Latin America’s struggle for environmental justice

By Paul Jeffrey

Published in response magazine in April 2016.

The ground shakes under Norma Albino’s feet when dynamite explodes deep under Cerro Rico, the barren mountain that looms above the Bolivian city of Potosi. Ms. Albino, a Methodist, earns her living guarding the entrance to a mine that still yields silver–as well as tin and other metals–470 years after Diego Gualpa went looking for a lost llama high in the Andes Mountains. Steadying himself on the steep hillside, he clutched a shrub that pulled from the thin topsoil, uncovering a metallic sparkle underneath. It was a vein of silver ore 300 feet long, 13 feet wide, and 300 feet deep–the biggest silver strike ever.

Potosi was soon a boomtown. By 1611, the population had grown to 160,000, as big as London or Amsterdam, despite the shortage of oxygen at the city’s 13,000 feet elevation. Silver flowed from Potosi eastward to Spain, where it financed Spain’s war with England and launched economic globalization, and westward to China, where Europeans traded it for silk and porcelain. Exploiting a traditional form of communal labor, the Spanish ordered Quechua communities to produce workers for the mines, while the most ostentatious of the Europeans walked around Potosi in gold-embroidered tunics studded with precious jewels. When indigenous workers weren’t sufficient, African slaves were brought to the mountain, yet neither group lasted long in the mines. Some claim as many as 8 million workers died in Cerro Rico. That’s likely an exaggeration, but it signals that the actual, albeit incalculable number was astronomical.

Those days of crushing slavery may be gone, fading as Cerro Rico’s honeycombed innards yielded steadily less and less silver, but throughout Latin America the extraction of natural resources continues to cause irreparable harm to the environment and suffering to the poor. Politicians of all political stripes argue that income from mining, oil and gas production, and industrial-scale cultivation of crops like palm oil, along with the damming of rivers for hydroelectricity, allow them to provide services that improve living conditions for all. But those industries also displace communities, violate internationally recognized rights of indigenous people and fuel social conflicts and government crackdowns that have led to the deaths of scores of environmentalists and indigenous rights activists in Latin America in the past several decades.

“That always scares them off”

Ms. Albino grew up in a poor Quechua-speaking village and moved to the big city when she was 12 years old to work as a domestic servant. She received no pay, but her large family benefitted simply because it had one less mouth to feed. Eventually she met the man who became her husband and they moved to Potosi, where they worked as bakers. Yet they didn’t earn much, and a relative encouraged her husband to start working in the mines, where wages run higher than other jobs, especially when mineral prices are high on international markets. They eventually moved up to a lonely outcrop on Cerro Rico, where Ms. Albino guards a mine operation from thieves. She has two mean dogs that assist her, as well as a pistol she has several times had to fire into the air. “And if I have to, I light some dynamite and throw it at the thieves,” she said. “That always scares them off.”

Although her husband walks down the hill every morning to his job inside another mine, Ms. Albino has never entered a mine herself. She admits she’s afraid. And perhaps a bit angry about the risks that miners face for meager returns.

“Mining isn’t fair. The miners work all day long, breathing dust that ruins their lungs and cuts short their lives, and then sell the minerals they extract at a low price. The foreigners are the ones who make a big profit from the mines,” said Ms. Albino, who in recent years has spent time on picket lines and road blockades as miners have pressured the government for better health care and other services.

If Ms. Albino has anything to say about it, her three children won’t risk their lives underground, even though young boys can often be found working deep inside the mountain, especially when school is not in session. “I don’t want my children to work in the mines,” she said. “That’s why I’m sacrificing here on the mountain, so that they don’t have to do that. I want them to study and have a better life.”

She gets no argument from her kids, who have developed a sharp critique of the injustice of extractive industries.

“Some bosses work hard alongside their employees, but other bosses make their employees work extra hours and don’t pay them what they should. They rob them of their wages,” said Marisol Baltazar, Ms. Albino’s 19-year old daughter who at times takes visitors on a tour of the mine. “The miners sacrifice for their families, risking their lives, filling their lungs with silica and arsenic dust to get the minerals out of the ground and send them to other countries. And the hill is slowly falling in on top of us, yielding less return, while prices remain low. That means miners are working harder every day for less and less.”

