Tag: climate change

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Images and rituals of resistance at COP30

At the heart of the Brazilian Amazon, in Belém do Pará, my field research at the 30th Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (COP30/UNFCCC) involved me in circumstances I could never have imagined and which led me to write this account.

A fire broke out in the tents of the Blue Zone, the area restricted to accredited delegations, and sent me running without a backward glance, dropping my field notebook with my annotations on two weeks of intense activities as I fled. These notes not only contained factual information of events and interlocutors but also the impressions, hesitations, scenes and contacts I had accumulated since my arrival in the city. At that moment, the loss felt overwhelming.

I feared I would never be able to assemble back together what I had observed and experienced. But an anthropologist friend reminded me of Edmund Leach and the story of how he lost part of his fieldnotes before writing Political Systems of Highland Burma (1954). Another recalled that Berta Gleizer Ribeiro, a Brazilian anthropologist, had experienced a similar situation on expeditions through Amazonia. As later debates have shown, Leach did not write out of thin air. He reconstructed his notes from memory, added new observations and integrated historical materials (Sanjek 1990). Even so, the loss provoked later reflections on the relationship between data, memory and ethnographic writing.

In Fire, Loss, and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice (1990), Roger Sanjek discusses the status of fieldnotes, their material risks and symbolic effects. Drawing on diverse similar experiences lived by anthropologists, he describes situations where fire and other hazards threatened researchers’ fieldnotes. In my case, the blaze forced me to turn to photographs for support and question the methodological nature of what we conventionally call ‘data.’

Unlike my notes, the photographs I took survived online in the cloud. Revisiting them, I realised they functioned as an index of my trajectory, my observational stance, the angles from which I accompanied the rituals, protests, press conferences and informal gatherings. They, too, are a form of data production.

I photographed every event I attended. The images enabled me to reconstruct locations, events, sequences and interlocutors. Using them as cues, I was able to access records on official websites and social media, compiling objective information about dates, venues, institutions and participants. Much of this data is still digitally available today.

However, the photographs also returned something to me that official records failed to capture: they became an ethnographic device. They documented my participation in COP30’s rituals, understood here in the sense proposed by Peirano (2002) with all their communicative and performative dimensions.

Both inside and outside the Blue Zone, the conference was organised as a sequence of diplomatic, legal and performative rituals: plenary sessions, press conferences, marches, symbolic trials, people’s tribunals, negotiations and blockades. It is within this environment that I situate what I have elsewhere termed ‘social fires’ – processes of social contestation that expose fissures in the hegemonic models of climate governance (Bronz 2026).

The meanings associated with fire, heat and warming have been part of the symbolic repertoire of environmental struggles for decades. They also connect to the concept of overheating proposed by Eriksen (2016), designating a historical moment marked by the acceleration and dealignment between economic political, and social systems. From this perspective, COP can be understood as a laboratory of this ‘overheated’ globalisation, a space where multilateral decisions, diplomatic negotiations, science and activist mobilisations intertwine in a constant sense of urgency.

In this essay, I present a selection of images from a wider collection to illustrate the power of these social fires in rituals of mobilisation. The images are accompanied by brief explanatory texts without any intention of exhausting their analytical potential or the complexity of the ritual dynamics in which they are embedded.

Boat regatta at the People’s Summit, 12 November 2025

Indigenous participants assemble during the Boat regatta, which brought together more than 200 vessels in Guajará Bay.

The People’s Summit, one of COP30’s major parallel events, has become established as an explicit counterpoint to the institutional language of official negotiations. The boat regatta in Guajará Bay, a ritual marking its inauguration, symbolically shifted the conference’s centre to the river. The vessels formed a scene of collective mobilisation, making Amazonia visible as an active political space. The image illustrates how local forms of territorial occupation produce a climate politics that contrasts with the technical abstraction of multilateral agreements.

Before departing, indigenous leaders performed a ritual in front of dozens of cameras. The scene was composed of various layers: in the foreground, mobile phones captured painted bodies and indigenous chants; the boats of social movements forming a chorus alongside the Greenpeace ship, symbolising transnational ecology; and the river stretching out behind as a backdrop.

People’s tribunal and ancestral jury, 13 November 2025

Ancestral Jury organised by the Articulation of Indigenous Peoples of Brazil (APIB) at Aldeia COP.

The Ancestral Jury: Trial of Projects on Indigenous Lands, organised by the Articulation of Indigenous Peoples of Brazil (APIB), represented one of the most intense moments of political contestation. By putting mining, energy and infrastructural projects on trial, the tribunal delivered a direct critique of the developmentalist model underpinning global climate governance. The photograph captures not only an act of denunciation but the creation of an alternative political authority in which territory emerges as the central criterion for justice.

The spatial arrangement, the division of roles, the sequence of speeches and the repurposed legal aesthetics all contribute to the ritual dimension of the event. Indigenous lawyers wore robes adorned with indigenous designs. The form of western law was appropriated and transformed, placing the Brazilian state and corporations in the dock.

The Climate March, 15 November 2025

The Climate March united diverse agendas of resistance to imposed models of climate governance. The march represents a form of expressive collective action in the sense proposed by Chaves (2002), bounded in time and space, invoking established symbolic references and seeking to awaken solidarity beyond the mobilised group. By occupying the streets of Belém, it demarcated its own sphere within the social life of the Conference, emerging as a ritual capable of condensing interpretations and legitimacy.

Women’s March during the Global Climate March, occupying the streets of Belém during COP30.
Manifesto against fossil fuel production during the Global Climate March, COP30.

The route taken, the organised blocks, the chants and banners, the presence of women, the theatrical protest against fossil fuel production and the performance of the Cobra Grande all formed a grand tableau, rendering visible the multiplicity of struggles. Outside the Blue Zone, climate politics was enacted as a contest over development models and ways of life. Efficacy here was not measured in documents but in the collective force of these presences.

