its ecological sensitivities’, scope for climatic changes and pressing development demands need to find active consideration in the state’s development policy, planning approaches and indeed public discourse.

Kerala boasts of a long history of progressive social and environmental movements as well as innovative governance systems. As the memory of this disaster remains etched in public consciousness, it also provides an opportunity to ‘build back better’ in the face of increased awareness and public support. It is high time to incept a process of broad based engagement with all stakeholders – from civil society, scientist’s, political actors to lay people – on the shape that Kerala’s model of development will have to take in future, considering recent challenges. There also exist opportunities in this process not to repeat past mistakes and better balance developmental and ecological demands. These efforts will be especially important considering Kerala’s much touted social justice priorities. Ultimately it was vulnerable people, who live in the most exposed locales and stem from poorer sections of society that disproportionately bore the brunt from the flooding.

First published by the Institute of Development Studies

Hans Nicolai Adam is a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Department of International Environment and Development Studies (Noragric) at the Norwegian University of Life Sciences. His research is focused on climate-related issues, including those in Kerala. 

The post Floods in Kerala – a wake-up call appeared first on Noragric blog.

Written by Shai Divon, Head of Department, Noragric. This post is one of a series that will explore the aims and conceptual bases of the Noragric-led Greenmentality project.

First published in the Greenmentality Blog.

The British philosopher Bertrand Russell recounts in his volume on power a story told by Confucius about a woman he saw wailing by a grave:

“Your wailing”, said he, “is that one who has suffered sorrow on sorrow”. She replied, “This is so. Once my husband’s father was killed here by a tiger. My husband was also killed, and now my son has died in the same way.” The Master said, “why do you not leave this place?”. The answer was “There is no oppressive government here.” The Master then said, “Remember this my children, oppressive government is more terrible than Tigers”. (quoted in Russell 2004 [1938], 224.)

Interactions between humans and ‘nature’

This story epitomizes the complicated ecological interactions between humans and ‘nature’, as well as the added complexity occurring through the politics of ‘nature’. Studies of such political ecologies have documented the human dimensions of landscapes through tensions that occur when politics restricts the sense of embeddedness that people have towards their ‘nature’. These tensions are expressed through the application of asymmetric power, which is then resisted by acts of disobedience.

In the context of political ecology, more often than not, projections of power encounter the recalcitrant qualities of both humans and ‘nature’ (Scott, 2012: 37). If we observe natural phenomena through the laws of physics, we see that when power moves objects against each other, the friction generates resistance. In classical physics these phenomena are predictable and quantifiable. In the social world, the action/reaction associated with a variety of projections of power cannot be reduced and explained by formulas. Acts of disobedience in reaction to a projection of power are in effect the social analogue of physical resistance in the sense that resistance is bound to occur against power.

As documented by countless examples, when power is projected by humans upon other humans (and in many cases upon ‘nature’), various forms of resistance manifest. Humans deploy a range of strategies and tactics, as well as a variety of tools to resist power. The observations and attempted categorization of the vast range of resistance options and their deployment by victims of dominating power has been the subject of many studies. The short discussion below bridges two conceptualization of resistance, visible and invisible/hidden resistance, both highly relevant to the political ecology context of the Greenmentality project.

One way of categorizing resistance is based on observable recalcitrancy, in the sense that both the projector of power as well as a detached observer may detect the acts of resistance. Such strategies of resistance include: nonviolent, militant, discursive and formal-legal action (Cavanagh and Benjaminsen 2015, 727). Another form of resistance is described through the Ethiopian proverb quoted by Scott in the beginning of his study on ‘Hidden Transcripts’ (Scott 1990: v):

When the great lord passes, the wise peasant bows deeply and silently farts.

While this action has no observable effect on the Lord, it does indicate that resistance has a hidden form, that may be uncovered through access to hidden transcripts (Scott 1990). To flesh-out the importance and impact of hidden forms of resistance, we need to acknowledge that resistance is a distinct consequence of a projection of power. Additionally, resistance can be described as a form of empowerment (Divon & Derman 2017, 17), and as such, resistance is a projection of power in reaction to a projection of power (Foucault 1978, 95; Foucault 1982, 781). Keeping in mind the main sources of social power: ideological, economic, military and political (Mann 2013, 2), resistance can be described as the application of the social sources of power to counter various projections of power.

