Benjamin Von Brackel
January 30, 2018
SUVA — Mary Meita is on the first floor of a white building in Suva, the capital of Fiji. The 33-year-old looks through the barred window. Rain falls on the courtyard, the street and the palm trees. This is not her land, but it could one day become a new home for her people.
Meita works for the Embassy of Kiribati, a small republic made up of various small islands some 2,000 kilometers away from Fiji, scattered in the middle of the Pacific Ocean — at least for now. How long the nation's tiny atolls and reef islands continue to be inhabitable is an open question.
Three years ago, Kiribati's government bought land — more than 2,000 hectares — on the much larger Fiji Islands. It was a difficult decision, but the president decided it would be better for the republic's 115,000 citizens to plan resettlement now, with their dignity still intact, than wait until the imminent disaster.
The sea had taken over.
Kiribati is overpopulated. But that's just part of the problem. It's also being threatened by rising sea levels. Cemeteries near the beach are already flooded. Only the crosses rise out of the water. The coastline is washing away, and salt water gradually penetrates the ground from below, contaminating the drinking water. Crops hardly grow anymore.
Two years ago, Meita visited her homeland and sought out the place where she grew up. "When I arrived, it was all gone," she says. "The sea had taken over."
Climate change is already forcing many from Kiribati and other South Pacific islands to flee. "The soil represents their common heritage. It's part of their identity, especially since they don't have a written history," migration expert Sophie Wirsching explains. Their ancestors are buried on the land and many believe that their spirits continue to reside there, she adds. "It's as if the islanders were being robbed."
The islands won't disappear overnight. But already, life has become increasingly difficult because of the coastal erosion, lack of drinking water and farming problems. The people on Papua New Guinea's Carteret Islands are already due to resettle because of the rise of sea levels. The same goes for the roughly 500 inhabitants of Taro Island, part of the Solomon Islands chain. The Maldives, using money it generates from tourism, wants to finance a land purchase in Australia, New Zealand or India. And Kiribati, as previously mentioned, bought land on the Fiji Islands.
The Fiji Islands serve as a voice for the region and presided over last November's UN Climate Change Conference, in Bonn, Germany. Their message is something that until now has been largely ignored by the industrialized nations: that more and more people are already being displaced by climate change.
The overwhelming majority of those people move within their respective countries. A recent report by the Internal Displacement Monitoring Center (IDMC) found that in 2016, climate and weather-related disasters such as floods and storms affected some 23.5 million people. This does not include creeping changes such as sea-level rise, coastal erosion or droughts. And yet, those shifts too are having a major impact, as Kiribati, Fiji and other South Pacific island nations can attest.
Forced to start over
On the Fiji islands, the government is planning to move 45 coastal villages to the mountains over the next five to 10 years. On Vanua Levu, Fiji's second largest island, the town of Vunidogoloa has already relocated. The new site overlooks a lush palm forest. Dozens of pastel-green-painted huts stand on stilts on a slope. Four fish ponds were installed to replace the mackerel the villagers used to take from the sea. And unlike its original location, Vunidogoloa is now on a wide gravel road, and has regular bus service.
The youngest are happy about the resettlement. They now have modern bathrooms and solar power for their cell phones. But the elderly mourn their old village, of which only a few stones remain.
At the top of the hill in Vunidogoloa, Tevity Tuimalawai whacks at the dry soil with his rake. Sweat trickles from his forehead. The 72-year-old grows taro and manioc on a small plot he was given after the move. But he would much rather teach his grandchildren how to fish on the shores of the old town. Tuimalawai tears up when he talks about how as a teenager, he learned to fish from his grandfather.
Sometimes he walks the three kilometers down to the sea, where the old village stood and his parents and grandparents grew up. Then he looks at the waves or takes a nap. Where once the village stood, tall grass now grows. An iron roof lies on the ground. Near the remains of the house are three huts. In one there is an old copy of the Bible. In the middle of the old village is a single stone, all that remains of a church that was swept away years ago by a hurricane.
Over the years, the sea has eaten away more than 10 meters of the land, overflowing the walls of the embankment and adding salt water to the ground. "At night, when the tide came, we heard the water underneath our houses," says Sailosi Ramatu, the village head. "We were afraid to go to bed."
