The American environmental movement, and environmental politics in general, are in middle age.
So is a major environmental crisis that never seems to move toward resolution: Locating the nation's worst waste sites and polluting factories in or near poor and minority communities. Nearly 40 years after its debut as a national issue, will environmental justice finally get its due?
Environmental racism didn't begin in 1982 any more than racism itself began in 1982. But in the fall of that year, the state of North Carolina began the transfer of hundreds of truckloads of soil contaminated with carcinogenic PCB's to a new landfill in predominantly poor, Black Warren County.
Civil rights icons like Rev. Joseph Lowery, Warren County's own Floyd McKissick and Walter Fauntroy, Washington D.C.'s Congressional Delegate, helped lead mass protests in which 500 people were arrested for blocking the waste trucks. The PCB trucks eventually got through, but the protestors won a compromise ending further shipments to the site. And environmental justice drew national attention for the first time.
Delegate Fauntroy commissioned a General Accounting Office (GAO) report on racial and economic biases in siting hazardous waste facilities. Published in 1983, the GAO report determined that three-quarters of the hazardous waste dumps in eight Southeastern states are located in or near poor African-American or Latino communities.
In 1987, the United Church of Christ's Commission for Racial Justice (CRJ) issued a report, Toxic Wastes and Race in the United States, that affirmed such practices were both systemic and nationwide. In 1990, sociologist Robert Bullard published a book, Dumping in Dixie: Race, Class, and Environmental Quality, which told the stories of impacted communities throughout the South. And the Rev. Jesse Jackson pointed out what by now was obvious: While dangerous sites are commonplace in poor and minority communities, "there are no nuclear waste dumps in Beverly Hills."
Also in 1990, the CRJ sent a stinging letter to the heads of 10 of the nation's largest environmental groups, citing the overwhelmingly White makeup of the groups' boardrooms and executive suites. Environmental racism, the critics said, begins at home. And the Environmental Protection Agency under Republican appointee William Reilly, created what would become the Agency's environmental justice office.
The late Rep. John Lewis introduced the first environmental justice bill in Congress in 1992, with active support from Vice President Al Gore. It failed.
In 1994, President Clinton signed Executive Order 12898, mandating that all federal agencies and federally funded projects must consider the impacts of those projects on poor and minority communities.
Which is why it's stunning that 39 years after Warren County:
Louisiana's "Cancer Alley" --an 85-mile stretch of the Mississippi under the footprint of over 150 petrochemical plants—faces an onslaught of newer, bigger oil and gas facilities;
Uniontown, Alabama, is battling efforts to make it the final resting place for toxic coal ash from hundreds of miles away;
Aging inner-city drinking water systems in places like Flint, Michigan, and Newark, New Jersey, have imperiled residents;
Indigenous tribes consistently contend with pipeline construction and uranium mining.
And there are many more examples.
The Biden Administration has set the bar higher than any of its predecessors. His nominee for EPA Administrator, Michael Regan, would be the agency's second Black leader. He brings his experience as North Carolina's environmental chief. Since Warren County, environmental justice issues have been hard to ignore in the state: Just try driving down Interstate 95 on a summer day with the windows open and take in the aromas of massive industrial hog farming.
At the Department of the Interior—what a concept—Biden has nominated Deb Haaland as the first Indigenous leaders to serve as Interior Secretary. Both Regan and Haaland, if installed, inherit demoralized and reduced staffs and slashed budgets left behind by Trump appointees. But both have promised to extend environmental justice efforts to embrace climate change impacts on poor and minority communities.
Congresswoman Deb Haaland.
The Biden Administration is attaching some specifics to the rhetoric. One ambitious project would nationalize an ambitious California effort to inventory threats to disadvantaged communities—CalEnviroScreen, a screening tool that factors income, race, and pollution to identify the state's most at-risk cities and towns.
Environmental justice has never been a political top priority. In a year when COVID-19 and the economy have jumped the line and hogged the headlines, can Biden push beyond good intentions?
PITTSBURGH — On July 17, Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro signed into law a carbon capture and storage bill that creates a legal framework for climate-warming carbon emissions captured from burning fossil fuels to be injected underground and stored indefinitely to prevent them from escaping into the atmosphere.
The bill is controversial because carbon capture and storage technology is still new and scientific researchers have unanswered questions about whether it’s a viable climate solution and whether it will pose health and safety risks to communities.
