This story is co-published with Arizona Luminaria and is part of The Human Cost of Conservation, a Grist series on Indigenous rights and protected areas. This transcript has been edited for length and clarity. 

On a breezy spring day, Lorraine Eiler, a member of the Hia-Ced O’odham tribe, walked with me around the border of Quitobaquito Springs — a strawberry-shaped oasis in the Sonoran Desert near Pima County, Arizona. Her family has lived in the area for generations. 

“If you do research on Quitobaquito, the majority of times you will read about the cattlemen that lived here in the area, about the people that went through Quitobaquito,” she said. “You hear nothing about the fact that it’s an old Indian village. It was abundant. Now, it’s just … well, you see what it looks like.”

The first thing you notice most about Quitobaquito Springs is the trees. It’s the only source of water for miles in the desert and the lush vegetation around it is stark against the dry tan and khaki landscape and occasional organ pipe cactus. The second thing you notice: the border wall, 30 feet tall, just feet from the water’s edge. I asked Eiler how the landscape compares to her early memories of the site. 

“Barren,” she said. “Very, very barren.”

For thousands of years, people have used Quitobaquito as a place to trade, to grow food, and to rest. The springs also provided water for animals in a region where it’s hard to come by. Quitobaquito’s springs are still sacred to O’odham people today and several of Eiler’s relatives, for example, are buried here. 

“It has always been a place of refuge, a place of survival for anybody and anything that’s ever crossed through that territory,” said Amy Juan, a member of the Tohono O’odham Nation and the Tohono O’odham Hemajkam Rights Network, a collective of college students and youth focused on issues impacting Tohono O’odham peoples.

In the 1900s, the springs and the surrounding area were selected by the U.S. government for conservation and given one of the highest levels of environmental protection in the world. But today, Quitobaquito’s sacred springs are drying up. So what went wrong? 

Quitobaquito Springs is part of the O’odham people’s traditional homelands — especially the Tohono and Hia-Ced O’odham nations. Before it was part of a National Park, before Arizona became a state in 1912, and even before there was an international border, the springs were really more like a marsh. Water flowed into the wetlands, feeding the gardens of squash, corn, and melons in the middle of the desert.

But settlers, warfare, and political decisions in the 1800s dispossessed the O’odham of their lands and carved the region into pieces. First, the U.S.–Mexico border split O’odham communities, separating families and cutting people off from their lands. Decades later, the U.S. government seized O’odham lands by congressional act, and, without a treaty, pushed the Tohono O’odham onto a reservation. Meanwhile, lawmakers created more policies intended to protect Quitobaquito’s fragile ecosystem. In 1937, President Franklin Roosevelt used the newly claimed lands surrounding Quitobaquito Springs to create Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.

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In the early days of the National Park Service, parks were mostly created with entertainment, sightseeing, and aesthetic beauty in mind. The agency believed that these areas should be kept wild, and protected from human interference. 

But what they missed was that places like Quitobaquito were already a product of thousands of years of human maintenance — and that the park still had people in it. For instance, the Oroscos, a Hia-Ced O’odham family, were living in Quitobaquito Springs at the time when the park was created. They stayed in the area long after many tribal members were pushed out.

The family’s animals, buildings, and machinery didn’t match the agency’s vision of a wild, peopleless park. Finally, after decades of pressure, the National Park Service purchased the land for $13,000, bulldozed the Oroscos’ home, dug out a bigger collecting pond for water from the spring, and built a parking lot nearby to attract visitors.

“There was this idea that you would take the people out of living in these protected spaces, but they could come and they could visit and they could enjoy the natural environment, and we would protect that environment up to an extent,” said Rebecca Tsosie, an attorney and professor at the James E. Rogers College of Law at the University of Arizona. “But Indigenous presence is vital to the stewardship of the land.” 

Without livestock to graze by the water’s edge, cattails invaded the pond, decreasing water flow. The decrease in water flow led to sediment build up, and in 1962, that increased sediment prompted park officials to dredge the pond. But dredging made the water too deep and too cold for the Sonoyta pupfish, one of the two endangered species endemic to the area. This forced the Park Service to build a kind of shelf in the pond so the fish could live in warmer waters. 

At the same time, the nearby parking lot meant visitors had easy access to the water, and one park visitor released a golden shiner into the pond — a fish so well suited to the springs it started outcompeting the pupfish and driving it toward extinction. Once park officials realized this, they removed the pupfish, poisoned the pond to get rid of the golden shiners, refilled the pond, and then put the pupfish back in.

