How a defunct Trump policy still threatens Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp

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For centuries, the Okefenokee Swamp has been a haven for people, animals, and plants. The wilderness, which straddles the Georgia-Florida border, is a mire of winding, midnight waters, giant cypress trees cloaked in Spanish moss, and peat islands floating among alligators and lily pads. The swamp has seen many chapters: It was part of the homelands of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation before the Tribe was forcibly removed from Georgia in the 1820s and 1830s. A hundred years later, the swamp came under federal protection as a national wildlife refuge. 

Now, yet another chapter may be approaching for the Okefenokee watershed: a titanium mining site. 

For years, the Okefenokee Swamp has been warding off Alabama-based Twin Pines Minerals, which in 2019 filed for permits for a mining project just outside of the refuge. The company hopes to extract titanium dioxide, which can be used to create bright white pigments used in a wide variety of consumer and industrial products. While the swamp itself is not at risk of being turned into a giant mining pit, the project would result in a 500-by-100-foot pit in the nearby Trail Ridge, which holds the swamp waters in place.

Grist / Jessie Blaeser / Amelia Bates

This January, the mine moved one step closer to breaking ground when the Georgia Environmental Protection Division released a draft plan for the development and opened a 60-day period of public comment. The progress was made possible by a short-lived Trump administration rule that created a window of opportunity for industrial projects to proceed along protected waterways — even without a federal permit.

“What we’re seeing at Twin Pines is not the only example of waterways that remain at risk because of the prior administration’s rule,” said Kelly Moser, senior attorney for the Southern Environmental Law Center, of the Okefenokee Swamp. “It is the most striking example, given that it jeopardizes one of our most iconic and valuable natural resources, but it is not alone.” 

During Trump’s time in office, the federal government rolled back hundreds of environmental protections, enacting many new pro-industry policies. Among those was the Navigable Waters Protection Rule, which removed the protection of the Clean Water Act — aimed at preventing water pollution — from huge swaths of streams and wetlands across the United States. 

An ibis steps into the waters at the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge.
Steve Brookes / U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

The rule lasted just over 16 months before it was vacated by a federal judge who cited “fundamental, substantive flaws” in the rule. But the damage had already been done: During that time period, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Army Corps of Engineers reported a three-fold increase in projects that no longer needed federal permits. At least 333 of those projects would have required a permit had it not been for the rule. 

Companies were trying to take advantage of “the fast food window” to grab their project clearances, said Stu Gillespie, a supervising senior attorney with Earthjustice. (The nonprofit has been involved in litigation against the Army Corps of Engineers and mining companies as a result of the Navigable Water Protection Rule.) He said these projects are likely to have environmental, cultural and potential health consequences that will play out over decades. 

“The harms are irreparable,” Gillespie said.

For the Twin Pines mining site, the Trump-era rule meant that for a brief but meaningful window, all the waters associated with the project site were abruptly excluded from federal protection. During that period, the Army Corps of Engineers determined the project only required state approval, a small hill to climb compared to the regulatory mountain that is the federal Clean Water Act, in order to proceed.

President Donald Trump looks on while EPA Administrator Andrew Wheeler speaks during an event to unveil significant changes to U.S. environmental policy.
Drew Angerer / Getty Images

As with other projects where all the waters were determined not to be under federal protection during that period, the Corps’ decision at Twin Pines has been allowed to stand despite the fact that the rule they were based on is no longer in place. For projects where the federal government still had jurisdiction under the Navigable Waters Protection Rule, many of these had to go back to the starting line.

Scientists from the University of Georgia as well as the Fish and Wildlife Administration have warned against the Twin Pines project moving forward. In 2019, in a document obtained by the Defenders of Wildlife and shared with Grist, the Fish and Wildlife listed concerns about the project’s impact on water levels in the Okefenokee, increasing the likelihood of fires, and destroying habitats. “The effects of the action may be permanent to the entire 438,000-acre swamp and nearby ecosystems on nearby Trail Ridge,” the agency wrote.

Moser called the situation “an absurdity.” The Corps “is not protecting critical wetlands that have been waters of the United States and are waters of the United States,” she said. 

Across the country, about an hour south of Tucson, Arizona, another mining complex is already breaking ground as a result of the Navigable Waters Protection Rule. The Copper World Complex is owned by Hudbay Minerals, a Toronto-based mining company. Just like Twin Pines, the Trump-era rule allowed Hudbay to proceed without the need for a federal permit. Within the complex, ephemeral waterways — dry stream beds that turn into rivers or streams after periods during the monsoon season — weave through the slope of the Santa Rita Mountains. These waterways are essential to maintaining surface water levels of the Santa Cruz River, but were categorically excluded from protection under the Navigable Waters Protection Rule. 

Still, the two projects have faced multiple legal stumbling blocks. In June 2022, the Army Corps of Engineers identified the proposals in a memo rescinding its previous determinations as a result of the agency’s previous failure to consult local tribes: the Muscogee (Creek) Nation in Georgia, and the the Tohono O’odham Nation, Pascua Yaqui Tribe, and Hopi Tribe in Arizona. But after Twin Pines filed a civil suit, the Corps reinstated its Trump-era determination for that site, putting the fate of the project back in Georgia’s hands. 

The Corps seems to have applied the same thinking to Hudbay’s Arizona mining project. “Unlike Twin Pines, there hasn’t been any kind of out-of-court settlement with Hudbay or anything along those lines,” said Earthjustice’s Gillespie. The progress in the Copper World Mining Complex is “a direct result” of the Navigable Waters Protection Rule, he said.

An aerial view shows environmental damage caused by copper mining in Tucson, Arizona.
Joe Sohm / Visions of America / Universal Images Group via Getty Images

Under the guise of Trump-era guidelines, Hudbay has already begun development in the Santa Rita Mountain range, filling the stream beds that are technically back under federal protection.

In November 2022, the Southern Environmental Law Center filed a lawsuit against the Army Corps of Engineers, arguing the agency was in charge of protecting “waters of the United States,” such as the freshwater wetlands on which the Twin Pines mining site might be built. But at the state level, there are no Georgia laws protecting freshwater wetlands. “The state has always abdicated that responsibility to the federal government,” said hydrologist and University of Georgia professor Rhett Jackson.

In order to proceed, both Twin Pines and Hudbay await only a handful of state permits from Georgia and Arizona, respectively. These permits are related to air quality and groundwater withdrawals, but do not need to address any potential waterway destruction or pollution associated with mining.

In Arizona, state law restricts its own water department from regulating streams not under federal protection. But the Environmental Protection Agency has begun an investigation into the Copper World site to “determine whether there’s been violations to the Clean Water Act,” Gillespie said.