A handful of environmental advocacy groups supported the bill, including the Clean Air Task Force, which said in a statement that carbon capture and storage technologies will “play a role in decarbonizing the industrial and power sectors of the commonwealth’s energy economy.”
However, around 45 environmental advocacy groups wrote letters urging the Pennsylvania state legislature and Gov. Shapiro not to pass the bill. Those groups have spoken out against the new law, saying in a statement that it guarantees “Pennsylvania will not be part of any climate solution.”
“Governor Shapiro should be ashamed of signing a bill that threatens the public and our environment with the dangers of carbon capture and storage, all for the benefit of special interests, namely the fracking industry,” Tracy Carluccio, deputy director of the Delaware Riverkeeper Network, said in a statement. “This is a terrible day for the Commonwealth and we’ll experience the harms far into our future.”
The groups also expressed concern about the unusual way the bill moved through the legislature. In the state House, the bill was never referred to the House Environmental Resources and Energy Committee, but instead went through the Consumer Protection, Technology and Utilities Committee and was advanced without discussion.
As a result, “there were no hearings or discussions,” said Karen Feridun, co-founder of the Better Path Coalition, a Pennsylvania-based environmental advocacy group. “In the end, an unproven, failed technology was deemed to be in the public interest.”
The new law will pave the way for two proposed, federally-funded hydrogen hubs in Pennsylvania that will rely on carbon capture and storage.
CAMERON PARISH, La. — Late into the night, John Allaire watches the facility next to his home shoot 300-foot flares from stacks.
He lives within eyesight of southwest Louisiana’s salty shores, where, for decades, he’s witnessed nearly 200 feet of land between it and his property line disappear into the sea. Two-thirds of the land was rebuilt to aid the oil and gas industry’s LNG expansion. LNG — shorthand for liquified natural gas – is natural gas that's cooled to liquid form for easier storage or transport; it equates to 1/600th the volume of natural gas in a gaseous state. It’s used to generate electricity, or fuel stove tops and home heaters, and in industrial processes like manufacturing fertilizer.
In the U.S., at least 30 new LNG terminal facilities have been constructed or proposed since 2016, according to the
Oil and Gas Watch project. Louisiana and Texas’ Gulf Coast, where five facilities are already operating, will host roughly two-thirds of the new LNG terminals – meaning at least 22 Gulf Coast LNG facilities are currently under construction, were recently approved to break ground or are under further regulatory review.
Although the U.S. didn’t ship LNG until 2016, when a freight tanker left, a few miles from where Cameron Parish’s LNG plants are today, last year the country became the global leader in LNG production and export volume, leapfrogging exporters like Qatar and Australia. The
EIA’s most recent annual outlook estimated that between the current year and 2050, U.S. LNG exports will increase by 152%.
Allaire, 68, watches how saltwater collects where rainwater once fed the area’s diminishing coastal wetlands. “We still come down here with the kids and set out the fishing rods. It's not as nice as it used to be,” he told
Environmental Health News (EHN).
That intimacy with nature drew Allaire to the area when he purchased 311 acres in 1998. An environmental engineer and 30-year oil and gas industry veteran, he helped lead environmental assessments and manage clean-ups, and although retired, he still works part-time as an environmental consultant with major petroleum companies. With a lifetime of oil and gas industry expertise, he’s watched the industry's footprint spread across Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico’s fragile shores and beyond. Now that the footprints are at the edge of his backyard, Allaire is among a cohort of organizers, residents and fisher-folk in the region mobilizing to stop LNG facility construction. For him, the industry’s expansion usurps the right-or-wrong ethics he carried across his consulting career. For anglers, oil and gas infrastructure has destroyed fishing grounds and prevented smaller vessels from accessing the seafood-rich waters of the Calcasieu River.
From the view of Allaire’s white pickup truck as he drives across his property to the ocean’s shore, he points to where a new LNG facility will replace marshlands. Commonwealth LNG intends to clear the land of trees and then backfill the remaining low-lying field.
“You see what’s happening with the environment,” Allaire said. “When the facts change, I got to change my mind about what we’re doing.”
Community bands together
John Allaire, left, purchased 311 acres in Cameron Parish in 1998, and has watched the oil and gas industry's footprint spread to his property.