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On a recent visit to Quitobaquito, I managed to spy a few pupfish — brown slivers of movement in the shallow waters of the springs. Tyler Coleman, a biologist and researcher with the National Park Service, told me that one of the biggest threats to the species today is low water levels. Ever since the 1990s, which saw a long term drought in the region, Quitobaquito has been drying up.

“So the little water that is produced in the Sonoran Desert is really valuable,” he told me. He pointed to the main springhead, a trickle of water which he described as a crack in the side of the mountain. “Any amount lost is going to be a problem.”  

The decline of the springs has been attributed to drought, climate change, and the expansion of nearby farming that taps into the natural underground aquifers. 

Then the border wall came.

In 2020, the U.S. government began building the controversial wall along the U.S.–Mexico border, 30 feet high, that cut across the entire southern edge of the park. Crews drilled for groundwater near the declining springs that they used to make cement.

“Unfortunately, during that period of time, the water levels started going down and the pond itself right in the center just became dry, which was something new,” Eiler said.

It’s not entirely clear if border wall construction caused water levels to drop. And we may never know, because the Trump administration waived all environmental assessments in the name of national security.

“The United States has some of the best environmental laws of any nation in the world,” said Tsosie. “But on the border, they wanted a full-scale, speedy construction of the border wall. So they bypassed all of those things.”

In 2022, the Park Service relined the pond, with support from the International Sonoran Desert Alliance, a nonprofit organization that Lorraine Eiler works with. People from U.S. government agencies and the Tohono O’odham nation worked to delicately scoop the turtles and pupfish into holding tanks until the lining was replaced and the pond was refilled.

But restoration is ongoing and it’s not yet clear whether or not these efforts will restore water levels — or how long that fix will last.

“Whatever was here is gone,” Eiler said. “We can try to make it. We’ll never get to the point of what it used to look like. And it all depends on water.”

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Around the world, in the face of biodiversity loss and climate change, there are calls to expand protected areas like Quitobaquito — though, as the springs show, a designation doesn’t guarantee protection. Last December, 196 countries agreed to “30×30,” a global goal to conserve 30 percent of the world’s lands and waters by 2030. The U.S. has its own version of that project, called “America the Beautiful.” Many of the areas targeted for protection under these policies are in Indigenous territories or on lands integral to Indigenous peoples’ livelihoods, and many have not sought consent from those communities or integrated their knowledge or practices in protection plans. 

“I think a lot of the border violence, a lot of the impacts on the Tohono O’odham, those are invisible when you’re visiting [Quitobaquito],” Tsosie said. “That cultural landscape is part of the environmental landscape. And we need to steward that and protect it and care for it just as we do those endangered species.”

Amy Juan agrees that Quitobaquito needs to be protected, but from a country that has caused more harm to the springs than good, not from the people who have cared for it for generations. 

“Sometimes it feels out of our hands,” she said. “But what we can control and what we can continue to do is make sure that we maintain these traditions, these ceremonies, these connections, because once we let go of them, once we lose them, once we don’t maintain them, that just continues to hurt who we are as O’odham. We’re desert people. We have to take care of all these things that make us who we are.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline How efforts to protect an Indigenous oasis almost led to its demise on Oct 11, 2023.

This story is the second in a four-part Grist series examining how climate change is destabilizing the global insurance market. It is published in partnership with the Economic Hardship Reporting Project.

For millennia, the South has been shaped by its water. The bayous and brackish tributaries that drift into the Mississippi flowed with communication and commerce, while cities like Memphis and Nashville sprang up in the mouths of rivers. Suburbs grew around ports as waterways bustled. Exurbs expanded as they quieted. 

Amidst these tides of progress, low-income communities have been relegated to the watery South’s “bad land — that constantly floods, that doesn’t have drainage,” said Reese May, chief strategy and innovation officer at SBP, a grassroots national recovery and resilience organization headquartered in Louisiana. When these areas are submerged, a more and more common occurrence, families who are least able to recover are hit the hardest.

May and SBP case managers watched this dilemma unfold for many years in Louisiana, as they helped New Orleans slowly rebuild after Hurricane Katrina. A full decade after the storm, May recalls a man in his 90s and his elderly daughter walking into SBP’s office. “She dragged him in the door, because he couldn’t humble himself to do it,” May said. Edward Lee was the first member of his family who was not born enslaved. He volunteered for combat duty in World War II, signing up “to serve his country at a time when his country would not stand up for him,” May said. By the time May met him, Lee had been displaced from the home he built over 10 years. 