In Georgia, the project must first hurdle the 60-day period of public comment, which began January 19, for Twin Pines’ draft mining plan. With the fate of the Okefenokee Swamp at risk, voices have risen up against the mine both locally and nationally, with opposition likely to reach a fever pitch over the next few months. 

Jackson is one of those opposed to the project. “I have traveled all over the world (29 countries), hiked in many national parks, and worked as a wilderness ranger in the North Cascade Range of Washington State, and I have never seen anything more beautiful than the Okefenokee Swamp,” he wrote in an email to Grist.

An alligator basks in the sun in Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge.
Stacy Shelton / U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Meanwhile, Twin Pines sees the period of public comment as a victory: It moves the project forward. 

“We are pleased to have reached this important milestone in the permitting process and appreciate the Georgia [Environmental Protection Division] EPD’s diligence in evaluating our application,” said Steve Ingle, president of Twin Pines Minerals, in a statement. “This is a great opportunity for people to learn the truth about what our operations will and will not do, and the absurdity of allegations that our shallow mining-to-land-reclamation process will ‘drain the swamp’ or harm it in any way.”

The Georgia Environmental Protection Division says it hopes to receive thoughtful feedback on the Twin Pines draft plan. “Good comments on the [Mining Land Use Plan] MLUP — additional analysis, data, technical perspectives, mitigation measures, etc. — helps EPD make better decisions and we look forward to the process,” said the department’s Communications Director, Sara Lips. 

The federal government, however, is putting pressure on Georgia to halt the project. In September 2022, Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland visited the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge along with Senator Jon Ossoff of Georgia. The pair spoke with over a dozen local leaders about protecting the area, according to WABE. Just two months later, Halaand wrote to Georgia Governor Brian Kemp, urging him to halt approval of the mine.

The recommendation is a reminder of how fast the wheels of politics can turn — albeit with lasting environmental consequences. “What the Trump rule did was embolden industry to flout the law, to ignore the science, and to rally around this false approach to protecting waters of the United States,” Gillespie said. Furthermore, it gave extractive industries a roadmap for circumventing the federal permitting process for protecting waterways.

We see that companies “are continuing to press those very same arguments,” Gillespie said.

Editor’s note: Earthjustice and Southern Environmental Law Center are advertisers with Grist. Advertisers have no role in Grist’s editorial decisions.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline How a defunct Trump policy still threatens Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp on Jan 31, 2023.

Why Biden’s new protections don’t eliminate threats to the Tongass National Forest

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Last week, the Biden administration restored protections for the world’s largest intact temperate rainforest, reversing a Trump-era initiative that opened up millions of acres to road-building and logging. The Tongass National Forest in Southeast Alaska covers 16.7 million acres — an area larger than West Virginia — and is home to old-growth Sitka spruce and cedars. Bald eagles swoop low over the forest’s dense canopy. Deer, moose, and black bears roam wild, and salmon swim in the forest’s streams.

Because the Tongass is a massive carbon sink, storing 8 percent of the total carbon in U.S. forests, it’s often called the “lungs of the country.” Locally, Alaskan Native tribes depend on the forest to hunt deer and moose, forage for medicines, and fish salmon. “It’s just very important that we keep [the forest] intact,” said Joel Jackson, president of the Organized Village of Kake, a federally recognized tribe located on the forest’s edge.

But the abundance of old-growth trees has long made the Tongass a target of the timber industry. A controversial Clinton-era policy called the Roadless Rule banned logging, roadbuilding, and other extractive industrial activity in the Tongass and other national forests. The rule has been weakened by legal challenges and the revisions of subsequent presidential administrations — some of them more friendly to logging interests. Most recently, the Trump administration repealed the Roadless Rule for more than 9 million acres of the Tongass. 

Those protections were reinstated on Wednesday by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The move was welcomed by environmental groups, conservationists, and Native Alaskan tribal communities. 

“It’s incredibly important to have these sorts of common sense protections in place,” said Austin Williams, the Alaska director of law and policy for the nonprofit conservation group Trout Unlimited. The Roadless Rule is “central to making sure that these remote areas are managed in a way that is smart, that’s forward looking, and that’s responsive to the economic values in the region,” he added.

Even with the Roadless Rule firmly back in place, however, threats to the Tongass remain. An investigation by Grist in partnership with CoastAlaska and Earthrise Media last year found that vast swaths of the forest continue to be logged through the use of federally-approved land swaps. Congress can approve the exchange of federally-protected lands for private tracts. As a result, 88,000 acres have been transferred out of the Tongass National Forest to groups with logging interests since 2015. The analysis also found that 63 percent of the forest acreage razed between 2001 and 2014 had been transferred out of federal ownership. Restoring the Roadless Rule does little to prevent federal land swaps that can open up the Tongass to logging.

The Tongass is also reeling from the effects of a warming planet. Jackson said that in recent years the region has received very little rain and has experienced drought — an unusual phenomenon for a rainforest. When it does snow, it melts in a few days, and drought conditions have allowed the hemlock sawfly, which feeds on the foliage, to thrive.

“The cold usually kills the little insects that feed on a tree,” said Jackson. “It’s just too warm.”

Restoring Roadless Rule protections for the Tongass is part of a larger management strategy by the Biden administration for Southeast Alaska. In 2021, the Department of Agriculture announced a four-pronged plan to end large-scale logging in the Tongass and instead focus on forest restoration, recreation, and resilience. It also invests money in local communities to identify ways to conserve natural resources while increasing economic opportunities in the region. 

The plan also prioritizes engaging in meaningful consultation with tribes — a marked departure from the practices under the Trump administration, according to Jackson. In previous years, administration officials would meet with tribal representatives, listen to their concerns, but not take their feedback into consideration.

“They were just here to check the box,” said Jackson, referencing the federal government’s obligation to consult with tribes. “But now that’s changed. They’re taking more time and trying to listen.” 

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Why Biden’s new protections don’t eliminate threats to the Tongass National Forest on Jan 30, 2023.

As fracking increases in the Texas, city leaders avoid scrutiny

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This story is produced by Floodlight, a nonprofit news site that investigates climate issues.

When she saw the drilling rig go back up, Kim Feil started closing windows. 

She didn’t want a repeat of 2013, when she experienced nosebleeds after natural gas drilling began at the site just a quarter mile from her home in Arlington, Texas, in the Barnett Shale. A 2019 study found people living between 500 and 2,000 feet of fracking sites have an elevated risk of nosebleeds, headaches, dizziness or other short-term health effects. 

