What does it mean to be undocumented in the United States, to live in fear of loved ones being deported, to feel the formalized language of being ‘alien’ knowing it is a tactic to dehumanize us? When asked to share our stories, which ones do we tell?
I’ve learned over time how to decipher which version to share and which aspects to keep. For me, it depends on the community in which I tell it and the sense of ‘belonging’ I perceive from the places I share it.
Understanding climate change has meant digging into history, my ancestral knowledge, why my parents moved from Zacatecas, Mexico, to Minnesota, and embracing what makes a place ‘home.’ I learned that Zacatecas was a hot spot for mining, silver, copper, and gold as exports to Canada and the United States. My family held these jobs, which meant handling the TNT for land blasting and other unimaginable work. My dad was a worker in an open mine just a few miles from our home, a profession that left him with the scars to prove the physical demand. When I was born in 1992, both of my parents were already sick, and I was born with a lot of health complications. Doctors told my parents that if we remained in the community, it would be challenging to keep me healthy. I am not sure that my parents made the connection between heavy industry and our sickness. Still, my parents desperately wanted me to be healthy, so we migrated to the U.S. Now, I see the interconnections with corporations who positioned jobs that poisoned us as viable opportunities to make a living and that my parents had to choose between staying and remaining sick or migrating for the promise of health and a better life. I see the sacrifice that they made for me.
I know how people think and talk about immigrants, and I know the importance of what it means to share my story as part of this collective narrative. I know that it will resonate with so many others. I am holding the fear of wanting to protect my people while learning the importance of being more open so that we can be visible and represented in the climate conversation, too.
Moving to Minneapolis, we rented a room, and my school was near the HERC (Hennepin Energy Recovery Center), the state’s largest trash incinerator. We did not know the HERC was burning 1,000 tons of trash per day, with it emitting mercury, lead, carbon monoxide, and dioxins into the air. We did not know that the surrounding community had asthma rates in children five times the national average. I spent childhood years playing in the neighborhood, but I only learned about the dangers of the HERC a year ago. I now recall when we moved to the suburb of Richfield, that my sickness had gotten better. The HERC was built 34 years ago, and for a long time was positioned as “green energy.” I wonder how might things have been different if this information had been more openly available? I am grateful for the work of community groups, environmental justice activists and organizers who are dedicated to telling these truths. Yet, there is more work to do to make this environmental injustice and its importance known in the Latinx community. In my role, as Associate Executive Director of COPAL (Communities Organizing Latinx Power and Action), I have the power and privilege to do something about it.
This begins with recognizing the known patterns: who are the culprits in Minnesota and our homelands? When I was 9 years old, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I began to unpack the layered and cumulative impacts of environmental injustice following our family from one community to the next. The commonalities are powerful corporations that share a greed that puts people last, extraction of land and labor, and monies made for profit first. Thinking about my origin story in Mexico, I now understand that there were policies in place to lessen harm to the health and viability of the community that could have made it possible for my family to stay, but they were not followed. Here in Minnesota, the Cumulative Impacts Environmental Justice Bill passed in the 2023 Legislative Session, yet there are still loopholes for industries to pollute without facing penalties. So, we must keep asking questions and showing up to hold those accountable. To implement laws that protect our people and put the community first. The journey of learning about who I am, the connections of environmental justice in my own story, and knowing what we have been through to be here fills me with mixed feelings about how people talk or think about immigrants as less than. In reality, climate change and the corporations responsible have played a significant role in migrant stories, and that connection is often overlooked.
In 2016, the hateful rhetoric coming from the President of the United States left an impact on me. I remember doing homework at the dining table after school, and my mom was in the kitchen. We listened as he talked on the news, saying that illegal immigrants were not people but animals. Something deeply stirred in me as I heard threats to make our existence here less visible. As a DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) recipient, which granted me temporary protection, otherwise known as a “Dreamer.” This status and more were at stake, and it was deeply personal. I started teaching citizenship classes so that my community members in Minnesota could become eligible to vote and change the narrative to reflect more accurately seeing people as human beings worthy of that dignity.