Cobra Grande during the Global Climate March, COP30, in Belém, Pará.

In this same territory, artist Azul Rodrigues, linked to the Climate Art Project, wore the ‘Cloak of the End of the World,’ materialising a question about ritual continuity in a devastated world. Inspired by the historic Tupinambá cloak but crafted from plastic waste, the artwork transformed refuse into denunciation. The substitution of feathers with strips of plastic ritualises devastation, weaving together themes of ancestry, coloniality, memory and environmental collapse. Through the images and performances created by artists and activists, the Climate March was also converted into a site of aesthetic elaboration and crisis communication.

Azul Rodrigues wearing the “Cloak of the End of the World,” a plastic-waste reinterpretation of the historic Tupinambá mantle.

INDIGENOUS TERRITORIES IN THE GREEN AND BLUE ZONES, 10 to 21 November

The Green and Blue Zones were spaces where the event’s formality clashed with the political expressions of parallel events and Belém’s streets.

In the Green Zone, open to the public, indigenous people occupied the corridors selling craftwork and painting body designs, which became a popular trend among COP30 participants. Their presence was a striking contrast to the glowing corporate logos and official messaging. This undoubtedly comprised a form of ritualising the indigenous presence, as well as exposing or denouncing the ambiguities of COP30, where cultural recognition and aesthetic appreciation are dissociated from concrete territorial struggles.

Indigenous artisans in the Green Zone corridors selling craftwork during COP30.
Indigenous artisans in the Green Zone corridors painting body designs during COP30.

I was not present when the Munduruku Indigenous people blocked the main entrance to the Blue Zone, but the images were widely reported in national and international media (for example, here and here). As a result, another image gained prominence– that of the COP30 president holding a Munduruku baby as he opened negotiations with Indigenous leaders.

Alessandra Munduruku was the Indigenous woman who led this action. Through it, she ritually marked the passage into the Blue Zone, where she and her group gave interviews and held meetings with authorities. This transition materialises a significant political shift. By occupying the institutional space of the COP as a public interlocutor, Alessandra challenges the historical regimes that have pushed indigenous peoples to the margins of decision-making.

Alessandra Korap Munduruku, Indigenous leader, giving an interview inside the Blue Zone.

In this brief account, I have compiled diverse images that distil forms of resistance and record what official documents fail to capture: the gestures, presences, performances and disputes that stretch the official grammar of climate governance. Revisiting these photographs, I realise they capture not just events but also the potential for symbolic displacement – through the eruption of alternative political languages both inside and on the margins of COP30. While the final texts reiterate limited commitments, the images preserve evidence of contestation and collective elaboration. It is in this interval between diplomatic formalisation and the public scene that the critical potency of Belém’s moment is inscribed.

Bibliography

BRONZ, Deborah. 2026. “Social Fires in Belém (Pará): COP30 beyond the Documents.” Manuscript submitted to AnthropoNews.

CHAVES, Christine de Alencar Chaves. 2002. A Marcha Nacional dos Sem-terra: estudo de um ritual político. In: PEIRANO, Mariza Gomes e Souza (ed.). O dito e o feito: ensaios de antropologia dos rituais. Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará: Núcleo de Antropologia da Política/UFRJ. Pp. 133-148

ERIKSEN, Thomas Hylland. Overheating: an anthropology of accelerated change. London: Pluto Press, 2016.

PEIRANO, Mariza Gomes e Souza. 2002. O dito e o feito: ensaios de antropologia dos rituais. Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará: Núcleo de Antropologia da Política/UFRJ.

SANJEK, Roger. 1990. Fire, Loss, and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. In: Fieldnotes. The makings of anthropology. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Pp. 34-34.

Deborah Bronz is Professor of Anthropology at the Fluminense Federal University (UFF). She is a Young Scientist of Our State research fellow funded by the Rio de Janeiro State Research Support Foundation (FAPERJ) and Vice-Coordinator of the Amazonian and Environmental Studies Group (GEAM/UFF). She is also a member of the Traditional Peoples, Environment and Major Development Projects Committee of the Brazilian Association of Anthropology (ABA). She attended COP30 as part of the observer delegation of the American Anthropological Association (AAA).

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Hey Max Planck! You can help us and join the line: On badges and the politics of visibility at COP30

On most days, delegates are rushing through the gate on their way from the city into the premises of COP30’s restricted Blue zone. Not today. On this morning, activists are blocking the gate. On this side of the fence, throngs of delegates congest the street. It is a motley crew of diplomats, lobbyists, activists and observers, many sporting COP30 badges with photo, full name and institution listed. Police cars and ambulances dot the crowd, their lights flashing on. Many people keep moving through the crowd, apparently looking for another entry into the Blue Zone or a refuge from the glaring equatorial sun. Many others stay on, watch what is happening around the gate.

image 1: Activists blocking the gate at COP30

The gate is being blocked by Indigenous activists. Their dresses and feather gowns identify them as Indigenous people from the Amazon not very far from here. Some hold spears; and as the president of the COP30 and his entourage gets close, they start singing, swaying back and forth in a slow two-step dance. Like many others around me, I do not understand what they are singing. But the images and Portuguese slogans on their placards help to get a sense of what this is about. Apparently, they demand abandoning plans to construct hydropower dams on the rivers as well as the termination of illegal gold mining on the lands they call home.

Around the chanting, spear-carrying activists, another activist group has formed a ring. These are mostly white people holding themselves by the hand, in solemn silence and with their backs to the Indigenous protesters, so as to shelter them from the onlookers and police. Many in this outer line wear shirts imprinted with climate activist slogans or strings of buttons, added the occasional reflective west or Palestinian Keffiyeh, and, of course, official COP30 badges. Scuffles erupt with photojournalists trying to break through their line in order to get a better shot at how COP30’s president is now engaging in a conversation with a woman who seems to be a spokesperson of the Indigenous activists, apparently listening to their demands.