A central element of the miners’ lives is allegiance to El Tío, the lord of the underground world. “The Uncle” is found just inside the entrance of all mines in Potosi. He’s a statue at which miners deposit coca leaves and alcohol as they start their shifts. In exchange, they believe, El Tío offers them protection. Failure to pay such homage, they believe, could result in misfortune.

Many miners are Christians above ground, but Ms. Albino questions their ability to believe in both. She says they ultimately believe more in El Tío. Even her husband. “He says he has to believe in El Tío because he works underground. All the miners believe in El Tío, even though he’s the devil. It’s part of what it means to be a miner,” she said.

Downstream problems

Thirty miles south of Cerro Rico, the Kumurana Mine has for decades produced silver and tin, yet also increasing amounts of water contaminated with lead, arsenic, cadmium and other metals. This highly acidic drainage has polluted the Juckucha River that flows through the sparse countryside before eventually adding its toxic brew to the Pilcomayo River, which flows hundreds of miles through Argentina and Paraguay before joining other rivers on their way to the Atlantic.

Indigenous farmers downstream from the mine who depend on the river for water to drink, as well as to water their crops and animals, have long suffered health problems and reduced crop yields because of the pollution. Tension has steadily grown between Bolivian river communities and the mines above, and in recent years farmers have blocked roads leading to the mines, demanding an end to the pollution.

Further downstream, where the contaminated water crosses the arid Chaco region, fishers who pull fewer fish from the river every year blame Bolivian mines for their misfortune.

“We pay the price for the mining in Potosi,” said Tomas Rivero, leader of the Union of Pilcomayo River Fishers in Villamontes, Bolivia. He fishes inside the Aguaragüe National Park, but the area’s protected status means nothing if contamination from upstream mining and road construction leaves him with diseased fish, fewer fish, or at times no fish at all. “We either have fewer fish to sell, or fewer buyers because people are afraid our fish are bad to eat because of the lead and other minerals in the water.”

Fionuala Cregan, who coordinates Church World Service’s programs in the remote Chaco region of Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay, says river pollution is particularly bad news for indigenous groups like the Weenhayek, a hunter-gatherer tribe that relies on fish from the Pilcomayo for an important part of its diet.

“Fishing on the Pilcomayo River is central to the cultural identity and survival of the Weenhayek, but sedimentation and contamination caused by mining in the Bolivian highlands have significantly damaged the river. For a while in 2011 there were no fish at all in the river, and the Weenhayek faced serious hunger,” she said.

Weenhayek leader Nestor Nacub says the river’s problems contribute to a string of social ills.

“When my grandfather was a child he did not go hungry. There were fish in the river and honey and fruits in the forest all year round. The land was for everyone. It pains me today to see our children go hungry, to see a river with so few fish, the forest without fruit.  Today many of us live in urban settlements and these are becoming overcrowded.  People are becoming dependent on outside help and every day we are losing more and more of our ancestral knowledge. Instead of cultivating the land, people buy food. When they have no money, they go hungry and meanwhile cattle ranchers and oil and gas companies cut down the forest and mining companies pollute the river,” Mr. Nacub said.

Cleanup is complicated

A growing sense of urgency about mining’s environmental consequences has increased the pressure on Potosi area mines to clean up their act. While a neighboring mine invested several million dollars to clean up its acid drainage, the owner of the Kumurana Mine refused, despite government orders to stop polluting. Pressured by local residents, the government began a process of seizing the mine from her. A local cooperative of miners wants to start working the mine again, but can’t do so until the pollution problem is resolved.

Engineers in Action, which began as a partnership between United Methodists in Oklahoma and the Methodist Church in Bolivia, partnered with several university and professional groups to help resolve the stalemate. They designed and installed a system to clean mine wastes above the Kumurana Mine, and are working with local residents to design a system to clean up the water that flows from Kumurana. Yet it’s not easy.

“The technical solutions to the mine drainage are relatively easy. The more difficult problems are political in nature,” said Ruben Mamani, who directs Bolivian operations for Engineers in Action. “The owner promised a lot, but never put any money into it, as she wanted to exploit the mine as long as she could. Her last maneuver was to deliver the mine to a local cooperative. That group is powerful, but its members often lack environmental consciousness. They say they’re poor and need to get the minerals out, and express little interest in reducing pollution. But their neighbors are suffering, and are demanding that the pollution stop.”

