Toxic and Intoxicating Oil: Discovery, Resistance, and Justice in Aotearoa New Zealand 9781978814110

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Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Nature, Society, and Culture Scott Frickel, Series Editor A sophisticated and wide-­ranging so­cio­log­i­cal lit­er­a­ture analyzing nature-­society-­ culture interactions has blossomed in recent de­cades. This book series provides a platform for showcasing the best of that scholarship: carefully crafted empirical studies of socio-­environmental change and the effects such change has on ecosystems, social institutions, historical pro­cesses, and cultural practices. The series aims for topical and theoretical breadth. Anchored in so­cio­log­i­cal analyses of the environment, Nature, Society, and Culture is home to studies employing a range of disciplinary and interdisciplinary perspectives and investigating the pressing socio-­environmental questions of our time—­from environmental in­equality and risk, to the science and politics of climate change and serial disaster, to the environmental c­ auses and consequences of urbanization and war making, and beyond. Available titles in the Nature, Society, and Culture series: Diane C. Bates, Superstorm Sandy: The Inevitable Destruction and Reconstruction of the Jersey Shore Elizabeth Cherry, For the Birds: Protecting Wildlife through the Naturalist Gaze Cody Ferguson, This Is Our Land: Grassroots Environmentalism in the Late Twentieth ­Century Aya H. Kimura and Abby Kinchy, Science by the ­People: Participation, Power, and the Politics of Environmental Knowledge Anthony B. Ladd, ed., Fractured Communities: Risk, Impacts, and Protest against Hydraulic Fracking in U.S. Shale Regions Stefano B. Longo, Rebecca Clausen, and Brett Clark, The Tragedy of the Commodity: Oceans, Fisheries, and Aquaculture Stephanie A. Malin, The Price of Nuclear Power: Uranium Communities and Environmental Justice Kari Marie Norgaard, Salmon and Acorns Feed Our P ­ eople: Colonialism, Nature, and Social Action J. P. Sapinski, Holly Jean Buck, and Andreas Malm, eds., Has It Come to This? The Promises and Perils of Geoengineering on the Brink Chelsea Schelly, Dwelling in Re­sis­tance: Living with Alternative Technologies in Amer­i­ca Diane Sicotte, From Workshop to Waste Magnet: Environmental In­equality in the Philadelphia Region Sainath Suryanarayanan and Daniel Lee Kleinman, Vanis­hing Bees: Science, Politics, and Honeybee Health Patricia Widener, Toxic and Intoxicating Oil: Discovery, Re­sis­tance, and Justice in Aotearoa New Zealand

Toxic and Intoxicating Oil Discovery, Re­sis­tance, and Justice in Aotearoa New Zealand

PATRICIA WIDENER

Rutgers University Press New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Widener, Patricia, 1966–author. Title: Toxic and intoxicating oil : discovery, resistance, and justice in Aotearoa New Zealand / Patricia Widener. Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020027639 | ISBN 9781978805033 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978805040 (cloth) | ISBN 9781978805057 (epub) | ISBN 9781978814103 (mobi) | ISBN 9781978814110 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Petroleum industry and trade—New Zealand. | Petroleum industry and trade—Environmental aspects—New Zealand. | Petroleum—Prospecting— New Zealand. Classification: LCC HD9578.N45 W53 2021 | DDC 338.2/7280993—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020027639 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. All photos by the author Copyright © 2021 by Patricia Widener All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www​.­r utgersuniversitypress​.­org Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

 This book is dedicated to every­one who strug­gles against entities that seem more po­liti­cally and eco­nom­ically power­ful, and to ­those who l­abor for a healthier earth and ocean—­for each other, ­future generations, and all other living beings and their requisite habitats.

Contents 1

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand?

1

2

An Allied Ethnography

12

3

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives

26

4

Oil at the Bottom of the World

39

5

License to Criticize: From Disasters to Re­sis­tance

59

6

Marine Justice: Defending the Seas, Claiming the Coastline

80

7

Mobilizing the ­Middle: Ka Nui! “No Mining, No Drilling, No Fracking, Enough!”

116

8

Tainting a Clean, Green Image

143

9

Reviving Climate Activism

160

10

Disrupting Oil for Transformative Justice

186

Acknowl­edgments 209 Notes 211 References 229 Index 245

vii

Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

1

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? How can we be this beautiful, clean, green country when we are wanting to explore for oil? It ­doesn’t make any sense.

Aotearoa New Zealand is a nation of contradictions.1 For de­cades it promoted itself to itself and international audiences as a “clean, green” nation. This image developed in part as a result of its effective antinuclear campaign in the 1970s and 1980s and a “100% Pure” nature-­based tourism campaign in the 1990s and 2000s. Eventually, many New Zealanders who grew up u­ nder ­these initiatives embraced them as a national tenet and global distinction.2 Then, starting around 2005, the government led a transition ­toward large-­scale oil and gas exploration and extraction, upending the nation’s own clean, green master frame and identity. Projections indicated that if oil ­were found and extracted, the country could more than double its small oil production by 2030.3 Si­mul­ta­neously, proextraction enthusiasts ­were marketing the nation as a proverbial Texas or Saudi Arabia of the South Pacific,4 eliciting both anticipation and deep apprehension of the country’s oil and gas (O&G) potential. Both onshore and offshore blocks ­were being offered for bids, and both ­were receiving proposals from well-­known and little-­k nown multinational corporations. If all of the proposed offshore blocks produced oil (or natu­ral gas to a lesser extent), New Zealand could become an island nation nearly encircled by rigs, platforms, and transport and 1