COP30 badge

At one point, someone shouts at me “Hey, Max Planck! You can help us and join the line!” I register the voice, and know immediately that she addresses me. I carry my badge, identifying me visibly as an ‘observer’ sent by ‘Max Planck Society’ privileged with access to negotiations in week one. She must have grasped that I was torn between two roles (that of an observer and that of an activist), hovering around the activist line but watching the discussion between Indigenous activist and COP30 president unfold (rather than turning my back to these, and facing the crowd in a gesture of protection, as the other climate activists do). In forcing me to take a stand, the woman’s voice also highlights the mutual identification of people, affiliations and roles indicated in the tiny pieces of paper, plastic and fabric badges are; and, by extension, the politics of visibility in and around these spaces of global diplomacy.

During COP30, badges had a peculiar social life. They regulated access to the restricted zone of negotiations, the Blue Zone, and come to distributed through opaque channels of individual constituencies to which a certain number of badges had been allotted. As such, badges were subject of maneuvering, where badges were fought over or split among colleagues. Some appeared wearing their badges reluctantly, while others adorned them with glaring activist buttons (showcasing allegiances and enabling efficient organizing) or with buttons from earlier COP meetings (signaling veteran status). At the same time, badges were subject of envy for people wishing to enter the Blue Zone; and the ubiquity of badges in the streets of COP30’s Belem flooded by 50000 delegates certainly contributed to creating the festive and hopeful atmosphere enveloping the city throughout week one.

In the Blue Zone – governed by UN security protocol enforced by UN’s own security forces – badges serve as an extension of the passport. But rather than citizenship, badges testify professional affiliations and membership to delegations. COP30 badges qualified holders as ‘members of party’, ‘party overflow’, ‘observer’ or ‘journalist’, each granting different rights of access to negotiation rooms on the premises. Sometimes, the roles were not immediately clear: I have met employees of humanitarian organizations filling in as diplomats for poor countries; and many of the unusually high number of fossil fuel lobbyists present at COP30 will have similarly worn badges by country delegations.

Being Max Planck inside an activist blockade highlights a number of tensions stemming from doing activist research. Anthropologists have frequently explored the dilemmas of doing fieldwork among activists holding political visions close to their own. What is more important, they ask, producing evidence or joining the struggle? And how could one make up for either in cases where it’s simply not possible to do justice to both at one and the same time? Joining the line out there by the gate on that morning, I am debating internally whether this is just a tactical decision in fieldwork (getting me closer towards participant observation among climate activists) or whether I am simply living up to Charles Hale’s challenge when he says that cultural critique without joining the fight is just lazy (Hale 2006). But there’s more. It also signals the tensions emerging from being simultaneously a scholar, an activist and a delegate, and how much the role of a delegate shapes the possibilities of activist scholarship within this peculiar environment – this temporary mini-city catering to 50000 delegates convening to decide on humanity’s actions towards climate change.

A few days later, on a Sunday, which is an official day of rest of COP30 negotiations, I run into the woman again. We’ve both booked a trip with a responsible tourism collective, visiting women’s initiatives and herbal gardens on one of the many estuarine islands adjacent to Belem. On the boat, I learn that while we both qualified as observers, we were on fairly different trajectories and, therefore, subject to alternative politics of visibility. She had travelled to COP30 sent as delegate by a European Christian organization, aiming to witness and support efforts toward climate justice. In contrast, I had travelled to Belem as a delegate by a German Foundation pursuing fundamental research in the sciences and humanities. I was supposed to study, much less to witness or support.

Out there by the gate, a few days earlier, there hardly was time to reflect on matters of affiliation and strategizing. I remained absorbed by the dynamics of the protest as it unfolded around me. I was occupied with the appearance of suaveness by COP30’s president as he listened to activists, the bows and arrows piercing the air, the swaying of people moving in and out of the crowd, and the soldier’s disconcerting quiet as they overlooked the protest in riot gear, holding to their guns. The possibility of violence was palpable. After all, it seemed impossible to ascertain how security forces dealt with such kinds of direct action and whom they would count as perpetrator if things went south. At the very least, the protest’s transgressive and provocative nature had motivated many people in the crowd to tactically conceal parts of their identity. While many of the people around me carried their badges open, many others rather chose to conceal their badges. Quickly hidden under their shirts or blouses, affiliations were masked, while the characteristic, brightly printed lanyards on use during COP30 would still give away their being delegates.

Between being called upon as Max Planck and disappearing name tags, badges appear as critical elements within environmentalist action at COP30. On one level, they seem to join a number of visual cues allowing for an identification of persons (adding to printed shirts, Keffiyeh or feathered bands). On another level, they signal a tactical maneuvering with affiliations and the status of being a delegate. While some used buttons, printed shirts or flags carrying slogans as methods of broadcasting activist demands inside the premises, others chose to temporarily conceal their affiliations betting on the force of bodies on the streets precisely as an illegible mass to make demands. In showing or concealing their badges, people were not only engaged in keeping their names to themselves or not, they were also shifting gears in the politics of visibility. In this view, tactic positioning of badges complicates the means and ends of confrontational politics in or around the restricted spaces of diplomatic activity.

Arne Harms is an environmental anthropologist. Harms is a Senior Research Fellow working at Uni Münster and Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, in Halle (Saale), Germany. Read more about Arne’s work here: https://www.eth.mpg.de/harms

References

Hale, Charles R. 2006. “Activist Research v. Cultural Critique: Indigenous Land Rights and the Contradictions of Politically Engaged Anthropology.” Cultural Anthropology 21 (1): 96–120.