The United Methodist Committee on Relief awarded Mamani’s group $50,000 in December to help several communities below Kumurana to develop alternative water sources, including piping in water from distant springs unaffected by mining. While that will help hundreds of downstream families live healthier lives, it doesn’t stop the pollution. Mr. Mamani estimates a passive treatment plant for the mine water would cost more than $100,000, an amount local residents hope the provincial government could provide. Yet the new governor has not expressed interest. “The people of the watershed have to protest and make their demands be heard, otherwise nothing is going to happen,” said Freddy Llanos, a professor of mine engineering at Tomas Frias Autonomous University in Potosi. He has helped Engineers in Action design its remediation projects, and regularly monitors water quality inside and outside Kumurana.

According to Julie Guy, a civil engineer in Tulsa, Oklahoma, who serves as president of the board of directors of Engineers in Action, the reappearance of algae in the river above Kumurana following the group’s remediation efforts was cause for rejoicing in the local community, and a sign that they didn’t have to live with pollution. Ms. Guy, a United Methodist, said there’s no excuse for not taking action. “I understand that in the 1500s they knew little or nothing about the environmental effects of mining, but why do they continue to operate in the same manner today?” she asked.

Toxic wave of mud

Like Bolivia, other Latin American countries also court mining companies, as well as oil and gas producers, saying the revenues they bring are essential for fighting poverty. But the impacts can be disastrous, and poor people are usually the ones who suffer most. 

In November 2015, a wave of mud the height of a three-story building swept over a town in southeastern Brazil, killing 19 people and leaving hundreds homeless. The wave was generated by the collapse of a dam holding back water and mineral waste from an iron-ore mine. There was no alarm system and no emergency plan for the dam, which was operated by Samarco, a joint venture between two multinational mining companies: Brazil’s Vale, the world’s largest iron ore producer, and the Anglo-Australian BHP Billiton.

Yet what happened to the residents of Bento Rodrigues was just the beginning of what President Dilma Rousseff called “the biggest environmental disaster in the history of Brazil.” The wave of approximately 2.2 billion cubic feet of mud and mineral residue made its way to the Doce River, which passes through 228 municipalities. The sludge, with high levels of heavy metals, devastated life and economies along the river, which is home to 80 fish species, 11 of which are endangered and 12 found nowhere else. Samarco hired local fishermen to collect dead fish along the riverbanks and bury them.

Sixteen days after the dam broke, the toxic tide reached the Atlantic Ocean, more than 400 miles downstream, where it spread into the nearby Comboios Biological Reserve, a spawning area for loggerhead sea turtles and critically endangered leatherback sea turtles.

Ms. Rousseff’s government announced what she called “severe punishment” for the polluters, and in January federal prosecutors indicted seven executives and engineers for environmental crimes. Samarco had already agreed to pay $262 million to fund the initial cleanup, as well as $204 a month to each of 115 families directly affected by the breach. The company was fined $66 million for polluting the Doce River, and the government also filed a civil suit for $5.2 billion to be paid over a decade. Yet many observers doubt the company will pay, given that Brazil’s government has only collected 3 percent of the fines levied against environmental criminals in the last five years. Indeed, when the dam broke in November, dozens of fishing families in the area were still waiting for compensation for damage caused by a hydroelectric plant ten years ago. That plant is operated by another joint venture of Vale.

The danger of speaking out

For decades, those who spoke out against environmental destruction in the region faced the constant risk of being assassinated. In Brazil, for example, people like Chico Mendes, a leader of rubber tappers in the Amazon, and Dorothy Stang, a U.S. nun who faced down criminal loggers and ranchers in northern Brazil, are considered martyrs for the threatened environment. Yet according to Global Witness, a group that documents the links between resource extraction, corruption and repression, such repression is growing more common throughout the region.

In a recent report, Global Witness documented 116 killings of land and environmental defenders in 17 countries around the world in just the year 2014. That’s an average of more than two per week and almost double the number of journalists killed in the same year. Around three-quarters of these deaths took place in Central and South America.

Since a 2009 military coup backed by the U.S. government, Honduras has been the deadliest country in the world to be an environmental defender. Between 2010 and 2014, 101 activists were killed, including 12 in 2014, the highest rate per capita of any country surveyed by Global Witness.