It only took SBP two phone calls to find the money to rebuild Lee’s house. “There was an enormous celebration. People were so proud of us. And it really felt gross,” he said. “That man suffered for a decade for something we might have solved in one year.” Lee’s experience sticks with May because “it reminds me of the importance not just of rebuilding a home, but of understanding why it doesn’t get rebuilt.” 

As SBP expanded its recovery work to communities hit by natural disasters in New York and Texas, employees like May saw family after family wrestle with complications with FEMA payouts and denied insurance claims. The repercussions are rippling: Damage from natural hazards like flooding is a major contributor to national wealth gaps, amplifying existing disparities. 

Across the country, flooding is a growing risk — both in how high waters surge, and as a new hazard in areas previously unlikely to be inundated. As storms arrive more frequently, flood insurance and disaster relief programs themselves are now failing. 

Yet most homeowner policies do not cover flood damage, requiring families to acquire an entirely different, second insurance plan. Most of these are purchased through a government-backed program called National Flood Insurance Program, or NFIP. “Private markets pulled back from flood decades ago,” Kousky explained.

But as prices surge, hundreds of thousands of people have dropped their flood insurance, growing the burden on federal disaster assistance and straining its already stretched budgets. Many are falling through the cracks. The lack of clarity on what assistance will be available from insurance or disaster relief prevents many families from receiving the aid they need. After New England’s flooding this summer, for instance, residents who received money from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA, in 2011 during the last once-in-a-century storm are only just realizing unmet insurance requirements mean they are ineligible for further emergency assistance.

These widespread hurdles are why SBP has stopped measuring success by how many buildings they could help reconstruct. Instead, May said, “We started thinking about what we could do to prevent a survivor from needing our help in the first place.”

The majority of natural disasters in the United States already involve flooding. It’s a problem that will get worse with sea-level rise and more intense rain events. By 2050, coastlines will see a national average of 45 to 85 days per year of high-tide flooding. Meanwhile inland, rivers and streams are spilling over their banks more frequently, a type of flooding projected to increase by as much as 30 percent as temperatures rise. Extreme rain is also becoming more common: Peer-reviewed data from the First Street Foundation, a climate research nonprofit, suggests about 20 percent of the country will now see a “once in a century” rainfall about every 25 years. 

Despite this risk, just 4 percent of homeowners in the U.S. have flood insurance. Even those who do pay for flood protection are often misinformed about their property’s risk. 

FEMA produces maps that designate which houses are in a 100-year floodplain, estimated to have a 1 percent chance of flooding in any particular year. Homeowners in these areas with federally-backed mortgages are required to purchase flood insurance. While a few private companies still offer their own policies, the vast majority of coverage that Americans buy is through FEMA’s National Flood Insurance Program. Introduced in 1968 after Hurricane Betsy, the country’s first billion-dollar hurricane, the federal program was intended to help provide affordable flood insurance, and in turn address the ballooning expenses of post-disaster relief. 

Funded by the government and delivered through private companies, the NFIP program will insure up to $250,000 of building damage. (That limit has not changed since 1994, when the average cost to build a house was $154,000.) But as massive storms like Katrina and Sandy become more frequent, the program has run $20 billion into the red; last year, its interest on that liability alone was $280 million. 

Thanks to climate change, the problem is compounding. “Frequent high-cost flooding will prevent the NFIP from paying its debt,” a recent FEMA report warned. This is partly because the NFIP cannot refuse to insure properties, something critics have long suggested encourages building — and rebuilding — in vulnerable places. By law, it also cannot raise rates for most policies by more than 18 percent a year. “We want to maintain cheaper insurance than it actually costs to pay all those losses,” said Carolyn Kousky, the associate vice president for economics and policy at the Environmental Defense Fund. 

Though FEMA’s flood maps influence everything from people’s insurance rates to where development occurs, they haven’t been doing a good job of capturing changing risks. Between 2015 and 2019, 40 percent of NFIP claims were outside of FEMA’s flood hazard zones. The agency is supposed to update its maps every five years, but delays are common, and pressure from local residents seeking to develop or politicians eager for larger tax bases can influence their extent. These maps use historical meteorological data that doesn’t take climate change into account. 

To help address some of these concerns, FEMA recently decided to change its assessments for the first time since the 1980s. Roy Wright, the former chief executive of the National Flood Insurance Program who kickstarted the process back in 2015, says the agency’s new Risk Rating 2.0 Program will incorporate more sophisticated models, improve the agency’s accuracy, and catch up to private insurers, who have long used more advanced techniques. The new methodology, which began in 2021 and rolled out to all of NFIP’s policies in the spring of 2023, now considers rainfall-driven flooding, and includes factors like individual property value, and the cost to rebuild. 