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Is the UNFCCC climate governance truly pluralist? Examining the Loss and Damage Fund

The UNFCCC has struggled to be effective in driving ambitious climate action due to several structural and procedural limitations. In the follow up to the Paris Agreement 2015, its reliance on consensus-based decision making has been impeded by divisions between developed and developing and small island nations due lack of inclusivity, lack of accountability, and use of technocratic dominant systems over Indigenous, traditional knowledge systems, etc. (Hermwille et. al., 2015; Kuyper et. al., 2018; Nautiyal and Kinsky, 2022). While the UNFCCC remains the central institution for global climate governance, the efficacy and inclusivity in its pluralistic governance processes are widely debated. Pluralism posits that power in stable democratic nations is dispersed across a variety of actors and not monopolized by more elite actors (Rengger, 2015). In global climate governance, pluralism refers to the coexistence and equality of engagement of diverse actors, systems, values and approaches to address negative impacts of climate change at the global level (Boyd, 2010; de Ridder et. al., 2023; Okereke et. al., 2009). This essay is about whether pluralism exists in practice in the UNFCCC framework of climate governance such that developing and small island countries have equality in participation of the management of the Loss and Damage Fund (LDF). To assess the legitimacy of inclusivity, the essays analyzes pluralism in the Mult-level Governance (MLG) framework of UNFCCC using document analysis and analysis of field observations undertaken by the authors during their participation in three consecutive Conference of Parties (COP) of UNFCCC.

The process of governance of climate change was introduced in 1992 at the UN Rio Summit. It was conceptualized as global governance organization comprising of a broad spectrum of actors working towards the Sustainable Development Goals (SDG) (Janicke and Martin, 2017; UN, 1992). It was during this summit that the concept of multi-level governance (MLG) was introduced. The UNFCCC later operationalized MLG as a framework to combat climate change, incorporating national, regional, and local governments, international organizations, the private sector, and civil society (UNICEF, 2020). Geels (2011) and Lundvall (2007) have emphasized the usefulness of MLG in analyzing socio-technical transitions, particularly when dealing with technologies, policies, and institutions. The Paris Agreement (UNFCCC, 2015) exemplifies this approach when it achieved consensus of the signatory parties to the Agreement to agree upon goals, instruments, technologies, finance, and other tools of combating climate change by keeping the global temperature rise below 20C. The Paris Agreement was the first significant multilaterally created climate governance system. Nevertheless, questions persist regarding whether this multilevel structure genuinely empowers all actors, especially small island nations, or if global climate governance is a place for nation states to display their hegemony over other relatively weaker states who may have a seat on the table, but not a share in the pie.

Findings from our research show that UNFCCC’s climate governance process is determined by the extent to which a developed country is willing to bargain its hegemonic power. This hegemonic power is symbolically represented in relative share of developed nation member states vis-à-vis developing nation members in decision making; share of resources provided towards implementation of instruments; and ability to use the UNFCCC process to delay consensus and implementation. The higher the extent to which a developed country cedes power, the better is the chance of achieving pluralism in practice in the governance process. Even though the climate governance landscape exhibits the characteristics of pluralist governance via diversity of actors and multiplicity of initiatives, an actor can dismantle the process if it holds hegemony over other actors.

History and Development of the Loss and Damage Fund (LDF)

Since the first Conference of Parties (COP) in Berlin in 1995, COPs have served as platforms to review climate actions and negotiate global commitments. Climate finance emerged as a key mechanism under this multilevel governance framework. In 1990, the Association of Small Island States (AOSIS) first proposed an international insurance pool to support nations vulnerable to sea-level rise. But the proposal was not accepted, and L&D was not mentioned at the Rio Summit in 1992 because developed countries were hesitant to address financial compensation and liabilities related to L&D (Beylier, 2024). It took over three decades and multiple COPs for this vision to materialize. Incidentally, the Paris Agreement did not contain a formal definition of L&D, which made the process more complex and harder to follow policy-wise, making “non-economic loss and damage (including loss of knowledge, social cohesion, identity, or cultural heritage)” hard to incorporate into the fund (Broberg and Romera, 2020). Nonetheless, there were notable milestones achieved by AOSIS including the establishment of the Green Climate Fund at COP16 in Cancun (2010), the Warsaw International Mechanism on Loss and Damage in 2022 (Kattumuri et al. 2022), and finally, the LDF agreement at COP27, with operationalization put into effect in COP 29 (Beylier, 2024). These developments illustrate the delayed nature of climate finance negotiations that resulted from divergent vested interests that lead to non-binding negotiations.

COP29: Observations from the Field

Aritra Chakrabarty, and Alexis Tater, from Michigan Technological University (MTU) had the opportunity to attend COP 27, COP 28 and COP29. While Aritra was part of RINGO and represented MTU as an observer institution in COP 27 & 28, Alexis attended COP29, as part of her study on presence/absence of local indigenous knowledge in climate negotiations. Attending these COPs provided us with a clear understanding as to how negotiations happen at the global scale. We conducted firsthand participant observation of negotiations that happen behind closed doors. Behind each closed door is a political theater that illustrates the pluralistic process. As one moves from one negotiating room to another, you realize that the very existence of this pluralistic process is stalling the negotiation. Negotiated words become promises, which later turn into pledges, and finally result in a report -which thus far has not mentioned “accountability.” While each participatory nation of the Paris Agreement has a voice in the negotiation room, they are not equally weighted in decisions. Also, because the process gives equal chance to every nation, the process is stretched out, proceeding at a slow pace, made even slower when more powerful nations want to “review the motions of an agreement” again and again. The authors observed that the developed countries expressed their power by single-handedly elongating or stalling negotiation processes. Developing nations, and small island nations share the mutual frustration of these delays and on the lack of action on promises made at COPs. For example, the agreement on LDF was achieved in COP 27, 32 years after it was initiated in 1990 by AOSIS. Furthermore, although the COP29 website noted that “significant decisions towards the Fund’s full operationalization” were made, no concrete timelines for disbursement were announced (COP29AZ, 2024). UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres echoed similar concerns, stating that climate disasters disproportionately affect those least responsible and that the initial capitalization of $768 million for the LDF is far from adequate (United Nations, 2024).