Credit: John Allaire
During an Earth Day rally in April, community members gathered in the urban center of Lake Charles to demand local oil and gas industries help deliver a safer, healthier future for all. In between live acts by artists performing south Louisiana’s quintessential zydeco musical style, speakers like James Hiatt, a Calcasieu Parish native with ties to Cameron Parish and a Healthy Gulf organizer, and RISE St. James organizer Sharon Lavigne, who’s fighting against LNG development in rural Plaquemines Parish near the city of New Orleans, asked the nearly 100 in attendance to imagine a day in which the skyline isn’t dotted by oil and gas infrastructure.
Not long ago, it was hard to imagine an Earth Day rally in southwest Louisiana at all. For decades, the area has been decorated with fossil fuel infrastructure. Sunsets on some days are highlighted by the chemicals in the air; at night, thousands of facilities’ lights dot the dark sky.
“It takes a lot of balls for people to start speaking up,” Shreyas Vasudevan, a campaign researcher with the Louisiana Bucket Brigade, told EHN in the days after the rally. In a region with its history and economy intertwined with oil and gas production, “you can get a lot of social criticism – or ostracization, as well – even threats to your life.”
Many are involved in local, regional and national advocacy groups, including the Louisiana Bucket Brigade, Healthy Gulf, the Sierra Club, the Natural Resources Defense Council, the Turtle Island Restoration Network, the Center for Biological Diversity and the National Audubon Society.
“You see what’s happening with the environment,” Allaire said. “When the facts change, I got to change my mind about what we’re doing.” - John Allaire, environmental engineer and 30-year oil and gas industry veteran
But environmental organizers are fighting a multi-billion-dollar industry with federal and state winds at its back. And LNG’s federal support is coupled with existing state initiatives.
Under outgoing Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards — a term-limited Democrat — the state pledged a goal of reaching net-zero greenhouse emissions by 2050. Natural gas, which the LNG industry markets as a cleaner-burning alternative, is cited as one of the state’s solutions. Louisiana is the only state that produces a majority of its carbon emissions through fossil fuels refining industries, like LNG, rather than energy production or transportation. Governor Edwards’ office did not return EHN’s request for comment.
This accommodating attitude towards oil and gas industries has resulted in a workforce that’s trained to work in LNG refining facilities across much of the rural Gulf region, said Steven Miles, a lawyer at Baker Botts LLP and a fellow at the Baker Institute’s Center on Energy Studies. Simultaneously, anti-industrialization pushback is lacking. It’s good news for industries like LNG.
“The bad news,” Miles added. “[LNG facilities] are all being jammed in the same areas.”
One rallying cry for opponents is local health. The Environmental Integrity Project found that LNG export terminals emit chemicals like carbon monoxide –potentially deadly– and sulfur dioxide, of which the American Lung Association says long-term exposure can lead to heart disease, cancer, and damage to internal or female reproductive organs.
An analysis of emissions monitoring reports by the advocacy group the Louisiana Bucket Brigade found that Venture Global’s existing Calcasieu Pass facility had more than 2,000 permit violations.That includes exceeding the permit’s authorized air emissions limit to release nitrogen oxides, carbon monoxide, particulate matter and volatile organic compounds 286 out of its first 343 days of operation.
The Marvel Crane, the first liquid natural gas carrier to transport natural gas from the Southwest Louisiana LNG facility, transits a channel in Hackberry, Louisiana, May 28, 2019.
“This is just one facility,” at a time when three more facilities have been proposed in the region and state, Vasudevan said. Venture Global’s operational LNG facility — also known as Calcasieu Pass — “is much smaller than the other facility they’ve proposed.”
In an area that experienced 18 feet of storm surge during Hurricane Laura in 2020 — and just weeks later, struck by Hurricane Delta — Venture Global is planning to build a second export terminal Known as “CP2,” it’s the largest of the roughly two dozen proposed Gulf LNG export terminals, and a key focal point for the region’s local organizing effort.
Residents “don’t really want LNG as much as they want Cameron [Parish] from 1990 back,” Hiatt told EHN of locals’ nostalgia for a community before storms like Rita in 2005 brought up to 15 feet of storm surge, only for Laura to repeat the damage in 2020. Throughout that time, the parish’s population dipped from roughly 10,000 to 5,000. “But the wolf knocking at the door is LNG. Folks in Cameron think that's going to bring back community, bring back the schools, bring back this time before we had all these storms — when Cameron was pretty prosperous.”