For five years after fracking surged in the late 2000s, Feil blogged almost every day and regularly attended council meetings. She warned neighbors of potential health effects, including studies finding higher risk of asthma attacks, from chemicals used during the drilling process. By 2014, as natural gas prices plummeted, fracking activity began to slow down. 

Recently, with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and gas prices skyrocketing, that economic equation changed again. Profits from natural gas drilling surged to new heights. The Railroad Commission of Texas, which oversees the oil and gas industry, reported the most active gas well permits in seven years.  

This past summer, as the price of oil and gas hit historic highs, the city of Arlington quietly approved nearly a dozen permits for new gas wells near the homes of its residents without holding any public hearing, leaving Feil and other members of the community without a chance to comment or protest the activity.

That’s a change from earlier activity, when companies including Total Energies and XTO started fracking in the Barnett Shale, a geologic formation containing trillions of cubic feet of fossil fuels. The shale lies under the heavily populated Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, home to more than 7 million people. Drilling brought heavy industry and noise, air and water pollution to Arlington, an otherwise typical suburban city of 400,000 nestled between Fort Worth and Dallas. 

So far, despite the recent permit activity, only one drill site is active now – the Truman drill site half a mile from AT&T Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys and near Feil’s home. In November, Feil watched as crews for French energy giant Total’s subsidiary, known as TEP Barnett or TEEP Barnett, returned to erect a new rig. She’s already reported a rotten egg smell to a city inspector. 

“I’m just at the mercy of which way the wind blows,” Feil said. 

New gas wells approved behind closed doors

City staff say public hearings for new wells are unnecessary because most of the new permits are in existing drill zones approved by previous City Council members. 

As long as companies drill within one of those approved zones, their permit request can be greenlit internally by city staff without a council vote or public hearing. Seventeen of Arlington’s 51 permitted gas drilling sites have an approved drill zone, according to city data. A majority of the drill zones were approved in 2013 or earlier.

Arlington calls the process “administrative approval.” Under this protocol, a natural gas company’s only obligation is to notify property owners who live within 1,320 feet that drilling will begin soon, said Susan Schrock, a city spokesperson. The city declined to make officials available for a phone interview.

According to records reviewed by Floodlight News and Fort Worth Report, historically, the city did not frequently use the administrative approval process. Over the past 10 years, Arlington used the process 81 times, or an average of eight per year. By contrast, in 2022, the city approved 17 wells administratively. 

Of TEP Barnett’s current 31 drill sites in Arlington, five are in established drill zones, according to city data. 

Over the past three years, TEP Barnett applied for 62 new gas wells in Arlington, per data from the Railroad Commission of Texas—87% of those were at sites with established drill zones and eligible for administrative approval.

Leslie Garvis, a spokesperson for TEP Barnett and Total Energies, said the company has not built any new drill sites in Arlington since acquiring existing facilities from Chesapeake Energy in 2016. Drilling new wells at existing sites allows the company to further develop the area’s natural gas resources without increasing TEP Barnett’s footprint, she said. 

While TEP Barnett has not expanded its physical footprint, the company has increased its number of applications for new wells. In 2022, TEP Barnett applied for 25 more new gas well permits in Tarrant County than they did the year before, according to data from the Railroad Commission.

Since drilling in the Barnett began, many residents have supported the expansion of natural gas drilling as an economic opportunity. Property owners sign lease agreements with gas companies allowing them to collect royalties from gas revenue. In Arlington, the drilling boom put the city in a position to donate $100 million in royalties to a foundation funding neighborhood, nature and other charity projects. 

But, without public hearings, Ranjana Bhandari said there’s no opportunity for residents to ask city officials or Total questions about potential drilling activity and associated pollution. Bhandari serves as executive director of the environmental advocacy organization Liveable Arlington, which has become one of the most vocal opponents of fracking in the city and helped galvanize dozens of residents to show up at council meetings about drill sites.

“The way that I see this move by the city is a move to remove public hearings as part of the permitting,” Bhandari said. “Nothing can replace that public forum–it’s a time honored requirement. Look at what they’re doing. They’re sticking something so insanely polluting and obtrusive in your backyard.” 

Katheryn Rogers has volunteered with Liveable Arlington, an environmental advocacy group, since 2017. The oil and gas industry are “bullies,” she says. “That keeps me going because I don’t like bullies.”
Cristian ArguetaSoto via Fort Worth Report

Limited visibility, limited impact

The renewed focus on administrative approval has limited Liveable Arlington’s ability to lead visible opposition campaigns to fracking, which previously stalled efforts to expand drilling. 

Many permitted drill sites are concentrated in lower-income neighborhoods, often with a higher concentration of renters and people who don’t speak English as their primary language. Landlords are entitled to receive notice of new drilling activity while many renters remain in the dark, Bhandari said. These residents don’t have the time or access to follow what’s happening, she added. 

Liveable Arlington’s success has come from turning out crowds at public hearings to pressure local officials into denying new drill permits. In January 2022, Arlington City Council members denied a permit for three new wells next to a daycare center after Liveable Arlington and the daycare owner filed suit against the city. Two years earlier, Arlington earned national headlines for voting down gas drilling near a community of color as leaders reckoned with the city’s record on racial equity. 

Katheryn Rogers, a volunteer who tracks natural gas permits for Liveable Arlington, said the hearings serve as a chance to educate residents and prove there is community opposition to new drilling. 

“We do get wins,” Rogers said. “If we’ve got a full chamber and we’re up there saying, ‘OK, scientists say this about drilling,’ that’s educating them as to what’s fixing to happen in their backyard. Council also needs to be held accountable for what they’re voting for.”

In the absence of public hearings, Liveable Arlington volunteers try to fill in the gaps through door-to-door canvassing, an email newsletter and an online permit tracker.

“All the illnesses, the property damage, the quality of life issues they’ve faced,” Bhandari said. “All of that gets aired at a public hearing. And that’s what they are trying to suppress.”

During an Arlington City Council meeting in November 2021, residents voiced opposition to TEP Barnett’s request to drill three new gas wells near a daycare center and homes.
Haley Samsel via Fort Worth Report

‘Unusual’ obstacles to obtaining public records 

As the city is turning more to a quieter administrative approval process for the permits, it also appears to be limiting or delaying access to public records. These days, open records requests about permits that used to be granted in a few days have taken weeks, if not months, to be filled. It’s a marked shift from the relationship Bhandari used to have with city officials, many of whom know her from more than a decade of activism. 