Along with the ponds, authorities built new fields and paths, a retaining wall, and set up a waste and water system. But the villagers themselves had to pay for the new houses, which cost roughly 100,000 euros, they say. For that they had to cut down many of he surrounding trees to sell the wood. The government admits it didn't have all the money it needed to fund the whole relocation effort.
For help, Fiji and other island countries are looking to the perpetrators of climate change: the industrialized countries. They demand compensation for the property and the land they're losing. They also want help relocating people who have to leave the islands altogether. The World Bank has suggested that countries such as Australia, New Zealand or South Korea provide work visas to inhabitants of the threatened South Pacific islands. But Australia has refused. And the industrialized countries as a whole won't offer compensation.
Eventually, though, they too will have to deal with rising tides, starting in places like Florida and the Netherlands or Florida. "What is happening in the South Pacific today will be coming to Europe or the United States in 20, 30 years," says Wirsching.
Reluctant to relocate
Fiji still has the option of relocating people within the country. That won't be the case for the people of Kiribati, who know they'll have to give up their entire national territory. Many of its islands reach no more than two meters above the sea. And their inhabitants have no guarantees: The UN's Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees does not account for climate refugees.
Kiribati had no choice then but to take matters into its own hands — to buy land elsewhere — but that too poses certain problems. In the village of Naviavia, located in the area of Fiji now owned by Kiribati, schoolchildren in blue uniforms run around. Its 270 inhabitants are descendants of slaves from the Solomon Islands who were abducted and brought by British colonists to work in plantations. "It hurts a bit," Deri Vakalele, 69, says of the fact that the land she lived on for decades is now owned by another nation.
The inhabitants of Kiribati are also threatened by an identity crisis.
In the Fiji Times, villagers read that between 18,000 and 20,000 Kiribati people are coming. Will the new landowners pollute the river that flows through their village? How will they earn money if they can no longer pick the coconuts from the surrounding area and sell the oil on the market? Can they maintain their culture when tens of thousands of people encircle their village on a foreign island?
Last year, Kiribati's vice-president visited Fiji. The delegation drank kava (a traditional beverage) with the villagers. They visited the village, the palm forest and walked up the mountains. They reassured the local that it would be a smooth tradition, and that inhabitants wouldn't start arriving for another 10 years. But the inhabitants of Kiribati are also threatened by an identity crisis. They have always been connected to the sea. Now they're being told they'll have to live in the mountains, and in a foreign country.
Sometimes, when Mary Meita thinks of her native Kiribati—the memories of her childhood sinking, quite literally, into the sea — she feels anger rising; anger at the industrialized countries. For this part of our interview she asks that I quote her as a private citizen rather than an embassy official. "We hate the idea of having to move," she says. "And we don't want to be called climate refugees. We're not responsible for all that!"
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Local villagers in western India have been forced to live with a mining waste site on the edge of town. What happens when you wake up one day and the giant mound of industrial waste has imploded?
October 16, 2021
BADI — Last week, when the men and women from the Bharwad community in this small village in western India stepped out for their daily work to herd livestock, they were greeted with a strange sight.
The 20-meter-high small hill that had formed at the open-cast mining dumpsite had suddenly sunk. Unsure of the reason behind the sudden caving-in, they immediately informed other villagers. In no time, word had traveled far, even drawing the attention of environment specialists and activists from outside town.
This mining dumpsite situated less than 500 meters outside of the Badi village in the coastal state of Gujarat has been a matter of serious concern ever since the Gujarat Power Corporation Limited began lignite mining work here in early 2017. The power plant is run by the Power Gujarat State Electricity Corporation Limited, which was previously known as the Bhavnagar Energy Company Ltd.
Vasudev Gohil, a 43-year-old resident of Badi village says that though the dumping site is technically situated outside the village, locals must pass the area on a daily basis.
"We are constantly on tenterhooks and looking for danger signs," he says. Indeed, their state of alert is how the sudden change in the shape of the dumpsite was noticed in the first place.
Can you trust environmental officials?
For someone visiting the place for the first time, the changes may not stand out. "But we have lived all our lives here, we know every little detail of this village. And when a 150-meter-long stretch cave-in by over 25-30 feet, the change can't be overlooked," Gohil adds.
This is not the first time that the dumpsite has worried local residents. Last November, a large part of the flattened part of the dumpsite had developed deep cracks and several flat areas had suddenly got elevated. While the officials had attributed this significant elevation to the high pressure of water in the upper strata of soil in the region, environment experts had pointed to seismic activities. The change is evident even today, nearly a year since it happened.