2  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

supply ships. If all of the land opened to hydraulic fracturing ­were accessed, Aotearoa’s rural landscape and communities could become pockmarked with industrial equipment and sliced by industry roadways, much like the fields of Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, and Texas. A foreboding among antidrilling activists was evident: “New Zealand ­really is the ends of the earth, the final frontier. Come and grab the last scraps of oil.” Drawing on extensive ethnographic fieldwork conducted between 2013 and 2014, I studied t­ hese incongruities through the competing claims of the proponents and opponents of O&G extraction. The former mobilized for some version of national wealth and employment, while the latter mobilized for some version of climate, environmental, and socioecological justice. Yet unlike other communities affected by hydraulic fracturing, or offshore exploration, or an oil disaster, or climate inaction, or unresolved Indigenous demands, New Zealanders ­were facing all five interlocking issues almost si­mul­ta­neously. Consequently, my inquiry became an observation of “despites” during the Anthropocene. Despite known oil disasters at sea (both off the coast of Aotearoa in 2011 and in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010), New Zealand pursued offshore, deepwater exploration. Despite global concerns about hydraulic fracturing near farmlands and waterways, the government permitted industry access to rural lands and communities. Despite Māori cultural, traditional, land, and ­water rights, multinational corporations chased admittance. Despite climate change and the cultivation of a clean, green image, po­liti­cal leaders stood with corporations in positioning New Zealand as one of the next major export-­oriented O&G frontiers. The outward incompatibilities raised the question, Which way New Zealand?5

Kia Ora: Welcome to the Bottom of the World Before presenting the national transition and re­sis­tance to O&G exploration, a short introduction to Aotearoa, the “Land of the Long White Cloud,” is warranted. Located near Australia and Antarctica, New Zealand is an island nation of 4.4 million ­people and two spoken languages. It sits along the Pacific Rim of fire, so the land quakes, volcanoes erupt, steam rises from land vents, and under­ground pools of ­water boil to the surface. O&G expansions across this volatile natu­ral environment troubled industry opponents. New Zealanders also locate themselves at the “bottom of the world,” which translated into a banana shortage for a few days in 2014 ­because of a ship’s mechanical failure and challenging weather conditions in the Philippines.6 More dangerously, the distance meant that it could take days or weeks to receive disaster response equipment in the event of an oil spill, as demonstrated during the Rena cargo wreck in 2011. New Zealanders also possess “mildly ecocentric views”7 and perceive themselves as living in a “pure haven,” a “perfect ­little b­ ubble,” and in “harmony with

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? • 3

nature.”8 Before the advance of the O&G industry, Rod Oram, a business journalist and commentator, located Aotearoa in the world economy as “the acceptable face of globalisation. ­People trust us. . . . ​We have no hidden agendas. We a­ ren’t trying to nick their oil fields . . . ​­we’re just trying to sell them some more milk powder . . . ​or science!”9 In short, New Zealand exported raw, primary resources, trained a highly skilled, educated population, and behaved benevolently on the global stage. The mirage of their clean, green narrative was also well documented. As Oram warned, “Our lip-­service to date has given us air, land and ­water which are unconscionably polluted for a country so thinly populated. . . . ​Our clean, green image is a myth waiting to be exposed.”10 Joe Bennett, another observer of the country’s dichotomies, put Aotearoa in a global context as well when writing, “It sits in the South Pacific but u­ ntil recently it traded almost exclusively with G ­ reat Britain. It sent soldiers to Vietnam but it has banned American warships. It promotes itself as a virgin paradise, but it has destroyed 90 ­percent of its native bush.”11 In other words, the real­ity is messier than the constructed caricature of being a clean, green nation, whose landscape is the setting of “Middle-­earth” of The Lord of the Rings fame. New Zealanders perceived themselves and w ­ ere perceived by ­others as relatively environmentally conscious p­ eople, though their ­actual environmental stewardship was less than exemplary and their trajectory was shifting ­toward large-­scale O&G extraction. Offering a more updated assessment, an environmental activist told me, “Unfortunately, like Canada and the U.S. and G ­ reat Britain and everywhere e­ lse, we are still, at the government level, focused very much on getting e­ very drop out.”

Becoming Another Oil Story Since the mid-­to late 1800s, New Zealand has produced relatively small amounts of O&G in the province of Taranaki.12 However, new technologies, depleted or already claimed reserves elsewhere, and steady worldwide demand led the industry and supportive state leaders to promote Aotearoa as one of the next major frontiers. My research began a few years into the national agenda to expand exploration and extraction by extending block offers and allocating permits beyond Taranaki and in frontier rural landscapes and deep w ­ aters offshore. Without overstating the situation, the number of proj­ect proposals beyond the traditional province of extraction had the potential to change New Zealand profoundly—in terms of its self-­perception, po­liti­cal and economic operations, ecological stewardship, demo­cratic standards, and green­house gas ­contributions. To each potential impact, civil society responded. Concerned citizens, community advocates, environmental and climate activists, and social