“What I’ve seen is that the city is becoming more combative and trying to avoid turning over information if they’re able to,” said Jayla Wilkerson, a lawyer representing Liveable Arlington. “But it’s not unusual for a government entity to work harder to hide information as they see how that information is being used – which is unfortunate because that’s the purpose of public information law.” 

Molly Shortall, an attorney for the city of Arlington, did not respond to specific questions about the city’s policies toward gas drilling records. Arlington has always complied with the Texas Public Information Act and requested decisions from Attorney General Ken Paxton’s office when they thought records contained information that is not open to the public, Shortall said. 

Information that is not subject to public disclosure includes personnel records, pending litigation, trade secrets and real estate deals. The city’s priority is to release open information to the public efficiently and promptly, Shortall said. Large amounts of data related to gas wells in Arlington are currently posted online and freely viewable on the city’s website, she added. 

In one instance, city lawyers referred Liveable Arlington’s request for drill zone maps to the attorney general’s office for a ruling. The city tried to claim that the information was proprietary – an argument that wouldn’t have held up in court, Wilkerson said. 

Homes, apartment complexes and businesses line the street adjacent to an active natural gas drilling site in Arlington, Texas. New gas wells at the site were not subject to a public hearing or council vote under a city policy allowing TEP Barnett to drill in established zones.
Cristian ArguetaSoto via Fort Worth Report

TEP Barnett had 10 business days to provide evidence to explain why the information was proprietary. When the company didn’t respond, the attorney general’s office ruled that Arlington’s claim wasn’t valid. However, the attorney general suggested that the city could instead withhold the information on the grounds that it contained information about “critical infrastructure.” Releasing the map, the office said, could pose a terrorism threat. 

Arlington followed the attorney general’s advice and denied the release of the information to Liveable Arlington, setting a possible precedent for future requests. The Attorney General’s Office did not respond to request for comment.

“This struck me as unusual in lots of ways,” Wilkerson said. “The city didn’t initiate [the security threat] part of the claim. It was the state government that said, ‘Hey you have another option here as a way to hide information.’” 

Bhandari fears that this pattern is already in motion – and could be here to stay.  

“It’s been a terrible shift in how the [government] is treating its own residents,” Bhandari said. “And I want to know why. Why can’t they honestly tell us why they’re doing what they’re doing?”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline As fracking increases in the Texas, city leaders avoid scrutiny on Jan 30, 2023.

Documents show how 19 ‘Cop City’ activists got charged with terrorism

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A burst of gunfire rang through a forest on the edge of Atlanta, Georgia, on the morning of January 18. Manuel Esteban Paez Terán, whose chosen name was Tortuguita (Spanish for “little turtle”), had been shot and killed by police officers, becoming the only known person killed by law enforcement during an environmentalist act of land defense in the U.S.

Tortuguita was part of a loose-knit group continuously occupying the woods to stop trees from being felled by construction of a sprawling police training center known to activists as Cop City. In 2021, with little public input, the Atlanta city council approved plans for the $90 million Public Safety Training Center on the city-owned former site of Atlanta’s prison farm, which the trees had reclaimed and had previously been included in plans for a revamped parks system. (The activists call the area the Weelaunee Forest, a name from the Muscogee people who were violently forced out of the area 200 years ago.)

Although some members of the transient and leaderless group had damaged property in apparent attempts to stymie construction, many just camped, hoping their refusal to move out of the way of the trees would prevent them from being cut down and replaced by firing ranges and a mock city where police would conduct riot training.

That morning, members of a multi-agency law enforcement task force had moved through the woods toward Tortuguita’s tent. According to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Tortuguita fired first, using a handgun the 26-year-old had purchased, and struck a Georgia State Patrol officer, who was hospitalized. No civilians appear to have witnessed what happened, and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation says no body cameras captured the incident. In life, Tortuguita spoke often (and publicly) of the virtues of nonviolence, so their friends and fellow activists doubt the state’s story.

“We have no reason whatsoever to trust the narrative that’s been given,” said Kamau Franklin, founder of the local group Community Movement Builders, which organizes with Black communities in Atlanta and opposes the police training center, citing other high-profile police killings around the country in which official narratives have fallen apart.

While the environmental nonprofit Global Witness has documented over 1,700 killings of land defenders worldwide over the past decade, Tortuguita’s death is only the second such killing in the U.S. The first was a fisheries observer who disappeared at sea under circumstances that suggested foul play in 2015.

On Thursday, Governor Brian Kemp declared a state of emergency in response to protests Saturday night sparked by Tortuguita’s death, during which participants threw rocks, broke windows, and burned a police car. Kemp’s order, effective until February 9, allows up to 1,000 National Guard troops to police the streets of Atlanta.

To allies, Tortuguita’s killing was the climax of an escalation of police and legal tactics meant to stifle the wide-ranging movement to stop construction of the training center, which includes parks advocates, prison abolitionists, and area neighborhood associations. Over the course of December and January, 19 opponents of the police training center have been charged with felonies under Georgia’s rarely used 2017 domestic terrorism law. But Grist’s review of 20 arrest warrants shows that none of those arrested and slapped with terrorism charges are accused of seriously injuring anyone. Nine are alleged to have committed no specific illegal actions beyond misdemeanor trespassing. Instead, their mere association with a group committed to defending the forest appears to be the foundation for declaring them terrorists. Officials have underlined that an investigation is ongoing, and charges could yet be added or removed.

Lauren Regan, an attorney who is the executive director of the Civil Liberties Defense Center, which will represent some defendants, said the charges are legally flimsy and designed to scare movement supporters.

“It’s so next time a vigil happens, mom or the school teacher or the nurse — or someone that has higher risk of randomly getting arrested — is probably going to think twice about going,” she said.  

“They’re going to use this to continually vilify and criminalize the wider movement,” added Franklin.

Georgia’s terror law passed in response to high-profile mass shootings including the 2015 massacre of nine Black churchgoers in Charleston, South Carolina, by white supremacist Dylann Roof. The 2017 law expanded the definition of “domestic terrorism” from its original designation as an act intended to kill or injure at least 10 people to one encompassing a range of property crimes. Critics at the time, including the Georgia chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, argued that the law was bound to be used against protesters and to stifle free speech. The charges validate civil liberties’ groups concerns and offer a warning signal for lawmakers in both major parties who have repeatedly proposed federal domestic terrorism legislation as a solution to America’s epidemic of mass murder.

Atlanta Police Department spokesperson John Chafee, on the other hand, defended the use of the law in this case. “We are hopeful the law and the possibility of being charged with this felony will be a deterrent from engaging in criminal behavior,” he told Grist. “We support the right to protest and we will work to ensure those engaged in a lawful protest are able to do so safely.”