Governance of L&D

The LDF is a piece of climate governance instrument made up of an aggregated set of rules, procedures, and precedents, decided upon by a committee using normative elements of negotiation. It reflects different conceptions of what climate finance is; what should do, and therefore does not have a single binding objective nor is binding on any of the nations that have pledged their resources (Nardin, 2000). The operationalization of the LDF exposes the governance gaps in the UNFCCC regime. In March 2025, the United States (U.S) pulled out from the management of the fund with immediate effect (Gastelumendi, 2025). This withdrawal was seen by many state and non-state actors as a major setback to the implementation of the LDF. However, analysis of the status report on the Fund shows that as out of the total $321.24 million received by the Fund as of March 2025, the pledged share of the U.S was only five percent ($17.56 million) which it has paid. On the other hand, the oil resource rich nation of the United Arab Emirates (UAE), which had pledged $100 million has provided $25 million so far. The difference in the pledged and the received amount is enormous: $768.40 million pledged is more than two times of the received amount so far. Interestingly, out of the 26 nation states that have pledged to contribute to the LDF, the first and the third largest greenhouse gas (GHG) emitting nations are absent; both from the list of pledged nations to the committed resources as well as from the membership to the Board of the Fund. The membership of the Board responsible for the management of the Fund also shows a lack of equity in representation. Out of the 26 members, 12 are from developed countries; three from Asia-Pacific states; three from African states; three from Latin American and the Caribbean states; two from Small Island developing states; two from the least developed states; and one from a developing country that is not part of any the above groups. For the small island nations to have only two members, who initiated the conversation and discussion on a funding mechanism back in 1990 represents how hegemonic power makes it way in this pluralistic world of climate governance.

While the U.S exit from the LDF represents only 5% of the total received funds, it’s a symbolic power display that significantly undermines the Fund’s perceived legitimacy. From a pluralist perspective, this action reveals that while the governance framework may appear inclusive, actual influence is still disproportionately concentrated. The U.S exit signals other developed nations who have pledged to the Fund to also reconsider their economic contribution, as there’s no accountability attached with non-commitment. While the Paris Agreement has created universal participation, its mechanism for mitigation and adaption of polycentric framework suffers from higher ambition but low compliance (Falkner, 2016; Torstad, 2020). The process of non-binding voluntary pledges that can be compared and reviewed with the hope of ‘naming and shaming’ as a measure of accountability does not hold ground, as proved in this instance of the U.S exit from the LDF. According to a realist perspective, the voluntary commitment and pledge to the governance process can work if the member nation can gain dominance over other members through that process (Donelly, 2005).

Reimagining Global Climate Governance (GCG)

To make the LDF an effective and just instrument of global climate governance, true to its pluralist foundation, its design must prioritize principles of equitability, accountability, and sustainability (Gurung et. al., 2020). Gurung et. al. (2020) argue that funding arrangements should offer new and additional financial resources beyond existing mitigation and adaptation funds. This distinction is crucial for addressing the unique challenges posed by loss and damage, particularly in vulnerable regions. The success of the Fund lies in navigating these intricacies, aligning financial mechanisms with the dire needs of the most vulnerable, and fostering a collaborative, inclusive approach. The UNFCCC framework, through mechanisms like the LDF, aspires to pluralist governance by involving diverse actors. However, its current structure falls short of enabling genuine influence by small island nations. While these countries have a voice in negotiations, the lack of binding commitments and uneven power dynamics hinder substantive participation. To transform the LDF into an accountable and inclusive instrument, reforms must address these structural inequities and center the voices and knowledge systems of those most affected.

References

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  • Nautiyal, S., & and Klinsky, S. (2022). The knowledge politics of capacity building for climate change at the UNFCCC. Climate policy, 22(5), 576-592. https://doi.org/10.1080/14693062.2022.2042176
  • Okereke, C., Bulkeley, H., & Schroeder, H. (2009). Conceptualizing Climate Governance Beyond the International Regime. Global Environmental Politics, 9(1), 58-78. https://doi.org/10.1162/glep.2009.9.1.58
  • Reid, M. G., Hamilton, C., Reid, S. K., Trousdale, W., Hill, C., Turner, N., Picard, C. R., Lamontagne, C., & Matthews, H. D. (2014). Indigenous Climate Change Adaptation Planning Using a Values-Focused Approach: A Case Study with the Gitga’at Nation. Journal of Ethnobiology, 34(3), 401-424. https://doi.org/10.2993/0278-0771-34.3.401
  • Rengger, N. (2015). Pluralism in International Relations Theory: Three Questions1. International Studies Perspectives, 16(1), 32-39. https://doi.org/10.1111/insp.12090
  • Tørstad, V. H. (2020). Participation, ambition and compliance: can the Paris Agreement solve the effectiveness trilemma? Environmental Politics, 29(5), 761-780. https://doi.org/10.1080/09644016.2019.1710322
  • United Nations (1993). Report of the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development. U. Nations. https://docs.un.org/en/A/CONF.151/26/Rev.1(vol.I)

Aritra Chakrabarty obtained his PhD from Michigan Technological University (MTU) in the Environment and Energy Policy (EEP) program in 2025. His research focuses on justice and equity in the renewable energy transition in the in the Global South. Apart from energy and environmental policy, Aritra also engages with climate governance as an issue through on ground interaction with stakeholders across geographies ranging from Europe, Latin America, and Asia. His participation at COP 27 & 28 of UNFCCC provided with on ground perspective of international relations in the context of climate change and how multi-level governance processes work. Aritra is well versed with international relations practices in the context of climate change and energy justice, and his past experience as a renewable energy sector consultant in South Asia, across both sides commercial grids and decentralized solutions gives him the leverage to understand stakeholder negotiations at multiple levels.