4  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

movement organizers debated and resisted watching their country become the next O&G frontier. When interviews and observations w ­ ere conducted, many New Zealanders ­were discovering the multiple pro­cesses and products associated with oil, despite generations and lifestyles fueled by its production and consumption. They ­were discovering what frontline communities, including ­those in their own oil-­ producing province, had known for a long time: that long-­running conflicts and contamination follow in the industry’s footsteps. They found that the industry appeared to be po­liti­cally protected, eco­nom­ically profitable for some, culturally accepted in traditional O&G regions, and increasingly resisted by the newly affected and a growing number of climate activists. Such realizations often occur at the points of disasters, novel technological changes, or frontier expansions, but are rarely sustained. Having not been exposed to the industry (with the exception of local experiences in Taranaki), Aotearoa appeared late to question or resist oil exploration and extraction. It was, however, in rhythm with the global, youth-­led climate action campaigns. In many ways, New Zealand mirrored other wealthy, demo­cratic nations in how oil only became a personal prob­lem among the eco­nom­ically and socially secure m ­ iddle class of a country when prices spiked, disasters happened nearby, or communities or ecosystems ­were disrupted through technological changes or frontier expansions. In the absence of ­these events, a lifetime of consumption had failed to become bothersome, ­until the climate crisis and the emergence of young climate activists. As a generalizable case, Aotearoa informs collective action and po­liti­cal economy perspectives in centering colonial histories, national identity, disaster, extractive industries, and climate change as linked conflicts during national deliberations on w ­ hether to expand O&G extraction. Within two de­cades, Aotearoa transitioned from small-­scale O&G production to carbon neutrality goals, then to large-­scale exploration and extraction plans, and then to a hybrid policy plan of expanded extraction for export alongside domestic carbon neutrality goals. ­These switchbacks started with Prime Minster Helen Clark (1999–2008) of the center-­left L ­ abour Party, who had appointed a climate change minister within the Ministry for the Environment and had proposed becoming the world’s first carbon-­neutral nation. At the end of her tenure, the United Nations recognized her as a Champion of the Earth. Despite Clark’s environmental credentials, early export-­oriented expansion plans began u­ nder her leadership and expanded further when she was succeeded by Prime Minister John Key (2008–2016) of the center-­right National Party. Key launched the eight-­step Petroleum Action Plan to commit the country to oil extraction and increase its export capacity. Data for this analy­sis ­were collected in 2013 and 2014 around the peak of the expansion phase and when tensions ­were high. Then, in 2017, Jacinda Ardern of the ­Labour Party became

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? • 5

the country’s youn­gest prime minister, and she committed the nation to zero carbon emissions by 2050 and declared a thirty-­year moratorium on new offshore O&G permits, conceding the many permits granted ­under Key. Around the same time, increased global production through hydraulic fracturing eased industry pressures on frontier communities. The national shift to O&G illustrated what ­those who study oil had been stating for some time: the presence of oil is distinct and disruptive. The product has the capacity to be both toxic and intoxicating, usurping standard community protections and ecological reason. The degrees vary by the relative status and orga­nizational capacity of a population and by the relative influence and access p­ eople or corporations have with po­liti­cal leaders and regulatory agencies. Frequently, the product dominates economic decisions, while the pro­ cess of extraction razes communities and ecosystems. Both the product and the pro­cess upend what p­ eople think of themselves and their po­liti­cal system. A democracy may not be demo­cratic about oil. An ecologically sustainable economy may become unstable in its presence. A nation’s touted clean, green image may be exchanged for the industry’s promises. A country of high environmental standards may offer exemptions to multinational corporations. Safety and precaution may be subverted for risky ventures. Citizen opposition may succeed only in miniscule amounts, privileged locations, or temporary timeframes. An operation that is rejected in one place may be courted in another. A successful campaign of re­sis­tance ­today may not be successful in twenty years. Nevertheless, antidrilling activists and affected residents worldwide continue to mobilize in some capacity for some version of justice. To study O&G in a nation not known for its production became an investigation into dueling narratives.13 One side reflected the power, manipulation, and allure of oil, as displayed in the industry’s attempt to rewrite regulations, obscure public understandings, and cajole community acquiescence. The other side represented civil society mobilizing in affected communities, grassroots groups, and environmental and climate organ­izations that ­were contesting standard industry operations, state-­led advocacy for extraction, and the public’s ac­cep­tance or indifference. The reason I studied O&G in Aotearoa is explained fittingly by an antidrilling activist: New Zealand is “a microcosm of what the world is facing, which is our energy choice, which is the pressure and the power, which is the demo­cratic pro­cess, which is: What are you g­ oing to sacrifice to get that short-­term profit?”

A Social Analy­sis of Oil Advocacy and Re­sis­tance The heart of this ethnography is a critique of the dominant oil paradigm and an outline and elevation of a more socially and ecologically just critical oil paradigm. New Zealand’s re­sis­tance to becoming an O&G frontier occurred

6  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

during a time when oil spills dwelled in recent memory, socioecological worries w ­ ere high, campaigns for climate action w ­ ere global, and transitioning ­toward a low-­carbon society seemed pos­si­ble. The everyday and contentious life of oil was revealed through competing and comingling narratives among rival and aligned groups. As a case study, Aotearoa was exceptional in how multiple O&G operations and impacts coincided ­there almost si­mul­ta­neously or within a few years of each other. Each event, activity, conflict, or fear—­whether an oil spill, hydraulic fracturing, offshore exploration, or climate change—­was lived or embodied not in isolation of the ­others but in relation to them, creating the foundation for an emergent and comprehensive critical oil perspective. Analyzing the intersections of the state, industry, and civil society across ­these ­factors revealed a much more nuanced and evolving story of O&G promotion and re­sis­tance during the prolonged era of extraction and looming climate crisis. Each chapter contributes to the theoretical approaches of collective action, po­liti­cal economy, and systemic justice and injustice; and rather than isolating Māori experience from the New Zealand experience, I integrate Māori’s histories and responses into each chapter and at each point of conflict. In the form of vignettes, chapter 2 recounts the pleasures, quandaries, and trepidations associated with qualitative research. I met some of the most passionate and committed p­ eople, benefited from dual institutional ethics reviews, encountered the risk of surveillance and the impotence of privacy protection protocols, and practiced time banking as a l­abor exchange. Each endeavor reflected an effort to conduct an allied ethnography and engage in mutually beneficial conversations. Chapter 3 organizes the global history of petroleum into three eras and outlines how dominant and critical oil paradigms represent two worldviews that ­were colliding at the time of this study. To understand oil’s power and distinction necessitates stepping beyond the pump and traveling with this product across time and place from the first seismic test to extraction, from transportation to refining, and from petrochemical production to waste disposal. As such, petroleum is witnessed as a global product, economic force, and po­liti­cal influencer that is at times intimate (as in one’s food consumption), exotic (when extracted in remote locations), distal (when governed by multinational corporations), and corrupting (when intertwined with local or national politics). Each subsequent chapter demonstrates how many New Zealanders “discovered” the prob­lems of petroleum, and why their ensuing responses became a ­battle of claims and counterclaims. Chapter 4 describes how early exploration coincided with Māori-­British land disputes, and how the industry’s long-­ running capture of local regulation and cultural practices in the traditional O&G hub of Taranaki subverted in­de­pen­dent and thorough impact assessments and on-­site monitoring. This essential backstory is impor­tant to under-