Elsewhere in the woods on the day of the shooting, officers tore down 25 campsites and arrested seven activists. Law enforcement also netted bystanders: One Dekalb County Police Department incident report describes two individuals walking along a river trail “in an area that is being occupied by suspects wanted for domestic terrorism.” The Georgia Bureau of Investigation recommended they be “placed in flex handcuffs and transported to the nearby command post.” Later, they were determined to be “vagrants from the city of New Orleans” and were released.

Timothy Murphy was one of the last forest defenders standing. In the predawn hours of January 19, S.W.A.T. team members shone spotlights on Murphy as the activist perched above a treehouse, according to an incident report. Around sunrise, Murphy rappelled down the tree. Dekalb County Police S.W.A.T. members grabbed their legs, cut their harness, and booked them on charges of domestic terrorism.

So far police don’t claim that Murphy committed any act of violence or even property destruction. Key to Murphy’s terror charge, according to their arrest warrant, is that the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, or DHS, designated a group called Defend the Atlanta Forest as “Domestic Violent Extremists.” In other words, Murphy appears to have been charged with terrorism on the basis of their affiliation with the forest defenders.

In response to questions from Grist, a DHS spokesperson denied that the federal agency classifies any specific groups with this term, while also saying that it does use the term to refer to any U.S. individual or group “who seeks to further social or political goals, wholly or in part, through unlawful acts of force or violence” and regularly shares information about threats with state and local agencies.

Regardless, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation decided that Murphy was a member of the “extremist” group on the basis of the activist’s actions: They trespassed and then refused police orders to leave the treehouse for 12 hours. As a result, if prosecutors move forward with the terror charge, Murphy will face a mandatory minimum sentence of five to 35 years in prison for what’s known as a tree sit — a common tactic among environmentalists.

A DeKalb County arrest warrant summarizes the allegation of domestic terrorism against an environmental activist accused of trespassing.
DeKalb County Superior Court

The Atlanta forest defenders’ warrants state that Defend the Atlanta Forest earned its Domestic Violent Extremist label because members had thrown Molotov cocktails, rocks, and fireworks at police, and also shot metal ball bearings at contractors. They had also committed various acts of property destruction, including vandalism, discharging firearms at “critical infrastructure,” and committing arson of “public buildings, heavy equipment, private buildings, and private vehicles.”

However, besides three allegations of rock-throwing, the 14 forest defenders’ warrants do not appear to accuse them of committing any of the above acts that led to the designation. Grist’s analysis of arrest warrants found that, for nine forest defenders detained during police operations in December and January, their alleged acts of “domestic terrorism” consist solely of trespassing in the woods and camping or occupying a tree house.

A warrant following a police raid on December 13, for example, justifies a domestic terrorism charge by stating that the activist “affirmed their cooperation with [Defend the Atlanta Forest] by occupying a tree house while wearing a gas mask and camouflage clothing.” Another defendant, arrested January 18, told police that they were aware of the Cop City controversy before coming to Atlanta and had planned in advance to sleep on the land — an admission that apparently became the basis for a domestic terrorism charge. “Said defendant admitted to participating in previous protests in other states for environmental causes,” the warrant added.

Four forest defenders charged with domestic terrorism are also accused of possessing incendiary devices or firearms or throwing rocks at fire department and emergency workers and damaging a police vehicle. One of those was charged separately with injuring an officer, who scraped and cut his knee and elbow as the defendant fled. A fifth defendant is separately accused of trying to cut the rope of an arborist attempting to remove them from a tree house.

Six people charged with domestic terrorism during a night of protest in response to Tortuguita’s killing on January 21, including one who was also charged in the woods, face a slightly different set of allegations. Their domestic terrorism arrest affidavits point to felony charges they face for allegedly damaging a nearby Atlanta Police Foundation building and setting fire to a police car. A separate set of arrest citations is ambiguous as to whether the defendants are known to have personally carried out property damage, though one defendant is charged with carrying spray paint, a hammer, torch fuel, and a lighter as well as kicking and spitting on an officer as they were arrested.

The initial arrest citations for domestic terrorism also state that members of the crowd “used explosives/fireworks toward police,” without indicating whether the defendants did so themselves. The street protesters’ domestic terrorism arrest affidavits state that the alleged felonies were carried out with the intention of intimidating officials into changing government policy.

All but one of the activists arrested in the forest were released on bonds ranging from $6,000 to $13,500. None of the street protesters have been released, with four dubbed flight risks and denied bond, and two unable to pay a $355,000 bond.

The forest defenders’ charges appear to stand on shaky legal ground. To be convicted under Georgia’s terror law, an individual must first commit or attempt a felony. Nine of those arrested in the forest are charged with criminal trespass, which is only a misdemeanor.

Also, the acts must be intended to intimidate people, use intimidation to influence government policy, or impact the government through the use of “destructive devices, assassination, or kidnapping.” How trespassing and camping could constitute intimidation is unclear. The law does not contain language about whether associating with a “Domestic Violent Extremist” group counts as terrorism. 

Even if the charges are dismissed on the grounds that they do not fulfill the requirements of the law, they may leave a lasting legacy. “One of the problems with state repression is the crackdown and the arrests and the jailing and the bond — for the humans that are targeted, even if they end up being acquitted, all of that takes a toll,” said Regan, the attorney.

Although multiple environmental activists have been prosecuted under federal terrorism law in recent years, it’s been over a decade since the U.S. has seen anti-terrorism charges aimed at a broad swath of environmental activists. During a period known as the “Green Scare” in the mid-2000s, more than a dozen people associated with the Earth Liberation Front and Animal Liberation Front were arrested as part of an FBI domestic terror operation. At the time, “eco-terrorism” became the Justice Department’s top domestic terrorism priority, despite the fact that those arrested had made a point to avoid causing any bodily harm even as they burned down facilities they considered environmentally destructive.

The smaller-scale green scare that police have carried out in Atlanta in recent weeks is in some ways even more indiscriminate, since many of the alleged terrorists are not even accused of property damage.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Documents show how 19 ‘Cop City’ activists got charged with terrorism on Jan 27, 2023.

Oil refineries are polluting US waterways. Too often, it’s legal.

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Oil refineries are a well-documented source of air pollution, but less attention is paid to the ways they also pollute the water. Transforming crude oil into petroleum produces millions of gallons of wastewater each day filled with toxic chemicals and heavy metals that pours out of the plants and flows into rivers and streams affecting nearby communities.