“Clearly,” for the oil and gas industry, “the idea is to transform what was once the center of commercial fishing in Louisiana to gas exports,” Cindy Robertson, an environmental activist in southwest Louisiana, told EHN.
Helping fishers’ impacted by LNG is about “actual survival of this unique culture,” Cooke said.
In a measure of organizers’ success, she pointed to a recent permit hearing for Venture Global’s CP2 proposal. Regionally, it’s the only project that’s received an environmental permit, but not its export permit, which remains under federal review. At the meeting, some spoke on the company’s behalf. As an organizer, it was a moment of clarity, Cooke explained. Venture Global officials “had obviously done a lot of coaching and organizing and getting people together in Cameron to speak out on their behalf,” Cooke said. “So, in a way, that was bad. But in another way, it shows that we really had an impact.”
“It also shows that we have a lot to do,” Cooke added.
Environmental organizers like Alyssa Portaro describe a sense of fortitude among activists — she and her husband to the region’s nearby town of Vinton near the Texas-Louisiana border. Since the families’ relocation to their farm, Portaro has worked with Cameron Parish fisher-folk.
“I’ve not witnessed ‘community’ anywhere like there is in Louisiana,” Portaro told EHN. But a New Jersey native, she understands the toll environmental pollution has on low-income communities. “This environment, it’s so at risk — and it’s currently getting sacrificed to big industries.”
“People don’t know what we’d do without oil and gas. It comes at a big price,” she added.
Southwest Louisiana’s Cameron Parish is one of the state’s most rural localities. Marine economies were the area’s economic drivers until natural disasters and LNG facilities began pushing locals out, commercial fishers claim.
Credit: Xander Peters for Environmental Health News
Residents “don’t really want LNG as much as they want Cameron [Parish] from 1990 back,” James Hiatt , a Healthy Gulf organizer, told EHN. "But the wolf knocking at the door is LNG."
Credit: Xander Peters for Environmental Health News
For the most part, Cameron Parish’s life and economy has historically taken place at sea. As new LNG facilities are operational or in planning locally, locals claim the community they once knew is nearly unrecognizable.
Credit: Xander Peters for Environmental Health News
A disappearing parish
The stakes are seemingly higher for a region like southwest Louisiana, which is the epicenter of climate change impacts.
In nearly a century, the state has lost roughly 2,000 square miles of land to coastal erosion. In part driving the state’s erosion crisis is the compounding impacts of Mississippi River infrastructure and oil and gas industry activity, such as dredging canals for shipping purposes, according to a March study published in the journal Nature Sustainability. Louisiana’s Coastal Protection and Restoration Authority said Cameron Parish could lose more land than other coastal parishes over the next 50 years. A recent Climate Central report says the parish will be underwater within that time frame.
On top of erosion and sea level rise impacts, in August, 2023, marshland across southwest Louisiana’s Cameron Parish burned. The fires were among at least 600 across the Bayou State this year. Statewide, roughly 60,000 acres burned — a more than six-fold increase of the state’s average acres burned per year in the past decade alone.
But while the blaze avoided coastal Louisiana communities like Cameron Parish, the fires represented a warning coming from a growing chorus of locals across the region — one that’s echoes by the local commercial fishing population, who claimed to have experienced unusually low yields during the same time, according to a statement from a local environmental group. At the site of the Cameron Parish fires are locations for two proposed LNG expansion projects.
"The idea is to transform what was once the center of commercial fishing in Louisiana to gas exports.” - Cindy Robertson, an environmental activist in southwest Louisiana
It was an unusual occurrence for an area that’s more often itself underwater this time of year due to a storm surge from powerful storms. For LNG expansion’s local opposition, it was a red flag.
As the Louisiana Bucket Brigade has noted prior, the confluence of climate change’s raising of sea levels and the construction of LNG export terminals — some are proposed at the size of nearly 700 football fields — are wiping away the marshland folks like Allaire watched wither. Among their fears is that the future facilities won’t be able to withstand the power of another storm like Laura and its storm surge, which wiped away entire communities in 2020.
Amidst these regional climate impacts, LNG infrastructure has shown potential to exacerbate the accumulation of greenhouse gasses that cause global warming. For the most part, LNG is made up of methane — a greenhouse gas that’s more than 80 times more potent than carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Among the 22 current LNG facility proposals, the advocacy group Sierra Club described a combined climate pollution output that would roughly equal to that of about 440 coal plants.