With a group of friends, we started teaching courses in Spanish to address the language barrier for a test only offered in English. The first class had thirty participants, and it became an incredibly successful program. In 2018, I met Francisco Segovia, the Executive Director at COPAL. That began our work together at COPAL to address the immediate needs of the Latinx community through policy change. In my role, I work at the intersection of environmental justice, health, wellness, and communications. My pull into this work directly relates to my lived experiences, but making the climate connection to the migrant story is not always accessible to people. It requires deeper awareness and learning for people to unpack their own stories. A big part of this work is listening to people and asking curious questions: where is home? Where are our families from? What cultural aspects, favorite foods, and celebrations make us who we are? What represents home, and how can Minnesota be part of that?
Working on the cumulative impacts of environmental justice and with community members to pass legislation has shown me the importance of sharing our dreams and stories. Crafting stories to share in community are the powerful testimonies that will be essential in public commenting to impact rulemaking where the details and accountability matter and must reflect our lived realities and experiences. Unfortunately, I am not alone in deciphering which version of the story I can tell based on the audience. But I want to get better at leaning into the fullness of what I want to share, despite the reception level I receive or the willingness of mainstream audiences to hear my words. Mostly, I want to share my story in the presence of my beloved community to help others see themselves in my migrant story.
Written by Carolina Oritz, with story coaching support from Change Narrative LLC.
Carolina Ortiz has been with COPAL since its founding in 2018. She led the communications team for two years and is now the associate executive director. Carolina was born in Zacatecas, Mexico and is currently studying communications at the University of Minnesota. A DREAMer herself, her passion for social justice stems from her own experiences and those of her community.
Carolina is a Climate Generation Window Into COP delegate for COP28. To learn more, we encourage you to meet the full delegation and subscribe to the Window Into COP digest.
The post The Universal Right to a Healthy Environment appeared first on Climate Generation.
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Samantha Kemnah looked out the foggy window of her home in New Berlin, New York, at the 150-acre dairy farm she and her husband, Chris, bought last year. This winter, an unprecedented cold front brought snowstorms and ice to the region.
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Climate Change
A Little-Used Maneuver Could Mean More Drilling and Mining in Southern Utah’s Redrock Country
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Drought and heatwaves occurring together – known as “compound” events – have “surged” across the world since the early 2000s, a new study shows.
Compound drought and heat events (CDHEs) can have devastating effects, creating the ideal conditions for intense wildfires, such as Australia’s “Black Summer” of 2019-20 where bushfires burned 24m hectares and killed 33 people.
The research, published in Science Advances, finds that the increase in CDHEs is predominantly being driven by events that start with a heatwave.
The global area affected by such “heatwave-led” compound events has more than doubled between 1980-2001 and 2002-23, the study says.
The rapid increase in these events over the last 23 years cannot be explained solely by global warming, the authors note.
Since the late 1990s, feedbacks between the land and the atmosphere have become stronger, making heatwaves more likely to trigger drought conditions, they explain.
One of the study authors tells Carbon Brief that societies must pay greater attention to compound events, which can “cause severe impacts on ecosystems, agriculture and society”.
Compound events
CDHEs are extreme weather events where drought and heatwave conditions occur simultaneously – or shortly after each other – in the same region.
These events are often triggered by large-scale weather patterns, such as “blocking” highs, which can produce “prolonged” hot and dry conditions, according to the study.
Prof Sang-Wook Yeh is one of the study authors and a professor at the Ewha Womans University in South Korea. He tells Carbon Brief:
“When heatwaves and droughts occur together, the two hazards reinforce each other through land-atmosphere interactions. This amplifies surface heating and soil moisture deficits, making compound events more intense and damaging than single hazards.”
CDHEs can begin with either a heatwave or a drought.
The sequence of these extremes is important, the study says, as they have different drivers and impacts.
For example, in a CDHE where the heatwave was the precursor, increased direct sunshine causes more moisture loss from soils and plants, leading to a drought.
Conversely, in an event where the drought was the precursor, the lack of soil moisture means that less of the sun’s energy goes into evaporation and more goes into warming the Earth’s surface. This produces favourable conditions for heatwaves.
The study shows that the majority of CDHEs globally start out as a drought.
In recent years, there has been increasing focus on these events due to the devastating impact they have on agriculture, ecosystems and public health.
In Russia in the summer of 2010, a compound drought-heatwave event – and the associated wildfires – caused the death of nearly 55,000 people, the study notes.