While the Environmental Protection Agency, or the EPA, is legally required to regulate these pollutants and impose penalties, a new study released Thursday by the Environmental Integrity Project maintains that hasn’t been happening. 

The project’s analysis looks at monitoring data, permit applications, and toxic release reports from the nation’s 81 oil refineries that discharge their waste into waterways directly or through off-site treatment plants. In 2021 alone, the plants released a total of 60,000 pounds of selenium, known to cause mutations in fish, and 15.7 million pounds of nitrogen, which feed harmful algal blooms. Some 10,000 pounds of nickel, also toxic to fish in trace amounts, streamed into waterways as well, plus 1.6 billion pounds of chlorides, sulfates, and other dissolved solids that can corrode pipes and contaminate drinking water.  

Oil refineries released vast amounts of pollutants in 2021. The table above shows a selection of contaminants that are completely unregulated by the EPA in refinery wastewater.
Environmental Integrity Project

The totals in the report do not include contaminants released in stormwater runoff or spills that bypass water treatment systems, noted Eric Shaeffer, executive director of the Environmental Integrity Project who previously served as director of the EPA’s Office of Civil Enforcement. “We think we’re understating the problem,” he said.

Most of this pollution, the report found, happens in places where people have fewer economic resources and political influence to push back. More than 40 percent of the refineries in the study are located in communities where the majority of residents are people of color or considered low-income. 

John Beard, executive director of the Port Arthur Community Action Network, which advocates for environmental justice in the refinery-dense communities east of Houston, Texas, joined a press call for the report. “They don’t build these facilities in Beverly Hills or River Oaks, Texas, and places that have a way and a means to seek justice and correction,” he said. “They take the ‘path of least resistance,’ [building near] people who can ill afford to fight back.”

The “witches’ brew,” as the report calls it, flowing out of these refineries poses a real threat to aquatic life and communities. Wastewater from two-thirds of the refineries studied contributed to the “impairment” of downstream waterways, meaning they became too polluted to drink, fish, or swim in, or support healthy aquatic plants and animals.

Yet much of this pollution is actually legal, the Environmental Integrity Project points out. 

The federal Clean Water Act requires the EPA to limit industrial discharges of 65 toxins, but in fact they regulate only 10 pollutants for refineries. The agency is also supposed to update its limits every five years as technologies to treat wastewater improve, but the rules for refineries have not been changed since the 1980s. In addition, refineries are now twice the size on average than they were when those regulations were last made. 

While the EPA does have rules about ammonia, for example, they are not reflective of the current technology that makes refineries capable of much lower discharge rates of the compound. And there are no limits to the amount of selenium, benzene, nickel, lead, cyanide, arsenic, mercury, and PFAS, or per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances, known as forever chemicals, that can come out of these facilities.

When it comes to the outdated rules the EPA does have for refinery wastewater, the agency has repeatedly failed to enforce them. The Environmental Integrity Project found that 83 percent of U.S. refineries violated regulations on water pollutants at least once between 2019 and 2021. The EPA is supposed to fine violators, but less than a quarter of the refineries received any penalty. One of the worst offenders, Hunt Southland Refinery in Lumberton, Mississippi, violated water pollution limits 144 times during the study period, but was subject to just two penalties, amounting to fines of $85,500. The Phillips 66 Sweeny refinery near Houston, Texas, exceeded its limits 44 times, mostly for excess cyanide, but was only penalized once.

When refineries violate their water pollution limits, they are rarely penalized by the EPA. When they are fined, the amounts are negligible compared to industry profits.
Environmental Integrity Project

States also have authority to regulate refinery wastewater through permitting, but they often look to the EPA guidelines in setting their rules. While a few have included additional limits, the report notes that these are also rarely enforced. The EPA has made recent headlines for being short staffed and falling far behind on its own deadlines to create dozens of regulations that are central to the President’s climate goals, despite a new injection of funds from the bipartisan infrastructure law and the Inflation Reduction Act. 

“What are we asking for? No more than what the Clean Water Act has required since the 1970s,” said Shaeffer. “We ask the EPA to comply with the law, rise to the occasion, and write new standards based on the advanced treatment systems we have in this century, instead of the ones we should have left behind in the last one.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Oil refineries are polluting US waterways. Too often, it’s legal. on Jan 26, 2023.

The best way to save forests? Legally recognize Indigenous lands.

If you're serious about the environment, we all know planting trees is one of the best solutions and tree removal should be a last resort which is why we're committed at Pensacola Tree Services to provide the very best for your home as well as the environment. Read more by going here.

Recognizing and demarcating Indigenous lands leads to reduced deforestation and increased reforestation. That’s according to a new study that looked at more than 100 Indigenous territories in Brazil’s Atlantic Forest and found that legal recognition of those lands can have real, and measurable, impacts on centuries of deforestation.

“Our study contributes to an emerging body of evidence suggesting that rights-based policy for Indigenous lands can improve environmental outcomes,” said Marcelo Rauber, a co-author of the paper and researcher at the National Museum of the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro. “Known in Brazil as demarcação, the legal recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ land rights provides Indigenous Peoples with territorial autonomy, which support efforts to address longstanding human rights violations, land grabs, biodiversity loss and climate change.”

The Atlantic Forest stretches along Brazil’s Atlantic coast into Paraguay, Uruguay, and Argentina and once covered over 1 million square kilometers. Due to hundreds of years of deforestation, the Atlantic Forest has been reduced to less-than a tenth of its original size – a fragmented collection of forest spread across nearly 200 Indigenous territories, most of which do not have legal recognition, and urban areas, including Rio de Janeiro. 

The SOS Mata Atlântica Foundation, an organization working to restore the forest, says what remains of the Atlantic is home to more than 20,000 species – 6,000 of which do not live anywhere else in the world – and contains nearly 25 percent of all threatened species in Brazil. It is also a key source of water for cities and communities nearby but has been deforested at a much higher rate than the Amazon.

Researchers found that formalized land tenure and territorial recognition was necessary for improved forest outcomes, however, most Indigenous land in Brazil lacks that legal status. Since 2012, only one territory in the Atlantic Forest’s study sample has been granted demarcation status, and while many communities have begun the process, official recognition has been slow. According to the study, that has a real impact on forest health.

For years, researchers and activists have been alarmed by former president Jair Bolsonaro’s policies, which led to a steep deterioration of environmental and Indigenous rights. Bolsonaro, who pledged not to demarcate any Indigenous land, removed environmental protections and encouraged agribusiness development that led to both murders of Indigenous land defenders and high deforestation rates. In 2020, for example, deforestation in the Atlantic Forest increased by 30 percent. “Demarcation is important, because it is not only a social issue, but also a spiritual, traditional and cultural issue,” said Jurandir Karai Djekupe, a Guarani Mbya leader from the north of São Paulo. “It’s something that encompasses everything.”