One of FEMA’s goals with these changes was to more fairly price its insurance. But while nearly a quarter of NFIP policyholders saw their premiums go down, on average its rates increased. Policies in some states like Louisiana and Florida spiked by more than 500 percent, phased in over years. “There is no greater risk communication tool than a pricing signal,” Wright said. But “people don’t like to know that they’re at risk. And they most assuredly don’t like it when there’s a price for it.” Ten states and many smaller municipalities are now suing to block these higher premiums. 

Insurance experts like Kousky think Risk Rating 2.0 is just one of many steps still required to improve the program. “Risk Rating 2.0 was very necessary,” she said, “but it needed to be coupled with an affordability program.” She thinks a safety-net plan is essential to help cover the rising costs of flood insurance — both for lower-income homeowners, and the mortgage creditors who stabilize the economy. Wright agrees further changes are needed, pointing out that Congressional limits on NFIP payouts have not even kept up with inflation. “If you want to have an affordability program, you’ve got to pay for it,” he said, adding that to do so, Congress will have to stop relying on insufficient premium revenues. 

Yet the government has continually kicked these decisions down the road through short-term extensions of the NFIP program, which was set to expire again this fall. In September, the Mortgage Brokers Association wrote in a letter to Congress that allowing this was an “imminent threat” for real estate markets, and that better long-term solutions were overdue. “MBA members are very concerned that private property insurance has reached a point of critical market dislocation,” the letter said. The program almost ground to a halt along with government funding during the Republican stand-off at the end of September. A lapse in the NFIP, which would disrupt thousands of real estate transactions a day, was only avoided by a temporary 45-day extension. In the meantime, a slew of major disasters this summer had depleted FEMA’s Disaster Relief Fund, running the agency into debt and forcing it to restrict its activities in August. As part of the last-minute temporary spending package, Congress approved an additional $16 billion for disaster relief — just in time for New York City to face a deluge that raised water levels so high a sea lion escaped from its enclosure at the Central Park Zoo.

The close calls demonstrate just how unstable these systems are. As storms repeatedly swamp what was formerly dry land, someone is going to have to pay for flooding. Reinsurance company SwissRe recently found that although improvements in Florida’s building code have reduced annual losses expected from hurricanes by 90 percent, those gains have been “dwarfed” by increased exposures, primarily from a big surge in population living in risky areas. But conversations about the only true alternative — managed retreat, or encouraging communities to relocate — have been halting. 

“Our responses are always punctuated by disasters,” Kousky said. After a catastrophe like Hurricane Andrew, for example, insurance prices go up, the number of companies writing policies goes down, and the role of regulators was thought to be to help protect consumers from that type of volatility. “But the prior expectation was that everything would re-calibrate post-disaster — as time went on, more capital would flow into the market.”  

Now, she said, it’s not just that “insurers had to get through the shock of having such high levels of losses — they are now actually fundamentally rethinking the trajectory of risk.” 

As the country’s insurance system flounders, companies are getting stricter with their payouts. Many homeowners are finding out they have sub-limits — conditions that exclude broad categories of damage, like mold, or policies that only kick in if a storm is named — after a disaster. “People go to rebuild, and they find out that they actually have insufficient amounts of money to get back on their feet,” Kousky said. 

That gut-wrenching experience turned Douglas Quinn’s dream of living on the water into a nightmare. He had carefully checked FEMA’s flood zones before purchasing a home on the shore in Toms River, New Jersey, in 2011. The 50-year-old house had never flooded, but with its beachfront location, Quinn, a financial advisor, chose to buy the NFIP’s maximum coverage amount of $250,000. As Hurricane Sandy hit New Jersey, he waded out of his new home, shocked at how deep the water had risen. The dark night was illuminated only by flashes from downed power lines shorting out.

A little over a year after he moved in, Quinn had lost almost everything he owned to the storm. At first, he wasn’t worried. “I believed in insurance,” he said. His insurance company sent an engineer out to assess his damage. They claimed the foundation damage was not from the pressure of the water, but rather a pre-existing problem from movement in the supporting soils — something excluded from his flood policy. But Quinn had done a pre-purchase inspection, so he had proof the cracks were new. “In the beginning, I’m just kind of thinking, well, it’s a mistake,” he recalled. “I just need to show them the pictures.”