Alexis Belle Tater is a new Ph.D. student in Environmental and Energy Policy at Michigan Technological University. Her research focuses on Tribal sovereignty, ethical community engagement, and environmental justice. She is an active member in her community, leading campaigns and protests through Keweenaw Against the Oligarchy (which she founded), creating community spaces for organizing and for people to use their voices in a safe and constructive way. She is also an active leader in Keweenaw Youth for Climate Action, an action-based community and student organization working to urge university divestment from fossil fuels. Her work is rooted in her strong knowledge in and passions for socio-environmental justice and the belief that amplifying Indigenous voices and knowledges is crucial in the fight for climate justice.

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Rising from the Ashes: Rural Communities in Portugal’s Fiery Landscapes

On June 17th, 2017, Ferraria de São João (hereafter Ferraria), a small-sized village in central Portugal remotely located at the top of a hill, was encircled by flames. The two available fire engines, one at each end of the village, were unable to refill with water at some point. There were no helicopters either. The tragedy, as the few residents would come to realise the morning after, was of a regional scale. Left to their own devices, the unprepared local population fought the flames by themselves with what they had at hand: garden hoses, water buckets, branches.

Wildfires are common in this region, but this time it was different. Indeed, 2017 was the worst wildfire year in Portugal’s recent history. A record area of over half a million hectares burned, leaving in its wake record damages and fatalities. Two unprecedented wildfire events, before (mid-June) and after (mid-October) the so-called critical fire period, were particularly disastrous, with over one hundred casualties and hundreds of injured people. These events were the first of a new kind recorded not only in Portugal, but also in Europe, in terms of extreme behaviour, intensity and impacts. In a way, Portugal was the “canary in the mine”, providing a stark warning of what the future holds for Mediterranean ecosystems.

A valley landscape with large burn patterns across the hillside.
Figure 1. Burnt landscape in the aftermath of the 2017 wildfires. Photo Credit: Feli García, via Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

The roots of the wildfire problem in Portugal, and across Southern Europe more generally, are deep and complex, entangling social, economic, ecological, and political factors, further exacerbated by climate change. These roots date back to the 1960s, when significant socioeconomic and land-use changes radically changed fire regimes.[1] Since then, wildfires have become larger, more frequent, and more destructive. In the wake of a rapid, albeit late, industrialisation process, most rural inland areas of northern and central Portugal witnessed a massive rural exodus that left behind increasingly depopulated and almost abandoned villages. As a result, former agricultural areas have been occupied by fire-prone shrublands and forests. Forest composition has also shifted, due to plantations of native maritime pines and, more recently, non-native eucalyptus trees – two fast-growing, fire-prone species. Adding to this, forest ownership in Portugal is overwhelmingly private. In northern and central Portugal, where wildfires are more frequent, properties are also highly fragmented and small-sized. The owners of many of these properties are unknown, as most properties therein have no official land registry title – an issue that is only now being tackled.

A forest of eucalyptus trees, with a pile of felled trees in the foreground.
Figure 2. Eucalyptus plantation in Portugal. Photo Credit: Global Forest Coalition (used with permission)

The eucalyptus is a controversial species in Portugal, where it is currently the most common tree. Native to Australia, it was introduced to Portugal in the 1850s, but it was only by the mid-20th century that it became a protagonist, often a vilified one, in the history of Portuguese forests and wildfires. Since then, the area it occupies has rapidly and steadily expanded to feed the booming paper pulp industry, not without protest, creating extensive monocultures, many of which un/mismanaged. Currently, Portugal has the largest land area planted with eucalyptus in Europe and, in relative terms, in the world. It is not only through planting that this species spreads, though. The eucalyptus thrives and takes hold with fire. In other words, wildfires encourage their natural regeneration. As many private properties are left unmanaged or abandoned, eucalyptus trees grow ‘wildly’, rendering landscapes increasingly flammable.

Like most villages in the region, the surroundings of Ferraria were almost exclusively occupied by eucalyptus, all of which burned down in 2017. Closer to the village, however, the flames eventually stopped in a 200-year-old stand of cork oaks, a heritage bequeathed by the ancestors that saved many houses.

A small village with white houses and tiled roofs sits below a burned hillside. The trees around the village are green, while the hillside is brown and blackened.
Figure 3. The village of Ferraria de São João after the 2017 wildfires, surrounded by cork oaks and, further afield, burnt eucalyptus trees. Photo Credit: Nuno Antunes/Revelamos (used with permission).

After experiencing the wildfires, and inspired by the oaks, the residents realised that something had to change. One week after the wildfires, the Residents’ Association promoted the first of over 20 community meetings with residents and forest owners to discuss what could be done to protect the village from future wildfires. Through a continuous participatory process of discussion and collective decision-making, the unanimous solution arrived at was the creation of a ‘village protection zone’ (VPZ): a 100-metres strip around the village collectively managed, where eucalyptus trees were replaced with more fire-resistant native trees.

The limits of the VPZ were collectively planned and mapped, as were the intervention areas therein. Given that the plots within the VPZ are mostly private, landowners’ consent was needed. The challenge was to identify them, as there was no land registry and many landowners are absentees. Yet, with the help of the residents, the Association was able to identify over 250 plots, mostly with less than 1 hectare, and their respective owners (around 80). Provided with the owners’ consent, the Association registered their lands and started removing eucalyptus trees in a designated area within the VPZ. Afterwards, over 1,000 native trees were planted. The areas and species to plant were also collectively chosen and mapped: fruit trees closer to the village; cork oaks and oaks further away. These plantations were made possible with the help of several volunteers from all over the country, taking advantage of the wave of solidarity that followed the catastrophic wildfires.

Figure 4. The Village Protection Zone of Ferraria, with the different intervention areas. Source: Associação de Moradores da Ferraria de São João (used with permission)

This pioneering and innovative initiative became an example at the national level, to be replicated in other villages, as has already happened in the neighbouring village of Casal de São Simão. These villages were two case studies in a research we conducted on local communities’ responses to the 2017 wildfires in Portugal,[2] as part of a larger interdisciplinary project on wildfire mitigation and adaptation in the country (People&Fire[3]).