For generations, Indigenous communities in the Atlantic Forest have sought territorial rights to fight extractive industries and land grabbers. Now, under Brazil’s new President, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, Indigenous communities say they may finally gain access to the legal tools necessary to protect their land, rights, and the environment. Since taking office, President Lula’s administration has begun reversing many of Bolsonaro’s policies. 

Rayna Benzeev, the study’s lead author, says the government must now ensure that the government agency responsible for Indigenous land, FUNAI, has the resources and political support to demarcate and protect Indigenous land throughout the country. “The new administration has an opportunity to turn this trend around by upholding the Brazilian constitution and granting Indigenous peoples with territorial autonomy and self-determination rights,” Benzeev said. 

However, Jerá Poty Miriam, who is a Guarani Mbya leader from the Tenondé Porã territory, says while Indigenous communities are hopeful the new administration will keep its promises, they are committed to holding President Lula accountable.

“Protecting our territory means protecting our own life because we depend on it,” said Jerá Poty Mirim. “The demarcation guarantees the continuity of those cultures that respect and protect nature.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The best way to save forests? Legally recognize Indigenous lands. on Jan 26, 2023.

Tired of being told to ‘adapt,’ an Indigenous community wrote its own climate action plan

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This story is part of the Cities + Solutions series, which chronicles surprising and inspiring climate initiatives in communities across the U.S. through stories of cities leading the way. For early access to the rest of the series, subscribe to the Looking Forward climate solutions newsletter.

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The Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes live among some of the most spectacular landscapes in the country. Their home, the Flathead Reservation, covers 1.2 million acres dotted with soaring mountains, sweeping valleys, and lush forests. Flathead River bisects the land and drains into Flathead Lake, the largest body of fresh water west of the Mississippi River. 

Long before anyone called this place northwest Montana or considered it a tourist destination, it sustained the tribes and they sustained it. “We have a proven track record of sustainability,” says Shelly Fyant, former chair of the CSKT Tribal Council. “We can trace it back 14,000 years.”

Climate change looms large here, threatening not just the physical well-being of the reservation’s 5,000 inhabitants, but their spiritual and cultural health, too. Temperatures continue rising, threatening plants and wildlife. Rivers run higher in spring and lower in summer, jeopardizing fish. Wildfires menace communities. Entire species, including whitebark pine and the native bull trout, have diminished, harming ecosystems that rely upon them.

With these upheavals come requisite changes to traditions that revolve around a sacred connection to the land. To the Salish and Kootenai people, the fight against climate change is not some high-minded pursuit, but a defense of their way of life. “These aren’t resources to be used up,” Fyant says. “They are life sources.”  

A U.S. Forest Service fire ecologist leaves a gift of tobacco at what remains of a 2000-year-old whitebark pine tree. Climate change has decimated the whitebark pine population on the Flathead Reservation. Chip Somodevilla / Getty Images

Yet Indigenous communities are often excluded from any discussion of how best to mitigate the impacts of climate change — even as they bear a disproportionate share of them. The CSKT are a notable exception to that dynamic. They have, since 2013, written and twice revised a comprehensive strategy to manage and protect their lands, one that draws heavily from an unwavering belief that the land, its ecosystems, and its people are intrinsically interdependent. 

The CSKT Climate Change Strategic Plan, and how it came together, provides a model of how community engagement, making it as easy as possible for people to participate, and respect for diverse perspectives and experiences can help any city grapple with the changes wrought by a warming world.

* * *

Much of the work that led to the plan fell to Mike Durglo, a CSKT member who has spent three decades in conservation and leads the tribes’ climate action efforts. He decided early on to have tribal residents drive the decision-making process, but he also opened it up to anyone with a stake in the outcome. This was key, because arriving at consensus required thoughtful consideration of, and respect for, the perspectives of the tribes, surrounding communities, the U.S. Forest Service, and others. 

“I told them, ‘If you want to be on the Climate Change Advisory Committee, you are going to be a member for life.’”

– Mike Durglo

The committee that developed the climate plan grew to roughly 100 people, most of whom are members of the tribe and all of whom were expected to commit themselves to a task that would unfold over many years. 

“I told them, ‘If you want to be on the Climate Change Advisory Committee, you are going to be a member for life,’” Durglo says. Ensuring long-term commitment required giving people the flexibility to participate when and how they could, as long as they stuck to it.

The committee focused on nine areas of life — including things like water and air, forestry and fish — directly impacted by climate change, then ranked them by their threat to residents’ well-being. That done, it convened subject-matter experts and people with relevant lived experiences to develop mitigation strategies. Grants and other funding supported community listening sessions to hear what people wanted from the plan and gin up enthusiasm to combat doom-and-gloom climate rhetoric. It’s important to remember that “you’re not trying to change the whole world,” Durglo says. “Your world could be the reservation, or it could be the small [Flathead Reservation] community of St. Ignatius.” 

* * *

Durglo repeatedly heard from people who were “sick and tired” of being told to adapt to a changing environment when they bore little responsibility for those changes. That’s why the plan focuses on climate mitigation, not adaptation, and embracing Indigenous customs and stewardship. Eight tribal elders were invited to share recollections of how the land has changed, and their insights helped shape mitigation projects. 

The Flathead Reservation climate plan includes restoration of whitebark pine trees. High elevation tree species are facing an increase in blister rust infections, mountain pine beetle infestations and wildfire.
Chip Somodevilla / Getty Images

Among other things, the plan calls for restoring whitebark pine populations that feed dozens of species and hold spiritual significance; removing invasive fish species so native populations can thrive; developing resilient potable water and community cooling strategies; restoring bison populations; and enlisting more youth in preservation and conservation to ensure these efforts continue. You can already see the fruits of the plan in things like the tribes’ nursery of 30,000 whitebark pines.

Such tactics may be unique to the Flathead Reservation, but coalition members point out that the collaborative process they followed could be used anywhere to create climate plans that serve everyone. Any community can engage with its own history, learning from, say, those who work the land or have deep insight into how things once were. “No single person, community, or government, Indigenous or otherwise, has all the answers for climate change,” says Lori Byron, a physician who has spent three decades working in Indigenous communities and helped craft the CSKT climate plan. 

The Salish and Kootenai people have committed to making their response to the crisis an iterative process, and the next update is expected within months. After all, any plan to address something as complex as climate change must adapt to new challenges. “It’s a living document,” Durglo says. “Everything is changing around us as we speak.”