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? • 7

standing how industry promotions left residents unable or unwilling to question or challenge standard yet risky industry operations. As new technologies enabled the spread of industry beyond Taranaki, frontier residents and activists began confronting O&G operations and state-­industry alliances for the first time. The chapter organizes the national polemic (which way Aotearoa?) around the Māori word taonga (trea­sure or resource). In ­doing so, it assesses the national debate of w ­ hether to open the natu­ral environment to extraction (thereby interpreting natu­ral resources as capital taonga) or to protect the land, marine environment, and heritage sites (as natu­ral or cultural taonga). The chapter concludes by itemizing how legislation was rewritten beginning in 2012 to accommodate multinational corporations and advance exploration and extraction within and beyond Taranaki, thus underscoring how regulatory capture facilitates industry expansions despite public re­sis­tance. Chapter 5 then considers how past oil disasters at sea influence public perceptions of offshore drilling. Specifically, how did coastal residents and anti-­oil activists experience and construct the 2011 Rena tanker spill in New Zealand and the 2010 BP Deepwater Horizon blowout in the Gulf of Mexico in relation to offshore exploration? I found that t­ hese two oil disasters served as shock motivators for coastal communities and now-­or-­never focusing events for ­environmental groups. Both disasters gave license to coastal residents and ­antidrilling activists to criticize government preparedness and safety standards and to underscore the risks of oil and offshore exploration in par­tic­u­lar. The O&G proposals w ­ ere originating when t­ hese disasters ­were still sharp in ­people’s memories, and by linking them, activists reasoned that if the state had failed to manage a small, nearshore spill as they believed it had with the Rena wreck, then it was incapable of responding to a multimonth deluge offshore. Moreover, the sweat equity and experiential knowledge of cleanup volunteers during Rena and the antidrilling camp’s refusal to decouple ­these disasters from offshore exploration strengthened the arguments of coastal communities throughout New Zealand in rejecting offshore O&G activities. Through the lens of marine or saltwater sociology, chapter 6 plunges into the campaigns that w ­ ere launched to protect seaside communities and aquatic environments. For an island p­ eople who looked ­toward the sea for identity and sustenance, the idea and potential risks of offshore exploration ­were unthinkable. In tacking offshore and extending terrestrial concepts out to sea, the chapter identifies how coastal residents w ­ ere embedded within the surrounding marine environment in a way that reflected their cultural affinity, intimacy, and sense of belonging with the ocean. Likewise, some coastal residents possessed a distinct submersible knowledge and allegiance with the marine environment far beyond what the state or industry had shown itself to possess. Among “not in my ocean” (NIMO) activists, the first paddle dropped was a Māori-­ Greenpeace flotilla that mobilized against Petrobras, a Brazilian oil com­pany.

8  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Antidrilling activists protest outside the New Zealand Petroleum Summit in Wellington.

It resonated culturally and historically, and offered the hallmarks of a p­ eople accustomed to life at or near the sea and moving closer t­ oward a shared identity as New Zealanders, an island and coastal p­ eople. The ocean served as an extension of themselves, regardless of ethnicity or time of arrival, and the conduit in which to confront the state and multinational corporations. However,

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? • 9

and given the vastness of the ocean, partitions ­were drawn between maritime zones of sacrifice and protection. One permitted extraction, while the other portioned off niches for marine parks or reserves. What ensued across multiple communities ­were urgent calls for marine justice, an aspirational and motivational frame and offshoot in the com­pany of global demands for climate, food, and environmental justice.14 In addition to offshore exploration, New Zealand was also promoting the use of hydraulic fracturing near rural and farming communities both within and beyond Taranaki Province. The first half of chapter 7 pre­sents rhetorical and literal conversations between first-­fracked communities in the United States and Taranaki and fracking-­vulnerable communities beyond Taranaki to highlight the significance of global and cross-­national dialogue on this specific technology and its associated public grievances and documented injuries. While rupturing local landscapes and communities, fracking also fused a global camaraderie of affected, English-­speaking p­ eople. The second half of the chapter analyzes how the previously comfortable and consuming working-­and middle-­class residents discovered their marginalization relative to the industry or product in terms of po­liti­cal voice and repre­sen­ta­tion despite their material and social well-­being. In their newfound awareness, they began to scrutinize the industry’s standard operating procedures in Taranaki and eventually ­adopted a critical attitude ­toward “normal” or “accepted” practices of extraction.15 Yet unlike the national effort to resist offshore exploration, the onshore antifracking campaigns w ­ ere located primarily in affected and vulnerable rural communities. The next chapter steps away from specific site fights and antidrilling campaigns and into the national tensions of promoting clean, green storylines while committing to fossil fuels. Even though many ­people expressed environmental stewardship as a meaningful maxim (and myth to market tourism and exports), many ­others w ­ ere noticeably hostile ­toward “greenies.” The chapter analyzes the contradictions of their ­imagined ideal and the real­ity of extractive industries as understood through the country’s economic standing, po­liti­cal shifting, employment opportunities, and generational desires. For the generation or two that grew up with the clean, green image, the motto was believed to be pos­si­ble and blocking O&G was one ave­nue t­ oward its attainment. Similarly, Māori practice kaitiakitanga, a generational and socioecological guardianship, stewardship, and responsibility to the natu­ral environment and to each other that recognizes the import of the environment and the standing of ancestors and descendants.16 Based on their descriptions of why they mobilized, I suggest the concept of Aotearoa justice, or a u­ nion of the clean, green identity and socioecological aspirations and the multigenerational Māori practices that attempt to sustain the well-­being of cultures, traditions, all living beings, and their social and ecological habitats. In practice, Aotearoa justice would obligate state and corporate interests to defer to the rights of all living beings and