He and his teenage daughter lived out of his car while they tried to get through the paperwork and find a temporary place to rent. Despite his meticulous appeal, FEMA sided with the insurance company. (The nonprofit New York Legal Assistance group found that in post-Sandy appeals, the agency sided against homeowners 92 percent of the time.) Along with over 1,600 other homeowners, Quinn filed a lawsuit. It was still pending when New York’s new attorney general launched a criminal inquiry, uncovering evidence that engineering reports had been routinely changed by insurance companies to lower claims, prompting FEMA to review all damage claims from the hurricane. “It is intentional. It is a strategy. And it happens all over the country,” Quinn said. 

Because of this experience, he left his career in finance to become the executive director of an insurance watchdog organization, American Policyholder Association. In 2021, the association was working with whistleblowers within the Florida insurance industry. They filed an extensive report about similarly altered assessments to the state Office of Insurance Regulation, where it sat for months. Then Hurricane Ian hit — and new homeowners started running into the same hurdles. In the aftermath, insurers or the vendors they hire to help process claims have been aggressive in their attempts to reduce claims, in some cases directly modifying reports to lower payouts. One such case downgraded a $60,000 estimate for roof repairs to roughly $3,000, according to Quinn.

The Insurance Commissioner of Florida at the time, David Altmaier, resigned December 28, 2022 — days before a new anti-lobbying law went into effect, banning former agency heads from a ‘revolving door’ into lucrative positions as lobbyists for six years. In March of 2023, Altmaier announced his new position as a lobbyist at the Southern Group, where he says he’ll “leverage over a decade of experience to help insurance and insurance-adjacent entities navigate the complex world of regulation.”

These kinds of widespread insurance practices worsen existing disparities; research shows Black homeowners pay higher premiums than nonwhite homeowners. May at SBP says that his clients regularly see similar biases in FEMA payouts, with people of color receiving far less for the same amount of damage. To make things worse, many Black property owners have inherited their homes, and can face challenges documenting their title, making it more difficult to file claims. Racial differences in who owns homes add to this gap: nationwide, 56 percent percent of Black families rent, compared to 28 percent of white families.

And flooding often hits neighborhoods with high numbers of renters hardest. When a landlord’s insurance costs skyrocket, that’s often passed on to tenants through rent increases. While FEMA does offer some flood insurance for renters, many do not purchase it, leaving their own property losses unprotected. And some rental situations, like removing a destroyed mobile home from rented land, are not covered at all. “When people don’t get paid, it’s a generational loss,” said Quinn. 

Even with his financial background, navigating the insurance claims process during the years he was trying to piece his life back together almost broke him. “I had days when I couldn’t get out of bed,” he said. These difficulties are why May and SBP are now advocating for changes to disaster relief, including creating a single application for disaster assistance that would streamline sharing information between the federal, state, and local agencies that survivors often bounce between for years. 

Meanwhile, in New York City, a unique partnership is now trying out a small pilot program to help get people recovery funds more quickly after a flood. In a collaboration that includes the Environmental Defense Fund, SBP, broker Guy Carpenter, and major insurance company Swiss Re, the team launched a parametric insurance scheme this summer. If particular metrics are hit — a combination of factors like a certain amount of rainfall or flood footprint — an automatic payment of up to $15,000, depending on the severity of the flood, will be issued to low-income families and can be used for anything the family needs. Once an event that meets the program’s requirements occurs, its application portal will open, and families who live in certain neighborhoods will be able to apply for these payments.

With this kind of approach, “You don’t have to send a loss adjuster weeks after the event to assess how much damage there was, and then fight with your insurance company,” Kousky of the Environmental Defense Fund explained. She hopes the program, the first of its kind in the United States, will be able to scale up quickly. It is funded through a joint program between the National Science Foundation and the Department of Homeland Security.

New solutions are sorely overdue. In 2023, there have already been 24 disasters that cost more than $1 billion in damages, a new national record. Yet since the pandemic began, the number of people moving into the most-flood prone counties have more than doubled, putting an additional 400,000 Americans at risk. “We need a collage of solutions,” Kousky said, “because there’s not just one thing that will solve [the insurance crisis].” 

In the meantime, once again in the midst of hurricane season, Quinn catches himself constantly looking out his window at the water, checking to make sure it’s not rising. After seven years, he was finally able to return to his house — and it’s now built 10 feet higher. But the trauma of losing his faith in the financial systems he thought protected him hasn’t dissipated. “It’s a storm after the storm,” he said. “When that safety net fails, what you go through is devastating. And nobody talks about it.”