It could have sunk because of the rain.
After the recent incident, when the villagers raised an alarm and sent a written complaint to the regional Gujarat Pollution Control Board, an official visit to the site was arranged, along with the district administration and the mining department.
The regional pollution board officer Bhavnagar, A.G. Oza, insists the changes "aren't worrisome" and attributes it to the weather.
"The area received heavy rain this time. It is possible that the soil could have sunk in because of the rain," he tells The Wire. The Board, he says, along with the mining department, is now trying to assess if the caving-in had any impact on the ground surface.
"We visited the site as soon as a complaint was made. Samples have already been sent to the laboratory and we will have a clear idea only once the reports are made available," Oza adds.
Women from the Surkha village have to travel several kilometers to find potable water
A questionable claim
That the dumpsite had sunk in was noticeable for at least three days between October 1 and 3, but Rohit Prajapati of an environmental watchdog group Paryavaran Suraksha Samiti, noted that it was not the first time.
"This is the third time in four years that something so strange is happening. It is a disaster in the making and the authorities ought to examine the root cause of the problem," Prajapati says, adding that the department has repeatedly failed to properly address the issue.
He also contests the GPCB's claim that excess rain could lead to something so drastic. "Then why was similar impact not seen on other dumping sites in the region? One cannot arrive at conclusions for geological changes without a deeper study of them," he says. "It can have deadly implications."
Living in pollution
The villagers have also accused the GPCB of overlooking their complaint of water pollution which has rendered a large part of the land, most importantly, the gauchar or grazing land, useless.
"In the absence of a wall or a barrier, the pollutant has freely mixed with the water bodies here and has slowly started polluting both our soil and water," complains 23- year-old Nikul Kantharia.
He says ever since the mining project took off in the region, he, like most other villagers has been forced to take his livestock farther away to graze. "Nothing grows on the grazing land anymore and the grass closer to the dumpsite makes our cattle ill," Kantharia claims.
The mining work should have been stopped long ago
Prajapati and Bharat Jambucha, a well-known environmental activist and proponent of organic farming from the region, both point to blatant violations of environmental laws in the execution of mining work, with at least 12 violations cited by local officials. "But nothing happened after that. Mining work has continued without any hassles," Jambucha says. Among some glaring violations include the absence of a boundary wall around the dumping site and proper disposal of mining effluents.
The mining work has also continued without a most basic requirement – effluent treatment plant and sewage treatment plant at the mining site, Prajapati points out. "The mining work should have been stopped long ago. And the company should have been levied a heavy fine. But no such thing happened," he adds.
In some villages, the groundwater level has depleted over the past few years and villagers attribute it to the mining project. Women from Surkha village travel several kilometers outside for potable water. "This is new. Until five years ago, we had some water in the village and did not have to lug water every day," says Shilaben Kantharia.
The mine has affected the landscape around the villages
Resisting lignite mining
The lignite mining project has a long history of resistance. Agricultural land, along with grazing land were acquired from the cluster of 12 adjoining villages in the coastal Ghogha taluka between 1994 and 1997. The locals estimate that villagers here lost anything between 40-100% of their land to the project. "We were paid a standard Rs 40,000 per bigha," Narendra, a local photographer, says.
The money, Narendra says, felt decent in 1994 but for those who had been dependent on this land, the years to come proved very challenging. "Several villagers have now taken a small patch of land in the neighboring villages on lease and are cultivating cotton and groundnut there," Narendra says.
They were dependent on others' land for work.
Bharat Jambucha says things get further complicated for the communities which were historically landless. "Most families belonging to the Dalit or other marginalized populations in the region never owned any land. They were dependent on others' land for work. Once villagers lost their land to the project, the landless were pushed out of the village," he adds. His organization, Prakrutik Kheti Juth, has been at the forefront, fighting for the rights of the villages affected in the lignite mining project.
In 2017, when the mining project finally took off, villagers from across 12 villages protested. The demonstration was disrupted after police used force and beat many protesters. More than 350 of them were booked for rioting.
The villagers, however, did not give up. Protests and hunger strikes have continued from time to time. A few villagers even sent a letter to the President of India threatening that they would commit suicide if the government did not return their land.
"We let them have our land for over 20 years," says Gohil.
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