10  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

affected communities for their protection and the safeguarding of social and natu­ral environments for current and f­ uture generations. Chapter 9 addresses the global climate crisis, and the young activists who had previously floundered among louder, older skeptics. Some had been debated into silence, ­others w ­ ere stymied by public disinterest, while still ­others strug­ gled to clarify national impacts for themselves and a lay audience. The industry’s arrival beyond Taranaki reenergized this cadre of keenly aware and globally connected teens and young adults, who now had corporate brand names or a tangible oil rig on which to hang their activism. The chapter captures the rise (leading up to the 2009 Copenhagen climate summit), the fall (due to the success of deniers and silencers), and the revival of young climate activists who ­were now able to identify and defend their own front lines against O&G corporations. Becoming an O&G frontier was equivalent to pouring starter fluid on a daunted and dwindling flame. For ­those ­under thirty-­five, a transition ­toward fossil fuels was perceived as a generational affront and indisputable threat to their f­ utures. Yet climate change remained a prickly national subject, so they rarely used the words climate change. Instead, their vociferous public opposition to O&G exploration was in private a climate action to save the planet and each other. In chapter 10, I draw on the transformative works of David Pellow’s critical environmental justice studies and David Hess’s energy democracy to analyze the significance of New Zealanders deliberating and resisting O&G expansions in an era of oil disasters and climate change.17 Comparing communities and antidrilling campaigns within a national context reveals additional degrees of structural and environmental privilege and sacrifice, while pointing to the tools for achieving greater degrees of justice for more living beings. It is only through a comparative analy­sis that the privilege of the marine environment and coastal communities over rural landscapes and communities in national campaigns is shown. Likewise, the frontiers garnered more protection than Taranaki, the traditional province of O&G extraction. A comparative study of industry expansions also points to how the securities of the m ­ iddle class w ­ ere becoming undone as more influential interests revealed the sacrificial position of the ­middle to the ­middle, ­whether in rural communities or coastal towns. Focusing on petroleum reveals the toxic and intoxicating web of a single substance that reaches across time, from its fossil origins to its intergenerational and atmospheric impacts; and across space, from its location deep under­ground or underwater to its ability to injure the ­human body and affect the climate; and across place, from the many affected rural and coastal communities to their national and international allies. The next nine chapters track a population confronted by the behemoth that is the O&G industry. The global distribution of structural and ecological privilege and vio­lence suggests that even successful campaigns may only achieve

Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? • 11

modifications in one place or region, and that the stoppage of a proj­ect somewhere fails to impede the expansion of extraction or consumption elsewhere. Despite tremendous effort by civil socie­ties or­ga­nized locally, nationally, or transnationally, the industry often achieves access and reveals how citizens even in wealthy nations find themselves peripheral to its power and po­liti­cal influence. The industry’s spread has the capacity to moderate cultures, tire re­sis­tance, and defeat ­people—­but not always, as seen in the cross-­cultural and cross-­ generational campaigns of re­sis­tance and transformation in New Zealand. To convey the public tenor, quotes from residents, community advocates, and environmental and climate activists are used extensively, and they begin and end each chapter. The scale of O&G proj­ects, proposed during a time of disaster and climate change, was unpre­ce­dented. In explaining why New Zealanders mobilized against becoming the next O&G frontier, an activist at a Wellington rally told the assembled protesters, They want to drill deeper than ever before in our oceans, and risk our precious marine and coastal environments and economies. They want to frack on land and risk poisoning our w ­ ater from fracking. The government has opened up more than a hundred thousand kilo­meters for oil drilling off our coast—­a ll this in an era when we know we have to move away from fossil fuels and green­house gases to remove the worst effects of climate change. So we are not just ­here ­today to stand up for our own coasts, but we are ­here ­today to join in spirit and in solidarity with thousands and millions of ­people around the world who are fighting on their own front lines of climate change.

2

An Allied Ethnography I do fear them [the state] g­ oing in and taking my computer.

To understand how the residents and environmental and climate activists of an emerging oil and gas (O&G) frontier argued through the contradictions of exploration and extraction in a “clean, green” nation, I conducted an allied ethnography. In point and praxis, this study was guided by several people-­ centered researchers, including Phil Brown, David Pellow, and Jackie Smith. Brown conducts fieldwork “tinged with a pro-­community ethos,” “deep empathy,” and a sense of “responsibility to balance the resource inequity by allying with affected p­ eople;” while Smith questions why any researcher would want to remain “neutral” given the “enormous inequalities of our day.”1 For Pellow, “critical advocacy research” encourages allied researchers to participate “in social change efforts while also stepping back and employing a reflexive analy­ sis.”2 Yet despite how I interpreted my work, my stance as an ally against the uneven distribution of oil’s benefits and burdens was never assumed, and was at times doubted by community advocates and antidrilling campaigners. The voices of passionate, engaged citizens permeate this immersive and allied ethnography.3 Through personal vignettes and to the many accounts of qualitative fieldwork, this chapter elaborates on the import and limits of ethics reviews, the risk of online surveillance and the ease of online introductions and investigations, and the methodological turn of engaging in time banks or l­ abor exchanges. Throughout, I argue for the recognition and practice of mutually beneficial conversations and solidarities, as recognized by ­others in identifying 12