The climate impacts prompt some of the LNG industry’s uncertainty going forward. It isn’t clear if Asian countries, key importers of U.S. LNG, will “embrace these energy transition issues,” said David Dismuke, an energy consultant and the former executive director of Louisiana State University’s Center for Energy Studies. Likewise, European nations remain skeptical of embracing LNG as a future staple fuel source.
“They really don't want to have to pull the trigger,” Dismukes added, referring to Europe’s hesitation to commit more resources to exporting LNG from the American market. “They don't want to go down that road.”
While there will be a tapering down of natural gas supply, Miles explained, “we’re going to need natural gas for a long time,” as larger battery storage for renewables is still unavailable.
“I'm not one of these futurists that can tell you where we're going to be, but I just don't see everything being extreme,” Dismukes said. “I don't see what we've already built getting stranded and going away, either.”
For now, LNG seems here to stay. From 2012 to 2022,U.S. natural gas demand — the sum of both domestic consumption and gross exports — rose by a whopping 43%, reported the U.S. Energy Information Administration, or EIA. Meanwhile, in oil and gas hotbeds like Louisiana and Texas, natural gas demand grew by 116%.
Throughout 25 years, Allaire has witnessed southwest Louisiana’s land slowly fade, in part driven by the same industrial spread regionally. Near where the front door of his travel trailer sits underneath the aluminum awning, he points to a chenier ridge located near the end of the property. It’s disappearing, he said.
“See the sand washing over, in here?” Allaire says, as he points towards the stretches of his property. “This pond used to go down for a half mile. This is all that's left of it on this side.”
The fashion industry is responsible for millions of tonnes of plastic waste, much of which ends up polluting the environment due to improper management.
A study by NC State University revealed that the fashion industry produced over 20 million tonnes of plastic waste in 2019.
Synthetic fabrics like polyester, nylon, and acrylic were the largest contributors, accounting for 89% of this waste.
Much of this plastic pollution occurs in lower-income countries where discarded clothes end up, exacerbating environmental issues.
Key quote:
"Much of the plastic waste that leaks into the environment comes from clothes that are thrown away, especially synthetic apparel. There is also waste from manufacturing, packaging and even from tyre abrasion during transport, as well as microplastics which get pulled into the water when we wash our clothes."
— Richard Venditti, professor of paper science and engineering at NC State
PITTSBURGH — Chemical recycling projects are unlikely to generate local economic benefits or help reduce global plastic pollution, according to a new report.
The report, published by the progressive think tank Ohio River Valley Institute, investigated the technological and economic challenges associated with chemical recycling, with a focus on the Ohio River Valley, which spans western Pennsylvania, Ohio and West Virginia.
“There’s a tendency to co-locate these facilities where there’s already a petrochemical cluster of some sort, which means communities already burdened by petrochemical industries, such as Ohio River Valley, become even more polluted,” Kathy Hipple, one of the report’s authors, told EHN.
Chemical recycling, sometimes referred to as advanced or molecular recycling, refers to processes that use heat, chemicals or both to break down plastic waste into component parts for reuse as plastic feedstocks or as fuel. These processes are different from conventional or mechanical plastic recycling, which breaks down plastic waste physically but not at a molecular level.
Only 5% to 6% of plastic waste gets recycled in the U.S., and the proponents of chemical recycling say the industry could help change that.
“We’re not going to create circularity for plastics with one single solution,” Chris Layton, director of sustainability for specialty plastics at Eastman Chemical Company, told EHN. “We’re going to have to eliminate some plastics we really don't need, figure out ways to reduce and reuse and maximize what we can do for mechanical and advanced recycling.”
But environmental and health advocates say the process is still inefficient, energy intensive and emits hazardous chemicals into the air and water. As much as 80% of plastic waste put into chemical recycling processes is lost as hazardous emissions, according to a report by the International Pollutants Elimination Network (IPEN) and Beyond Plastics.
The Ohio River Valley Institute’s report concluded that chemical recycling only converts 15%-20% of plastic waste into recycled plastic products (the rest become emissions, fuel or hazardous waste), that none of the chemical recycling plants currently operating in the U.S. are commercially successful, that chemical recycling is technically and financially risky and that the chemical recycling process is toxic and poses health and safety risks to workers and communities — particularly those that are already overburdened by pollution from the petrochemical industry.