Flooding can destroy a house in a night, but the full tragedy, Quinn said, takes years to unfold. “The news crews show up in their windbreakers, they find the worst damage that they can stand in front of while they shoot. And then poof, they’re gone,” he said. “Nobody follows what the survivors go through — the months and years of slow, grinding recovery.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline What happens when America’s flood insurance market goes underwater? on Oct 11, 2023.

First there was lard. For at least 200 years, a great many Americans fried their potatoes in pork fat. Then, early last century, came the invention of Crisco, a lard look-alike made from cottonseed oil. Procter & Gamble advertised it as healthier — more digestible — than pig grease. The marketing campaign worked. Crisco took off. 

Its success gave birth to a new era of cooking fats. Americans today consume a long, golden stream of vegetable oils: soybean, palm, safflower, sunflower, peanut, avocado, coconut, canola, olive. The plants cultivated to make these oils now cover nearly a quarter of the planet’s cropland, and demand for them is still growing. That’s not good news for the Earth. To grow oil crops, particularly palm and soybeans, farming corporations are cutting down carbon-rich forests, threatening climate goals and biodiversity. 

But what if there was a cooking oil that didn’t drive deforestation? A California startup called Zero Acre Farms claims to have created just that. Zero Acre hopes its product, called Cultured Oil because it’s made by fermenting sugarcane, will shift American diets like Crisco did, but to a different end. The company says its oil requires 90 percent less land and accounts for 86 percent fewer greenhouse gas emissions than soybean oil, the most widely consumed vegetable oil in the United States. 

“If we’re going to continue to satisfy our insatiable desire for oils and fats,” said Stephen del Cardayre, Zero Acre’s co-founder and chief technical officer, “we have to do it more efficiently.”

The startup’s new cooking oil is starting to gain attention. Zero Acre has raised millions of dollars from venture capital funds linked to Chipotle Mexican Grill, Richard Branson’s Virgin Group, and the actor Robert Downey Jr. In September, Shake Shack announced it would test Cultured Oil on its fries at two of its New York City restaurants. Grocery stores aren’t selling sleek stainless steel bottles of the oil yet, but you can buy one on Zero Acre’s website for $26.99. 

Cultured Oil, which has a soft yellow hue like other oils, is made by microorganisms. Add sugarcane to a vat filled with algae, and the microscopic beings convert the sugar into oil. The result, according to Zero Acre, is a liquid that’s healthier than its counterparts because it’s low in saturated and polyunsaturated fats, the sort that have given seed oils a bad (if possibly undeserved) rap for contributing to chronic inflammation and heart disease.

This probably isn’t the first time you’ve encountered a lab creation that’s advertised with a list of impressive stats about how it will save the planet. Climate-conscious eaters have been under a barrage of new choices stemming from the proliferation of products aimed at replacing cow milk, beef, and other carbon-intensive meats. Whether it’s oat milk, plant-based burgers, or lab-grown chicken, the food sector is awash with claims of sustainability, some of which don’t hold up under scrutiny. Maybe you’ve made up your mind to eat a Beyond Burger instead of a beef one, and now you’re wondering whether to sear the novel meat in novel oil.

Grist spoke with three independent experts about how to assess green claims about new food products like Zero Acre’s oil. Each stressed that the only way is to look at something called a life cycle assessment, nicknamed LCA — the analysis that a company uses to determine the land, energy, and water use associated with its product and to compare it to other products. 

“Without the LCA, I can’t make anything of it,” said Sarah Collier, an assistant professor and food sustainability researcher at the University of Washington. 

The mere fact that a life cycle assessment has been done, even by a third party (as in the case of Zero Acre), isn’t enough to inspire confidence, experts said. That’s because these analyses can be built in a way that makes a company’s product look better than its competitors’. There are a variety of ways to grow oil crops, and different growing systems use different amounts of land and emit different amounts of greenhouse gases. In the case of Cultured Oil, the kinds of soybean farms or palm plantations that you compare against the sugarcane operations that feed Zero Acre’s microbes could lead to different conclusions. 

“If you choose baselines that aren’t really equivalent, you can end up making your practice look really, really good, and you can also end up making a competitor’s practice or a legacy practice very bad,” said Mark Bomford, director of the Yale Sustainable Food Program. “If I wanted to make soy-based land look really bad, I would include the largest estimates around the worst kinds of deforestation.” 