An Allied Ethnography • 13

“co-­created knowledge” through the research pro­cess4 and experiencing “the unstructured interview as a conversation” with a purpose and opportunity for participant direction.5 Both parties meet for multiple personal or professional reasons and through dialogue advance their understandings of their own purposes and the purposes of ­others beyond and greater than their individual goals or the conversation itself. This study is a multisited one conducted between 2013 and 2014 in eleven regions on both the North and South Islands. The longest stay was for three to four weeks in Auckland (the largest city), Dunedin (a university town), Kaikoura (a whale-­watching tourism community), Mount Maunganui (near where the Rena cargo tanker ran aground), Taranaki (the region of traditional O&G extraction), and Wellington (the capital). I conducted sixty-­six in-­depth, semi­ structured interviews ranging from one to four hours. Participants included representatives of professional environmental and climate organ­izations; community-­based grassroots and coastal groups; Māori iwi (tribes) or hapū (a descendent grouping within an iwi); representatives of government agencies or po­liti­cal parties; and farming and tourism operators or associations.6 The majority ­were citizens (in the civic-­minded and inclusive sense of the word citizen, rather than representative of their place of birth or immigration status) or paid or volunteer activists from an environmental or climate organ­ization engaged in a par­tic­u­lar campaign. Each was connected to a local or national effort to resist O&G exploration and extraction. Individuals represented a range of ages, ethnicities, genders, regions, and histories or experiences with the O&G industry, or its pro­cesses or products. Nearly all resembled the very broad working-­secure and m ­ iddle class in education, social status, economic and ­house­hold securities, neighborhood, or profession. The ­people I interviewed and observed lived with passion and devoted much of their time and energies to their c­ auses. They cared deeply about their communities, the environment, and the issues confronting them. They juggled their lives to write public submissions, get informed, educate ­others, read newspapers, search online, attend public meetings, and speak with an out-­of-­town researcher. ­People with or without c­ hildren, who worked full or part time inside or outside the home, would meet me ­a fter work; before an eve­ning appointment; on weekdays and weekends; around the naps of infants; when c­ hildren ­were in school; before teens needed to be driven somewhere; around a busy social, professional, and activist lifestyle; and in the more relaxed hours of retirement. ­People agreed to meet me when they only knew me through an email introduction. Many of them ­were lifelong community engagers, citizen-­ activists, full-­time organizers, or professionals in their fields carving chunks of time from full schedules. Contacts w ­ ere established through online assessments of groups that had established a public position on the industry’s expansion plans, climate change,

14  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

or the Rena disaster. Other participants w ­ ere identified through t­ hose interviewed or at events attended. The majority w ­ ere contacted initially by email, permitting them the discretion to decide on their timeline and providing them a rec­ord of contact to forward to colleagues, friends, or f­ amily in order to seek advice. Some p­ eople ­were skilled speakers, having spoken to the media or at public gatherings. ­Others w ­ ere new to taking a public position and ­were still organ­izing their thoughts or practicing how to voice their concerns during the interview. Interviews ­were recorded (with one interviewee declining), and they ­were conducted in person, except for two that w ­ ere conducted by phone. I transcribed them to relocate myself in their offices, homes, or neighborhood cafés, and to rehear emotional shifts and silences. In one two-­hour interview, an early optimist ended pessimistic; and in another, a gravelly voiced cynic got clearer in argument and increasingly buoyant by the potential of or­ga­nized re­sis­tance. On occasion, I cleaned up quotes to reduce redundancy and increase clarity, without altering the integrity of the comment or sentiment. At times, interviews transitioned into a collaborative exchange of ideas, or a way of thinking out loud together. For some participants, the time before, during, or a­ fter the interview was a period in which they refined their understandings and arguments for themselves or another audience. Some ­were preparing for the next meeting, media interview, or press release, or just formulating their own insights of an industry and its potential impacts. Likewise, I was adjusting my questions and deepening my knowledge of a place, time, and p­ eople. Recognizing ­these open and fluid interactions, one participant emailed me ­after an interview, “It was g­ reat to meet with you last night, your questions r­ eally got me thinking and it was g­ reat to stop and ponder why and the wider context we are working in—so thank you!” In other words, a reciprocal exchange of ideas had occurred in a coffee shop in Auckland. As a participant observer, I attended forty-­four events that lasted from two hours to three days and varied from public, street-­side demonstrations to annual environmental conferences, to community meetings hosted by local government in town halls or by Māori leaders on marae (communal gathering places, cultural and spiritual sites, and meeting grounds). I also triangulated data by conducting analyses of media reports, public rec­ords or commentaries, and the websites or Facebook pages of the organ­izations studied. Media reports ­were collected primarily from the New Zealand Herald, Otago Daily Times, and Taranaki Daily News. In addition, my field notes recorded casual exchanges and observations, a “systematic reflection” of personal and professional experiences, “fringe-­thoughts,” by-­product ideas of everyday life, and “snatches of conversations.”7 Each tool is an accepted methodology proven over time to yield insights, answer questions, discover or confirm patterns, or test or build theory of a time, location, or community.8

An Allied Ethnography • 15

New Zealanders express their affinity with the ocean at a nationwide “Banners on the Beach” rally in Raglan.