Three strategies of power projection

Lukes (2005 [1974]) describes in his seminal work three strategies of power projection employed in attempts to exercise domination: coercion, controlling the agenda, and shaping systems of beliefs and ideologies. If we view resistance as a projection of power against an act of domination, then it becomes clear that Lukes’ strategies of power projection are not available to the dominated as they are available to the dominator. An effort to formalize how to view and deal with the different faces of power has been devised through Gaventa’s Powercube (Gaventa 2006; Gaventa & Pettit 2011). The Powercube is an attempt to demonstrate that decisions on where and how to confront power take different forms. Research that describes resistance strategies employed by the dominated in face of projections of power reveals that there are both visible as well as hidden and invisible strategies of resistance (Lukes 2005; Scott 1985; Scott 1990; Gaventa & Pettit 2011). This can be described as such:

Assuming that A is the powerful individual or entity who consciously exercises power over B to achieve A’s own ends; often B finds ways to use the exercise of power by A: to undermine A; to give A the impression that A is more powerful than s/he really is; to allow A to exercise parts of his or her power but concede other parts; or to gain power, to ends that serve B’s purposes and/or interests (sometimes against A’s own interests and intentions). This can be achieved: with knowledge of A, without knowledge of A, or with partial knowledge of A (Divon 2015, 33; Divon & Derman 2017, 17).

Examples that illustrate some of the strategies described in the quote above were documented through research conducted under the Greenmentality project and include:

1. A group of farmers in Tanzania were forced by the authorities to grow certain exotic varieties of trees and abandon their own customary practices. These farmers did not openly resist the authorities, and gave them the impression of acceptance and compliance. In reality, these farmers choose not to water nor take care of the exotic varieties. Through this, the farmers undermined the edict while giving the authorities the impression of compliance.
2. Another similar example is of another community in Tanzania who rented the services of poachers to illegally harvest their own plantations. In this case, the authorities believed that the plantation was poached by criminals, thus the community gave the impression of compliance while in essence it was engaged in resistance.
3. In another case, during a visit to conservation area in India, a group of researchers observed together with a park ranger, a group of local people ‘illegally’ extracting resources from the conservation area. In this case the authorities were aware of such acts of resistance, but choose to tolerate those as long they remained within certain limits. This was accepted for a variety of reasons, including lack of resources to pursue acts of ‘petty theft’ (as observed by the rangers), as long as the community did not extract wildlife from the conservation area.

What these examples illustrate is that resistance can be viewed as means of empowerment that exist where projections of power are employed. Acts of resistance are the projection of power through visible, invisible and hidden strategies. Invisible and hidden strategies have the advantage of harming the interests of the powerful, undermining their objectives while protecting the interests of the powerless\subjugated\less powerful.

It is important to note that we have been focusing here on power by examining how it manifests, or in other words, relations of power. But to be able to unpack “complex strategic situation in a particular society” (Foucault 1978, 93), we should also wear Foucauldian lenses that assist delineating the myriad of constraints bounding physical and cognitive choices. For such an analysis Foucault offers the concept of ‘Governmentality’. In other words, beyond the manifestation of power relations, we could also examine power by fleshing out the means through which it is exercised, or as Foucault suggests, by questioning the ontology that regulates both power and resistance (Foucault 1982, 786).

References 

Cavanagh, C.J. and Benjaminsen, T.A. (2015). Guerrilla agriculture? A biopolitical guide to illicit cultivation within an IUCN Category II protected area. Journal of Peasant Studies 42: 725-745.

Divon, S.A. (2015). Exceptional Rules – US Assistance Policy in Africa. Aas: Universitetet for miljø- og biovitenskap.

Divon, S.A. & Derman, W. (2017). United States Assistance Policy in Africa: Exceptional Power. London & New York: Routledge.

Foucault, M. (1978) The History of Sexuality. Vol. 1: An Introduction. New York: Pantheon Books.

Foucault, M. (1982). The Subject and Power. Critical Inquiry 8(4): 777-795.

Gaventa, J. (2006). Finding the spaces for Change: A Power Analysis. IDS Bulletin 37(6): 22-33.

Gaventa, J. & Pettit, J. (2011). A response to ‘Powercube: understanding power for social change’. Journal of Political Power 4(2): 309-316.

Lukes, S. (2005). Power: A Radical View. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Mann, M. (2013). The Sources of Social Power. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Russel, B. (2004). Power: A New Social Analysis. London & New York: Routledge.

Scott, J.C. (1985). Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Scott, J.C. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. Yale University Press

Scott J.C. (2012). Two Cheers for Anarchism: Six Easy Pieces on Autonomy, Dignity, and Meaningful Work and Play. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Follow more blog posts from this project at the Greenmentality webpages.

Shai André Divon is Head of Department at Noragric. His main research focus is on power through foreign assistance, development politics, and post-conflict reconstruction.

The post Power and Strategies of Resistance – Visible, Invisible and Hidden Resistance appeared first on Noragric blog.

Written by Connor Cavanagh, Postdoctoral Fellow, Noragric.  This post is one of a series that will explore the aims and conceptual bases of the Noragric-led Greenmentality project.

First published in the Greenmentality Blog.

The post Mentalities of greening, governing, and getting rich appeared first on Noragric blog.