The record-breaking Pacific north-west “heat dome” in 2021 triggered extreme drought conditions that caused “significant declines” in wheat yields, as well as in barley, canola and fruit production in British Columbia and Alberta, Canada, says the study.
Increasing events
To assess how CDHEs are changing, the researchers use daily reanalysis data to identify droughts and heatwaves events. (Reanalysis data combines past observations with climate models to create a historical climate record.) Then, using an algorithm, they analyse how these events overlap in both time and space.
The study covers the period from 1980 to 2023 and the world’s land surface, excluding polar regions where CDHEs are rare.
The research finds that the area of land affected by CDHEs has “increased substantially” since the early 2000s.
Heatwave-led events have been the main contributor to this increase, the study says, with their spatial extent rising 110% between 1980-2001 and 2002-23, compared to a 59% increase for drought-led events.
The map below shows the global distribution of CDHEs over 1980-2023. The charts show the percentage of the land surface affected by a heatwave-led CDHE (red) or a drought-led CDHE (yellow) in a given year (left) and relative increase in each CDHE type (right).
The study finds that CDHEs have occurred most frequently in northern South America, the southern US, eastern Europe, central Africa and south Asia.
Threshold passed
The authors explain that the increase in heatwave-led CDHEs is related to rising global temperatures, but that this does not tell the whole story.
In the earlier 22-year period of 1980-2001, the study finds that the spatial extent of heatwave-led CDHEs rises by 1.6% per 1C of global temperature rise. For the more-recent period of 2022-23, this increases “nearly eightfold” to 13.1%.
The change suggests that the rapid increase in the heatwave-led CDHEs occurred after the global average temperature “surpasse[d] a certain temperature threshold”, the paper says.
This threshold is an absolute global average temperature of 14.3C, the authors estimate (based on an 11-year average), which the world passed around the year 2000.
Investigating the recent surge in heatwave-leading CDHEs further, the researchers find a “regime shift” in land-atmosphere dynamics “toward a persistently intensified state after the late 1990s”.
In other words, the way that drier soils drive higher surface temperatures, and vice versa, is becoming stronger, resulting in more heatwave-led compound events.
Daily data
The research has some advantages over other previous studies, Yeh says. For instance, the new work uses daily estimations of CDHEs, compared to monthly data used in past research. This is “important for capturing the detailed occurrence” of these events, says Yeh.
He adds that another advantage of their study is that it distinguishes the sequence of droughts and heatwaves, which allows them to “better understand the differences” in the characteristics of CDHEs.
Dr Meryem Tanarhte is a climate scientist at the University Hassan II in Morocco, and Dr Ruth Cerezo Mota is a climatologist and a researcher at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Both scientists, who were not involved in the study, agree that the daily estimations give a clearer picture of how CDHEs are changing.
Cerezo-Mota adds that another major contribution of the study is its global focus. She tells Carbon Brief that in some regions, such as Mexico and Africa, there is a lack of studies on CDHEs:
“Not because the events do not occur, but perhaps because [these regions] do not have all the data or the expertise to do so.”
However, she notes that the reanalysis data used by the study does have limitations with how it represents rainfall in some parts of the world.
Compound impacts
The study notes that if CDHEs continue to intensify – particularly events where heatwaves are the precursors – they could drive declining crop productivity, increased wildfire frequency and severe public health crises.
These impacts could be “much more rapid and severe as global warming continues”, Yeh tells Carbon Brief.
Tanarhte notes that these events can be forecasted up to 10 days ahead in many regions. Furthermore, she says, the strongest impacts can be prevented “through preparedness and adaptation”, including through “water management for agriculture, heatwave mitigation measures and wildfire mitigation”.
The study recommends reassessing current risk management strategies for these compound events. It also suggests incorporating the sequences of drought and heatwaves into compound event analysis frameworks “to enhance climate risk management”.
Cerezo-Mota says that it is clear that the world needs to be prepared for the increased occurrence of these events. She tells Carbon Brief:
“These [risk assessments and strategies] need to be carried out at the local level to understand the complexities of each region.”
The post Heatwaves driving recent ‘surge’ in compound drought and heat extremes appeared first on Carbon Brief.
Heatwaves driving recent ‘surge’ in compound drought and heat extremes
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