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Explore more Cities + Solutions:

• New Orleans lost its bike share. Residents stepped up to rebuild it with a focus on equity.
• A California town’s wastewater is helping it battle drought
• Can cities eliminate heat-related deaths in a warming world? Phoenix is trying.
• Ann Arbor’s path to decarbonization begins in one of its most frontline communities

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Tired of being told to ‘adapt,’ an Indigenous community wrote its own climate action plan on Jan 26, 2023.

Ann Arbor’s big decarbonization bet

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This story is part of the Cities + Solutions series, which chronicles surprising and inspiring climate initiatives in communities across the U.S. through stories of cities leading the way. For early access to the rest of the series, subscribe to the Looking Forward climate solutions newsletter.

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The neighborhood of Bryant sits in Ann Arbor, between the hills and valleys that surround this city in eastern Michigan. Its 262 homes are perched across from the city’s largest landfill and stand on a floodplain, so residents grapple with mold, mildew, and water damage. Outdated infrastructure subjects them to high utility costs, and Interstate 94 long ago isolated the community, one of the city’s most densely populated, prompting decades of neglect. 

More than half of the people in this frontline community identify as people of color. About the same number are renters. Three in four families, many of whom have been in the neighborhood for three generations, live in poverty. The help that does come from the government is too often offered by bureaucrats with good intentions but little idea what residents want — or need. 

“A lot of programs, specifically ones that are focused on energy conservation, just get designed and brought into these communities,” says Hank Love, director of municipal and community programs at the energy equity organization Elevate, which works in cities nationwide including Ann Arbor. “People would say, ‘Look at what we made for you and are going to implement,’ without getting adequate input on the front end.” 

That dynamic began to change when Ann Arbor vowed to achieve carbon neutrality by 2030. The city is beginning in Bryant, where it has enlisted residents and nonprofits to help decarbonize the entire community. Renovations to the first homes began in May 2022, funded through a state grant to repair and electrify homes, plant trees, and install solar panels.

“We made a really strategic decision to focus on those who have been hurt first and worst by climate change and systemic racism.”

– Missy Stults

“It’s resident-designed and resident-centered,” says Missy Stults, the city’s sustainability director and a 2022 Grist 50 honoree. “We are trying to correct for market failures by working directly with a frontline community to determine how best to collaboratively create the nation’s first fully decarbonized low-income neighborhood. There’s a layering of so many elements, and it is literally changing lives.”

* * * 

In 2020, Ann Arbor announced the A²Zero initiative, an audacious plan to achieve carbon neutrality citywide within a decade. City officials formed a broad coalition of nonprofits, for-profits, and community organizations to answer the question, “How do we make it happen in just 10 years?” 

Stults saw an opportunity to engage the community in an effort to address the complex and intertwined issues of gentrification, disinvestment, and environmental racism.  She and her team had been mapping socioeconomic vulnerability within the city, and “Bryant popped up for us as an area of opportunity,” she says. “We made a really strategic decision to focus on those who have been hurt first and worst by climate change and systemic racism. We thought, ‘Well, why don’t we try? Let’s go talk to the residents and see if this is of interest.’”

Although she found plenty of interest, she also found apprehension — many of Bryant’s residents had lived for generations under a legacy of institutional disregard and neglect. To earn their confidence, Stults and her colleagues knocked on doors to chat with residents about the program and gauge interest, and hosted community events like tree plantings.

Missy Stults (bottom left), Bryant residents, and members of Community Action Network plant trees outside of residents’ homes as part of efforts to decarbonize the community.
Courtesy of Missy Stults

“Our biggest obstacle was to gain that trust, to help people believe that we were actually trying to do something for them without taking from them,” says Krystal Steward, a Bryant resident and outreach specialist for Community Action Network. “And now, they’re seeing that things are actually happening. Because I’m their neighbor, there’s a greater sense of trust in the project. It’s an amazing feeling to be helping my community.”

* * *

In spring 2022, nearly two years of planning finally began to yield results. Through a $500,000 state grant to Community Action Network, decarbonization of the first 19 homes — selected through an energy assessment that considered the extent of needed repairs — began.  

Every project begins with an energy assessment to determine how best to rehabilitate and retrofit each house. Most homes use gas to power furnaces and other appliances, making the transition to clean tech as much about increasing comfort as it is about reducing emissions, says Hank Love. There’s no point in, say, replacing a gas furnace if the roof has holes or the attic lacks insulation. “It’s going to feel cold no matter how much you heat it, and you’re going to spend a ton of money just trying to feel comfortable,” he says.

Once repairs are made, crews swap gas appliances for electric ones before installing solar panels. “What I’m most excited about is that we are already solarizing households in the neighborhood and essentially fixing affordability issues that some residents are having,” says Derrick Miller, executive director of Community Action Network.

Exterior of the Bryant Community Center, which is located in the heart of the neighborhood and hosts events held by the Community Action Network.
Courtesy of Missy Stults

Bryant resident Deborah Pulk, who lives on a fixed income and has been in Ann Arbor since 1986, was among the first to benefit from the program. She needed a new roof, and an inspection revealed that her stove was emitting dangerous amounts of carbon monoxide. The switch to electric appliances and renewable energy has saved her money, too.

“Krystal had told me that they were trying to start putting up solar panels,” she says. “I said, ‘Sure! I’d love to have solar panels on my house.’ My gas and [electricity] bill is already much lower. I used to pay $145 per month on a budget plan. Last month my bill was $39.” 

As in any neighborhood, some people support the project, others are indifferent, and a few are opposed — because they remain leery of City Hall, question whether there will be enough money to continue the program, or don’t believe climate change is a problem. Stults concedes the city has not yet lined up additional funding, but notes, “We are making progress.” City officials are hopeful that the work done on the first 19 homes, and the lessons they’ve learned working with residents, homeowners, and landlords, will provide a blueprint for decarbonizing other neighborhoods and, perhaps, other cities. 

“This project really lights me on fire and keeps me going — it’s so transformative for everyone who touches it,” says Stults. “It’s certainly transforming me. I hope that it actually transforms our system by creating new tools and mechanisms for everyone to be able to engage in the clean energy and decarbonization movement. If we don’t create space for everyone as a part of this movement, we will fail.”

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Explore more Cities + Solutions:

• New Orleans lost its bike share. Residents stepped up to rebuild it with a focus on equity.
• How a California town’s wastewater is helping it battle drought
• Can cities eliminate heat-related deaths in a warming world? Phoenix is trying.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Ann Arbor’s big decarbonization bet on Jan 25, 2023.