“Going into writing this report, I thought maybe chemical recycling was a good solution to the global plastic pollution problem,” Hipple said. “Unfortunately, it turns out that chemical recycling is not the solution — it wouldn’t even make a dent in the amount of plastic pollution out there.”
There are 10 functional chemical recycling facilities in the U.S., according to the report, two of which are in the Ohio River Valley (Alterra and Purecycle, both of which are in Ohio). Most are still operating in pilot phases, according to the report, processing only small amounts of plastic, because chemical recycling is expensive and it’s still cheaper to buy virgin plastic and fossil fuels.
“Unfortunately, it turns out that chemical recycling is not the solution — it wouldn’t even make a dent in the amount of plastic pollution out there.” - Kathy Hipple, report author
As an example of the industry’s financial challenges, Hipple noted that Shell, which operates a large petrochemical plant in the Ohio River Valley, recently conceded that it would abandon its pledge to turn more than 1 million tons into oil per year by 2025 because the plan is “unfeasible.”
“If a company like Shell is backing away from its pledge to increase advanced recycling when they have some of the biggest capital expenditure budgets in the world, that really demonstrates that this technology is immature and there’s no business case for doing this at the moment,” Hipple said.
At the national level, 70% of constructed chemical recycling plants are located
in low-income areas and 60% in neighborhoods of color, according to Beyond Plastics, prompting concerns about environmental injustice.
The new report adds to these concerns, as it found that six of the nine chemical recycling facilities proposed in the region would be located in environmental justice communities with a higher percentage of low-income households than the state average. Three would be located in neighborhoods predominantly populated by people of color.
“These communities are already overburdened by pollution and the emissions from chemical recycling facilities are highly polluting and highly toxic,” Hipple said.
A database compiled in March revealed that more than 16,000 chemicals are used in plastics production, with thousands of them being toxic even in very small quantities. Many of these chemicals are released into air or water during the chemical recycling process.
“These industries often promise jobs and economic growth that never materialize for local communities,” Hipple said. “It isn’t fair that these communities wind up bearing the environmental and health costs.”
Project 2025, led by the Heritage Foundation, details how a second Trump term could weaken the EPA and reshape climate regulations.
The plan includes reducing industries required to report greenhouse gas emissions and reviving policies from Trump's first term.
Transparency and cost-benefit analysis are central themes, aiming to limit EPA's regulatory reach.
Key quote:
“The biggest difference is we have a plan from Day One, we’re going to start implementing it, and we won’t be as susceptible to process problems that really sunk a couple of those final regulatory proposals and actions we took at the tail end of the administration.”
— Mandy Gunasekara, former Trump EPA chief of staff
U.S. oil companies, recovering from the pandemic slump, are now seeing significant profits due to market forces and geopolitical events.
Many oil companies have shifted strategies, focusing on financial returns by cutting costs and improving efficiency.
Despite increasing renewable energy adoption, global demand for oil continues to grow, with the U.S. leading in production.
Key quote:
“We’re not going to get out of this business because supply was squeezed, because there’s plenty of it. We’re going to get out of the business because demand went down.”
— Samantha Gross, director at Brookings Institution
Why this matters:
This tug-of-war between old-school energy and the shiny new kids on the block highlights the tough balancing act of transitioning to a cleaner future. For now, Big Oil's got its foot firmly on the gas pedal, leaving us all to wonder how long this joyride can last. Read more: “Code Red” for climate means reducing US oil and gas production.
Activists delivered a petition with over 17,500 signatures to Governor Katie Hobbs, calling for the closure of the Pinyon Plain Mine.
Uranium mining poses significant health risks and threatens water sources critical to the Grand Canyon's ecosystem and local communities.
The governor’s office acknowledged receipt but has yet to take action on the petition.
Key quote:
“The safe thing to do, the prudent thing to do, is to avoid that risk altogether and close the mine.”
— Taylor McKinnon, director of the Center for Biological Diversity
Why this matters:
The Grand Canyon has long been a battleground for conservation efforts. Uranium mining, with its potential to contaminate water sources and disrupt ecosystems, adds a new layer of urgency to these efforts. The Havasupai Tribe, whose ancestral lands lie within the Grand Canyon, has been vocal about the threats posed to their health and way of life. Contaminated water sources could have devastating effects on both human populations and the diverse wildlife that call the canyon home.
As mounds of dredged material from the Houston Ship Channel dot their neighborhoods, residents are left without answers as to what dangers could be lurking.