Critical Place The campaigns of re­sis­tance to O&G w ­ ere infused with the meanings the land, coastline, sea, and heritage sites held for the ­people. New Zealanders embodied, cared for, and ­were cared for by their rural, coastal, and volatile landscapes.9 They also epitomized a coastal-­dwelling and ocean-­loving population, w ­ hether realized, ­imagined, or experienced only on holiday. Given the importance of the land and sea, “critical place inquiry” became another methodological tool ­adopted to center place as an integral and explicit part of the research pro­cess and analy­sis.10 In alignment with Indigenous and indigeneity studies, land-­and seascapes are po­liti­cal, cultural, social, and historical entities that live through socie­ties, human-­nature connections, and socioecological strug­gles. For New Zealanders, rural lands, farmlands, coastlines, and nearshore and offshore ­water bodies are part of their local and national identities and campaigns of re­sis­tance, and they are part of subsequent chapters. Geopo­liti­cally, New Zealanders referenced membership within the Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development, a thirty-­seven-­nation community that represents mostly advanced or core nations with some emerging or semiperipheral partners. With a small population and landmass, New Zealanders located themselves within and beyond their shores. With a history

16  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

of first arrivals from the South Pacific and second settlers from Britain, they lived together and apart on islands u­ nder the Southern Sky. Nationally, they ­were both a rural and coastal ­people. Locally, they expressed deep ties to their heritage sites, land, coastlines, and sea and wove their local ecological awareness and affinities into their campaigns of re­sis­tance. Across Aotearoa, New Zealanders, including but not ­limited to Māori and Pākehā (a Māori word used by all New Zealanders for ­people of white, Eu­ro­ pean descent), ­were trying to determine their domestic and global positions relative to O&G. Agreements and disagreements over economic and employment securities, local or national taonga (natu­ral trea­sures or resources), and community and ecological well-­being occurred within and between communities, iwi tribal groups, and regions. As a collective, New Zealanders had experienced the Rena oil spill directly or indirectly, could be affected directly or indirectly by the new wave of onshore or offshore drilling, and w ­ ere aware of, overwhelmed by, or in denial of climate change. Neither Māori nor Pākehā ­were monolithic in sentiment or expression. One Māori, for instance, told me, “We never do that,” and ­later I observed another Māori community do exactly that. And during some interviews, it was unclear who “we” represented. Was it all New Zealanders, all Māori, a par­tic­u­lar iwi, f­ amily, town, or social or economic class? Within and across iwi and hapū, ­there was a range of practices and beliefs,11 and social and economic positions.12 New Zealanders of Eu­ro­pean ancestry ­were similar in not being exactly the same. For their communities (however defined) and encompassing the neighboring ­water, land, sea, and coastline, many New Zealanders—­although not all—­were fighting O&G together and disputing each other at the same time.

Ethical Comparisons Before I arrived, my research proposal was reviewed by my university’s institutional review board (IRB) and the New Zealand Ethics Committee (NZEC), a national body for international researchers who lack access to on-­site or in-­ house review boards. NZEC’s feedback was invaluable in its site-­specific advice, identification of national or cultural considerations, and protection of participants. NZEC enriched the allied component of this study by (1) requesting a time delay for participants to reconsider participation ­after being interviewed; (2) requiring a “participant information sheet” in bullet-­point and question-­ and-­answer format that appeared less ambiguous than the IRB’s informed consent protocol; (3) stressing the small size of many of the communities visited; and (4) offering advice on conducting research with Māori and in Māori communities. I share NZEC’s comments as a way to improve nonlocal research in general and to convey my experiences conducting social movement research in a nation and culture not my own.

An Allied Ethnography • 17

For greater participant protection, NZEC advised a one-­week win­dow of opportunity for participants to reconsider and withdraw from participation ­after the interview had been completed. In contrast, the IRB required participants to be advised of their right to stop at any point during an interview, without offering an extended win­dow of retraction. As an unknown and nonlocal researcher, I extended the win­dow to rescind the interview to two weeks. Additional protections w ­ ere warranted given that the issue was controversial, and that some activists ­were new to activism or at the beginning or ­middle of their campaign efforts, which are invariably dynamic. NZEC also emphasized explanation, depth, and clarity of information, whereas the IRB stressed ­legal and risk/benefit considerations. I merged the two and participated in dual institutional reviews, even though ­actual institutional protections of participants dwell in a gray area. For example, a­ fter sociologist Rik Scarce was jailed in the United States on contempt of court charges for refusing to testify about his research participants, he wrote that the IRB pro­cess “allows researchers to roll over on ­those who trust us if police pressure is applied.”13 Two de­cades ­after Scarce’s experience, my IRB-­approved forms stated, “All attempts to ensure confidentiality w ­ ill be made.” A Greenpeace campaigner mocked the pretense of the documents that I had emailed, while still sitting down to talk with me. Moreover, online technologies represent additional flaws in participant protection guarantees and may increase a participant’s sense of vulnerability. If professional organizers or community advocates believe that their communication could be accessed legally or illegally, then a researcher’s communication tools could be accessed as well, unknowingly putting participants’ privacy and confidentiality at risk. The third difference was how NZEC stressed the small-­town nature of Aotearoa’s advocacy circles and the need to protect individual confidentiality despite the limits expressed previously. At the time, New Zealand was a nation of approximately 4.4 million ­people, with a much smaller circle of residents who had taken a stand against O&G. In contrast, I was coming from a region of more than 5 million ­people, in a state of 19 million ­people, in a country of 318 million ­people. I would only realize the restrictions and opportunities of small-­town research when I began to learn how much information the dispersed groups and engaged citizens shared with each other about me. Likewise, some participants strug­gled to understand my failure to know a par­tic­u­lar local campaign in the United States that they had found online, a revelation that may have undermined my legitimacy as someone knowledgeable or curious about antidrilling movements. Each of us understood intellectually the quantitative differences of our residences, but we puzzled over what t­ hose differences meant in allied research. NZEC’s fourth guidance was to raise early awareness of Māori and Pākehā distinctions and to emphasize my separation from them. I had planned to study