Such repression is possible because Honduras’ levels of corruption and homicide are among the world’s worst, and the police and judiciary are compromised by ties to organized crime. Illegal logging is common, and the country has one of the highest deforestation rates in the world. Following the 2009 coup, the government cracked down on the press and human rights and indigenous groups. At the same time, it pushed to issue environmental permits to companies on the same day of application as an encouraging sign to investors in hydro power and mining operations. That ignores international best practices of allowing at least six months, effectively prohibiting local communities from having a say about their own land or of scientists having a chance to review environmental impacts. As the government militarized public security forces, it began to brand environmental activists as terrorists, setting the stage for increased repression.

In Locomapa, Honduras, for example, Tolupan indigenous people have resisted mining and logging operations within their traditional territory. In 2013, they began a nonviolent blockade of trucks from mining and logging companies operating on their land. In August of that year, hitmen reportedly hired by a local mining company opened fire on the protestors, killing Armando Fúnez and Ricardo Soto. Another protest leader, María Matute, fled to her nearby home, where the killers tracked her down and killed her. Several leaders of the indigenous protest then went into hiding outside the country, cautiously returning in 2014 after the Inter-American Human Rights Commission ordered the government to protect them. In 2015, despite the IAHRC order, two more community leaders were murdered.

In many parts of the hemisphere palm oil plantations are coming to rival mines as the setting for repression. In Sayaxché, Guatemala, for example, Rigoberto Lima was shot dead in broad daylight opposite the courthouse last September. On the same day, three colleagues of Mr. Lima were kidnapped after reportedly receiving threats that they would be burned alive. The group’s sin was documenting the effects of palm oil production along the Passion River, where millions of fish had died and more than 12,000 people had their drinking water supply contaminated after a palm oil plantation run by the Olmeca Group–a giant financial empire owned by a wealthy Guatemalan family–let pesticide-laden runoff flow into the river. The government’s environmental agency dubbed it “ecocide,” and Mr. Lima filed formal complaints with authorities. “We want this impunity to end,” he said at a press conference. Three months later he was murdered.

Conflicts and contradictions

While the policies of Brazil’s former President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva and his successor Ms. Rousseff have helped expand the middle class in their country and made progress combating poverty and hunger, their ruling Workers Party has also presided over a massive expansion of extractivism that often left environmentalists out in the cold as their country became the biggest mining nation in the region. At the same time, Brazil has become the world’s largest exporter of soy, an accomplishment that sped up deforestation, left soils depleted and water sources contaminated, and rural families fleeing for urban slums. Such dependence on mining and soy monoculture left many Brazilians worried about the future as prices for iron and other minerals have fallen in recent months, along with the price of soy.

In Ecuador, President Rafael Correa, who delighted progressives throughout the region when he kicked the U.S. military out his country (although he did say he would let them stay if Ecuador could open a military base in Miami), has also championed the environment, pushing a new constitution in 2008 that gave legal rights to nature. Correa offered a deal to keep oil drilling out of the country’s sensitive Yasuni National Park if international donors would give $3.6 billion, roughly half the oil’s value, to United Nations programs in healthcare, education, and other areas. When only $13 million in donations was offered, Correa granted permits to drill in a wide swath of the Amazon basin that includes the park–one of the world’s most biologically diverse areas and home to one of the last indigenous tribes in Ecuador that lives in isolation, avoiding contact with outsiders. At the same time, he stepped up crackdowns on indigenous groups that protest the depredation of their territories by extractive industries.

Under international norms established by the International Labor Organization and the United Nations, indigenous groups are entitled to prior consultation before extractive industries can begin operating on their lands. In some countries, such as Bolivia, this is incorporated into the constitution. Yet implementation has been spotty. Even Evo Morales, Bolivia’s first indigenous president, while championing the rights of Pachamama, the indigenous concept of Mother Earth, has criticized consultation as a “waste of time” and an “obstacle” to development. Such attacks echo former Peruvian President Alan García, who called indigenous peoples and environmentalists “dogs in the manger” who he claimed did not adequately use the country’s natural resources and yet seek to prevent others from doing so.

This contradiction between legal rights and economic realities highlights how Latin American nations have long relied on extractive industries to drive economic progress. It’s a dependence that has plagued the region since shortly after Diego Gualpa, that 16^th Century llama herder, discovered silver on the sides of Cerro Rico. Even politicians who have gained high office today with support from long marginalized sectors of the population are forced to operate within an international economic system that leaves few alternatives.

The Rev. Paul Jeffrey is senior correspondent for response magazine.