With global temperatures on the rise and a projected increase of extreme wildfires due to climatic and land-use changes, to which Mediterranean ecosystems are particularly vulnerable, pressures mount to find ways to learn to coexist with wildfires. In a context of dwindling, aging population and widespread land abandonment, such as Southern Europe, what might this mean? What happened in Ferraria provides some answers. For the residents, it meant being proactive and restoring native landscapes through a bottom-up, participatory process that involved the whole community. The damaged, fiery landscapes of the present are not only “our disaster”, but also “our weedy hope”.[4]

[1] For a summary of these changes, see: Lourenço, L. (2018) Forest fires in continental Portugal: Result of profound alterations in society and territorial consequences. Méditerranée 130; Moreira, F. et al. (2011) Landscape–wildfire interactions in Southern Europe: Implications for landscape management. Journal of Environmental Management 92(10): 2389–2402.

[2] This research focused on ten initiatives that were implemented in one of the most seriously hit regions in 2017 (Pinhal Interior) by local communities, local associations and/or local governments. Drawing upon qualitative research methods (surveys of local government presidents, document analysis, and semi-structured interviews), it explored the underpinning motivations, actions undertaken, opportunities, and challenges.

[3] “People&Fire: Reducing Risk, Living with Risk” is a research project funded by Portuguese national funds through FCT–Fundação para a Ciência e Tecnologia, I.P. (PCIF/AGT/0136/2017), between 2019 and 2022. It is carried out at the University of Lisbon (School of Agriculture, Institute of Social Sciences, and Institute of Geography and Spatial Planning) and is coordinated by Professor José Lima Santos. The aim of the project is to develop a new analytical framework to support people-centred policies through changing practices and choices at the policy, collective, and individual levels.

[4] Gan, E., Tsing, A., Swanson, H., & Bubandt, N. (2017). Introduction: Haunted landscapes of the Anthropocene. In A. L. Tsing, H. Swanson, E. Gan, & N. Bubandt (Eds.), Arts of living on a damaged planet: Ghosts of the Anthropocene (pp. G1–G14). University of Minnesota Press.

Filipa Soares is a researcher at the Instituto de Ciências Sociais da Universidade de Lisboa. Originally trained as an anthropologist, she holds a DPhil (PhD) in Environmental Geography from the University of Oxford. She has done research in Portugal and the UK on various topics, such as the politics and histories of wildlife conservation, including rewilding, and forest management and human-environment relations. Email: filipafs@gmail.com

Luísa Schmidt is a sociologist and Principal Researcher at the Instituto de Ciências Sociais da Universidade de Lisboa. In Portugal, she pioneered environmental sociology research and outreach. She coordinates OBSERVA–Environment, Territory and Society Observatory and co-founded (2009) the PhD on “Climate Change and Sustainable Development Policies”.

Ana Delicado is a Research Fellow at the Instituto de Ciências Sociais da Universidade de Lisboa. Trained as a sociologist, she works mainly in social studies of science and technology. She has done research on environmental risks, energy technologies, public engagement with science, among other topics. She teaches at the PhD Programme in Climate Change and Sustainable Development and at the Master in Scientific Culture and Science Dissemination.

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Marshall Urban Firestorm: On the Paradox of Greening America’s Suburbia

The Fire

On December 30th, 2021, the Marshall Fire broke out in suburban communities south-east of the idyllic city of Boulder, Colorado, located at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in the United States. Within hours, the fire burned roughly 1,000 homes down to their foundations. It was deemed an “urban fire storm” by climate scientist and Boulder local Daniel Swain.

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Fireways: Entanglements of Fire, People, and Environment in the Coconino National Forest, USA

“My forest is dying,” he said as we drove northwest on highway 180 through the Coconino National Forest. I looked out the truck window at the many brown and gray lifeless trees among the green and I asked if that wasn’t normal for summer. Billy, a seasonal wildland firefighter, said no, there were many more brown trees this year in July than previous years. It was a visual sign of what environmental scientists call forest morality. A warning that the Coconino National Forest could be reaching a tipping point.

Figure 1. A dead tree in the Coconino National Forest. Photo by author.

“Fireways” evokes the complex interactions between fire and humans. Each year the Coconino National Forest burns; each year it grows back. Yet an impact of anthropogenic climate change is drought, drying out the trees and leaving them less likely to return after fires that burn hotter and more frequently. Fire management policies have also affected the life of the forest, with an emphasis on suppression leaving the forest at risk from more intense blazes. This is the “fire paradox” of contemporary fire ecology, in which ever increasingly bigger blazes are caused by a combination of suppression policy and climate change, with each problem compounding the other. 

Figure 2. A forest fire burns on a mountain near Williams, Arizona. Photo by author.

More intense, frequent, and complex fires burn each year over longer fire seasons, with so-called “megafires” occurring over the past thirty years. The Indigenous people of the area, such as the Apache, practiced controlled burning to manage the forest. This practice has been taken up by the “good fire” movement, which advocates regular lighting of controlled burns to reduce fuel. Less fuel in the form of brush and dead trees means that intense fires and megafires are less likely.

Figure 3. A forest fire on the Colorado Plateau. Photo by author.

In Arizona, fire seasons are a regular part of the climatological cycle in a fire-adapted ecosystem. The Coconino National Forest covers a large part of Northern Arizona. It is the largest contiguous ponderosa pine forest in the world. Each year during the fire season from May-July, large forest fires burn. The predominant cause of forest fires is lightning. Fire season ends when the monsoon rains come, usually in August-September.

Figure 4. Monsoon rain clouds over Flagstaff, Arizona. Photo by author.