Like many companies, Zero Acre has not made its assessment public, so it’s not possible to verify independently how the boundaries of the analysis were drawn. But a spokesperson for the company did say that its comparison with soybean oil relies on data from soybean production in South America, the same region where the sugarcane used to make Zero Acre oil is grown. Del Cardayre told Grist that Zero Acre plans to publicly release its results once the company is bigger and more stable but is keeping the assessment private for now because it contains proprietary information. 

“We try to be as transparent as we can,” del Cardayre said. “Our whole goal, the reason we were founded, was to make better oils and fats that were better for the planet, for the body, and for food. It’s what drives us. It’s our North Star. We have no interest in doing something that’s not doing that.”

Independent experts agreed that Zero Acre’s oil holds promise. Joseph Poore, a food sustainability researcher at the University of Oxford, said in an email that the company’s goal to minimize environmental damage and improve human health is “excellent and critical.” Vegetable oil production is a major source of greenhouse gas emissions, and rising demand for oil crops like palm has been linked to habitat destruction and biodiversity loss. But Poore and other academics also said that it’s too early to know how much better for the environment Cultured Oil will be. 

“A lot of academics are going to be skeptical because we’ve heard it before,” said Julie Guthman, a professor of social sciences who studies food systems at the University of California, Santa Cruz. 

Two years ago, Guthman co-authored a paper that investigated claims of “dematerialization” in the alternative proteins industry — referring to the idea, pushed by Silicon Valley startups, that edible protein can be made “from (nearly) nothing, drawing on abundant or mundane resources” that presumably have no environmental drawbacks. 

In the paper, Guthman and her colleague Charlotte Biltekoff found that the details of how these foods get produced “are largely black-boxed, making any claims to dematerialization appear as magic.” Food-tech companies aren’t necessarily trying to keep consumers in the dark, but they feel pressure, in their quests to woo investors and reshape the world, not to divulge trade secrets. The way they represent their products, Guthman and Biltekoff wrote, obfuscates more than it reveals and makes it “difficult, if not impossible, for the public — or anyone really — to meaningfully assess the promises and their potential consequences.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Cooking oil has a deforestation problem. A startup says it has a solution. on Oct 11, 2023.

The lavvu is set up in the traditional way: three, debarked birch rods holding up a cloth exterior. The lavvu, a traditional Sámi structure that resembles a teepee or a tent, is insulated with reindeer skins, and in the center, on a floor of twigs, a hearth. Typically a fire would be burning, but for now, a plant stands.

Traditionally, one doesn’t stand inside a lavvu save to enter and sit, so Mihkkal Hætta, the 22-year-old Sámi organizer from the village of Kautokeino, Norway, gestured to me to sit on the soft reindeer pelts.

“Welcome,” said Hætta. “I’ve been staying here for three weeks now.”

With the door closed, fresh air circled through the dwelling from an opening at the top of the lavvu. It was remarkably quiet inside, and soothing. 

Outside stood the Norwegian Parliament. Street musicians busked for tourists, scooters and cars flew by, and dog walkers filed past Hætta’s temporary home. A cluster of Sami youth and other environmental activists also gathered. Curious passersby stopped to ask what was going on. Most asked what a lavvu was doing on official government property.

“I came here on September the 11th because it’s been 700 days since the Supreme Court ruled in favor of [the Sámis from Fosen],” Hætta would explain. “It’s quite unbelievable that a state like Norway lets human rights violations continue for 700 days. And it’s still ongoing.” 

Hætta said most people from Oslo who come to the lavvu say they support him, but in the early days of his protest, there were several incidents: a rock band tried to break in one night and another time, someone stole some of his clothing.

Hætta’s presence in Oslo is becoming a familiar one — as are his comrades, and their attempts to bring attention to the Fosen case. On October 11, 2021, Norway’s Supreme Court ruled that the Fosen wind farm near the city of Trondheim, on the nation’s central-west coast, violated the rights of Sámi reindeer herders, the cultural rights of the Sámi people, and were constructed illegally. 

Now, on the eve of the two-year anniversary of the court’s ruling, Hætta’s one-month protest serves as a reminder that despite Norway’s international renown for human rights advocacy and standards, Indigenous peoples inside the country’s borders still have no recourse to justice. 

“I became really angry, losing more and more hope and losing more and more faith with the government,” said Hætta. “So I decided to put up a lavvu here outside the Norwegian Parliament to remind them that this is still ongoing.”