Forest fires in Arizona have gotten worse. In recent years, monsoons have been weaker, and the fire season is prolonged by a few days. Some years, the rainfall is so insignificant that local people call it a “nonsoon” year. Other years, intense bursts of sudden rainfall causes flash floods. The fires strip the land of trees and vegetation, which along with soil erosion, leaves the surrounding communities vulnerable to mudslides. In June 2021, monsoon rains caused flooding and mudslides through the site of the burn scar from the Museum Fire of 2019. Video captured flood waters sweeping away a Toyota Prius as mud and brown water coursed through neighborhoods close to downtown.

Figure 5. Flooding in the Rio de Flag wash in Flagstaff, Arizona. Photo by author.

Ponderosa pine trees make up much of the tree growth in the Coconino National Forest. Ponderosas do not grow at higher temperatures. As the average temperature rises due to anthropogenic climate change, the ponderosas recede. Fire is necessary for tree reproduction in the forest, clearing the grasses and scrub so the larger trees can grow in the regenerated soils. Ponderosas have a thick, fire-resistant bark. The low-intensity fires of 100-years ago burned the grasses but did not reach the lower branches of the tall ponderosas.

Figure 6. A ponderosa pine tree. Photo by author.

Now more intense fires are burning entire tree stands. Ponderosas only reproduce via seeds, which only scatter a certain distance from a parent tree. If a whole stand burns, it is much harder for the seeds to regrow. Literature from tree surveys show that the forest is close to its tipping point, after which the annual fires will destroy so many trees they will be unable to grow back.

The US Forest Service is responsible for fire management in the Coconino National Forest. In recent years, they have begun to light more controlled burns to reduce the fuel in the forest and decrease the intensity of forest fires. The aim is to reinstate a fire regime that encourages the dispersal of seeds and renewal of soils that promote forest health. However, local people complain about controlled burns, perceiving them as dangerous, reducing air quality due to smoke, and increasing closures of the forest for recreational use.

Local people and visitors use the forest extensively for hiking, camping, and outdoor sports. Recently, the Forest Service has tried to limit use of the forest around the Verde Valley area by restricting camping to approved campsites only. There are perennial problems with trash left in the forest by campers and stray sparks from campfires and cigarettes igniting forest fires. However, the Forest Service also encourages recreational use of the forest, such as by leasing land to a ski resort on the San Francisco Peaks. This is one of the sacred mountains to the Diné people (Navajo), many of whom object to the presence of a ski resort. Historically, the Forest Service has also been responsible for opening large tracts of the forest to logging.

Figure 7. Remains of a campsite in the Coconino National Forest near Flagstaff. Photo by author.

As fires burn tree stands that are unable to regrow, the forest is turned to grassland. In the process, what was a carbon sink becomes a carbon source. The fire paradox of anthropogenic climate change and management policies of suppression are creating wildfires of such magnitude that will ultimately bring abrupt ecological change to the forest.

Figure 8. Dead and living trees surround Red Mountain in the Coconino National Forest, Arizona. Photo by author.

Susannah Crockford is a lecturer in anthropology at the University of Exeter, UK. Her research interests cover the ethnographic study of ecology, religion, and medicine, with field sites in the southern and midwestern US and northern Europe. She has been visiting Northern Arizona for fieldwork since 2012. Her first monograph was published in May 2021 by the Class 200 list of the University of Chicago Press, titled Ripples of the Universe: Spirituality in Sedona, Arizona. Her next book will be an ethnography of climate change. Follow on Twitter: @suscrockford. 

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Desalination and the Political (Blue) Economy of Climate Adaptation

Figure 1. Inside the largest seawater desalination plant in United States that produces 50 million gallon per day, located in Carlsbad, CA. Image © Brian F. O’Neill (2019).

A Blue Revolution?

Seawater desalination, the industrial production of drinking water from the ocean, is a practice of increasingly intense interest to thirsty cities across the globe. And why not? It promises the ability to provide a reliable water source that is (seemingly) invulnerable to climate change. What is more, the market is responding, with a global estimated value of roughly $18 billion[1] (c.f., Swyngedouw and Williams 2016). And there is significant expected growth, up to $32 billion (that’s about half the estimated size of the wind industry),[2] in the next four years.

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Climate Change Resilience and Adaptation

The latest Environment and Society featured article is now available! This month’s article—”Climate Change Resilience and Adaptation: Perspectives from a Century of Water Resources Development”—comes from Volume 1 (2010). In their articles, Clive Agnew and Philip Woodhouse identify parallels between the problem of adaptive management presented by climate change and an earlier “global water crisis.” The article explores how adaptive strategies have successively emphasized three different principles, based on science, economics, and politics/institutions

Visit the featured article page to download your copy of the article today before it’s gone! A new article is featured every month.

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The Social Life of Blame in the Anthropocene

The latest Environment and Society featured article is now available! This month’s article—”The Social Life of Blame in the Anthropocene”—comes from Volume 6 (2015). In his article, Peter Rudiak-Gould shows how life in the Anthropocene reconfigures blame in four ways—it invites ubiquitous blame, ubiquitous blamelessness, selective blame, and partial blame—and reviews case studies from around the world, investigating which climate change blame narratives actors select, why, and with what consequences

Visit the featured article page to download your copy of the article today before it’s gone! A new article is featured every month.

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Adaptation—Genuine and Spurious

The latest Environment and Society featured article is now available! This month’s article—”Adaptation—Genuine and Spurious: Demystifying Adaptation Processes in Relation to Climate Change”—comes from Volume 1 (2010). In their article, Thomas F. Thornton and Nadia Manasfi critically examine the concept of human adaptation by dividing it into eight fundamental processes and viewing each in a broad cultural, ecological, and evolutionary context. They focus their assessment especially on northern indigenous peoples, who exist at the edges of present-day climate governance frameworks but at the center of increasingly acute climate stress.

Visit the featured article page to download your copy of the article today before it’s gone! A new article is featured every month.

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