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While Hætta’s protest has gone on for a full month, he’s not alone, and it’s not his first. By night, allies and friends look out for him, taking turns on night watch shifts outside the lavvu to keep him safe. And with the exact anniversary of the court ruling only one day away, more and more supporters are arriving to support, with buses coming from Sámi villages and communities across Sápmi — the traditional territory of the Sámi stretching from Russia across northern Finland into Sweden and Norway. 

“I’m never alone here,” he said. “I couldn’t do this if I was alone. I have a lot of people around me.” 

Hætta first became involved with the Fosen case earlier this year. On February 23, exactly 500 days after the court’s ruling, the Norwegian Sámi Association’s Youth Committee, also known as NSR-N, began occupying the Ministry of Petroleum and Energy in protest of the Norwegian government’s inaction after the verdict. Hætta took part. 

During the protest, nearly 30 demonstrators, including Hætta, were arrested and another 90 removed from the Ministry’s property by police. Over the course of a week, Sámi youth organizers were joined by land and rights defenders from Young Friends of the Earth Norway, Greenpeace, Greta Thunberg, and nearly 2,000 additional supporters. Human rights campaigners eventually shut down 10 ministries and ended their protest outside Norway’s royal palace.

In the wake of the actions, the Minister of Petroleum and Energy delivered an official apology to reindeer herders in Fosen and acknowledged that the wind park constituted a human rights violation, while the Sámi Parliament of Norway demanded the windmills be demolished and the area restored to reindeer grazing land. Instead, however, Norwegian officials have attempted to negotiate with reindeer herders in order to keep the Fosen wind park operational.

Much of the energy produced at the $1.3 billion Fosen wind park will be part of Norway’s green transition — approximately 98 percent of the country’s electricity comes from renewable sources. However, in 2021, almost 17 percent of that electricity was exported to other European countries. There are nearly 53 wind farms operating, or under construction, in Norway right now, and it’s estimated that another 100 licenses have been granted by the government with many slated for construction in Sápmi. 

“By failing to enforce a judgment by its highest Court, the Norwegian government is denying the rights of Indigenous Sámi to their cultural heritage and livelihoods,” said Carla Garcia Zendejas, Director of the Center for International Environmental Law’s People, Land and Resources Program in Geneva, Switzerland. “Sámi leaders should not need to put themselves at risk to ensure that effective justice is carried out. Not only does this cast a shadow on the Norwegian government’s commitment to upholding human rights obligations, it questions the rule of law.”

In June of this year, Hætta marked 600 days of inaction by joining with NSR-N and Motvind Norge, an organization that opposes the construction of wind turbines on conservation grounds, to demonstrate outside the Norwegian Parliament again, while activists blockaded the entrance to the wind park at Fosen.

Recently, 24-year-old cultural worker Emily Cottingham from Tønsberg and 26-year-old Daniel Fuller were guarding the lavvu. Fuller, who is Irish-British, works at a nearby cafe and became involved when he began offering coffee to Hætta and other activists outside the Parliament. 

“I have always been interested in decolonization, having studied this,” said Fuller. “When I saw that Mihkkal moved into the lavvu, I realized that it was time to put my theory into practice.”

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Then there’s Israel Nebeker, an American musician from Oregon who has come to Norway to trace his Sámi roots. When Nebeker heard about the Fosen case, and the actions taking place, he extended his trip.

“It feels important to be at this demonstration, to show my support for the Sámi at Fosen, and to hold the government accountable to its own laws,” said Nebeker. “It’s time for the government of Norway to protect the rights of Sámi, instead of continuing a history of brutal injustice.”

In 1981, Sámi organizers began demonstrations in Oslo to protest a proposed hydroelectric dam in Sápmi. Known as the Alta Action, Indigenous leaders occupied a government building and began hunger strikes. While efforts were unsuccessful in stopping the dam from being built, the moment marked a major turning point in Indigenous resistance in the region.

“When my father lived in Oslo as a young man, he attended the Alta demonstrations,” said Nebeker. “The Sámi have been fighting for far, far too long.”

Demonstrations are expected to begin tomorrow as more human rights campaigners make their way to Oslo. Sámi people that have worn Gaktis, traditional clothing, are wearing them inside out — an old Sámi tradition that communicates protest. When Sámi people turn their Gaktis inside out, it signifies resistance.

“It’s completely despicable for a country like Norway to ignore its own courts and laws,” said Hætta. “It’s a human rights violation, and it’s been going on for 729 days.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Why Indigenous youth are gathering in Oslo to fight a green energy project on Oct 10, 2023.