18  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

the “New Zealand” perspective, but ­after NZEC’s feedback, I deliberated on the observed differences and parallels between ­these two dominant groups. I would hear how Māori express belonging “within a framework of traditional markers of identity such as a significant mountain or hill, lake or river, and other outstanding natu­ral features . . . ​[which] includes re­spect for and association with the ancestors, with ancestral homelands and history.”14 Some Māori knew themselves to be the fifteenth generation of the land or coastline, and with ­children and grandchildren they could identify the sixteenth and seventeenth generations—­which connected them to each other, their migration stories, and the neighboring mountains or rivers. Yet to Māori, I am a second-­generation American on my maternal side, a landless renter who has lived in multiple cities, states, and countries. Such distinctions could promote open exchanges or reproduce bound­aries in our interactions and my interpretations. In interviews, several Māori began with their f­ amily or ancestral histories, in contrast to many British descendants who w ­ ere more likely to reveal their f­ amily backgrounds or migration stories t­ oward the end of our meetings. Often both of them shared intimate ­house­hold stories and asked personal questions of me for mutually informative and personal conversations within and beyond our reasons for meeting. In Decolonizing Methodologies, Linda Tuhiwai Smith introduces researchers to the historical and con­temporary abuses of researching Indigenous or First ­Peoples. According to Smith, “The word itself, ‘research,’ is prob­ably one of the dirtiest words in the indigenous world’s vocabulary. When mentioned in many indigenous contexts, it stirs up silence, it conjures up bad memories, it raises a smile that is knowing and distrustful. . . . ​It galls us that Western researchers and intellectuals can assume to know all that it is pos­si­ble to know of us, on the basis of their brief encounters with some of us.”15 Smith foretold a few of my experiences. In two cases, a Māori leader and a Māori activist agreed to meet with me, then repeatedly canceled and rescheduled, u­ ntil my time in their towns expired. Avoidance or rejection may be indicative of doubt or distrust of the researcher or of the relevance of academic investigation, or it may mean nothing at all. A few New Zealanders elected not to meet with me, but the vast majority chose to spend a g­ reat deal of time sharing their experiences. In another case, a Māori participant told me at the end of an interview that I could not use or appropriate their words or comments without permission. This statement was made ­after the recorder had been permitted and had sat between us throughout the interview. That interview was not transcribed or used. Looking at appropriation from another a­ ngle, the multinational O&G industry may have been perceived as a more untrustworthy or colonizing force than a visiting sociologist. And multinational corporations rattling the gates of an emergent frontier may have promoted new collaborations or a willing-

An Allied Ethnography • 19

ness to test new alliances, trust new solidarities, or meet with a nonlocal social scientist. On at least two occasions, Māori alluded to both personal and historical erasures by telling me that they ­were meeting with me so that their voices could be heard and their side was told right. Smith also emphasizes the importance and challenge of “getting the story right, telling the story well.”16 I have tried to tell the New Zealand experience right and based on the accounts of ­those who met with me.

Surveillance Surveillance was another risk that infiltrated this study.17 For some citizens and activists, the perceived risks of online surveillance ­were much more worrisome than my cultural shortcomings and tracked closer to their beliefs that complete privacy and confidentiality protections w ­ ere impossible during the digital age of communication and surveillance technologies.18 Without conclusive evidence of being surveilled, the potential of it instilled fear and raised suspicions that their online images and correspondences could be compromised, which led them to alter their individual and group actions and communications, including contact with me. Their apprehensions w ­ ere based on at least three national events: a 2007 police raid of homes that was justified by the Terrorism Suppression Act of 2002, the 1990s crusade by a state-­owned timber com­pany against citizen defenders of a native forest, and the 1985 bombing of Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior in Auckland’s harbor. Using the post-9/11 Terrorism Suppression Act, police raided numerous homes and arrested seventeen ­people in 2007 ­after having spent approximately eigh­teen months intercepting communications via text, phone, and email. Although the majority w ­ ere Māori, by their own account t­ hose arrested included antiwar activists, antimining activists, peace activists, ­union organizers, feminists, Palestinian solidarity campaigners, environmentalists, and animal rights campaigners.19 One of ­those arrested identified the arrests as “the unproblematic linking of activism with terrorism” and speculated that the raids ­were enacted to demonstrate commitment to the United States, to subvert ongoing calls for sovereignty by a Māori leader, and to silence overall dissent.20 Another activist suggested that the arrests w ­ ere a “signaling of a preparedness and willingness to use ­those tactics domestically.”21 This case had generated media attention, rallies in support of the arrested, at least one book, and the documentary Operation 8.22 Many of the anti-­O&G activists knew the case, and some knew some of ­those arrested. In an interview, one activist told me that ­those arrests “totally ruined p­ eople. They w ­ ere a r­ eally good way of demoralizing any activist in the country.” Yet when Emily Bailey, one of the arrestees, was released from home detention, she told a reporter, “It makes you strive harder for your dreams, for what you believe in. So while [the

20  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

surveillance and arrests] may have aimed to terrorise po­liti­cal activists, this ­whole saga has just made us stronger and more determined.”23 In the U.S. context, earth-­first and animal liberation activists ­were labeled as “terrorists” b­ ecause of their challenges against “longstanding forms of oppression,” per­sis­tent social and socioecological inequalities, and white and h ­ uman supremacy in practice, action, and ideology.24 In t­ hese cases, state repression and investigation of the public w ­ ere described as “an applied science” to avert dissent or challenges,25 and in many cases to protect corporate interests. Given the surveillance and arrests in Aotearoa, state surveillance and repression ­were believable risks for antidrilling activists at the time of my research. The second event was a pro-­timber public relations campaign to undermine the efforts of citizen-­activists to protect a native forest. As documented by investigative journalists, the public relations team infiltrated and monitored activist groups; wrote com­pany and individual letters to editors in support of logging; aggressively challenged anti-­logging comments; sent letters to school principals who supported student demonstrations against logging; threatened lawsuits against individuals, groups, or media that questioned logging; and created a pro-­logging community group.26 In addition, they cultivated a logging-­friendly environmental consultancy organ­ization, constructed environmental groups as extreme and misinformed, developed po­liti­cal allies, possessed insider access to government meetings, and blocked environmental group access to government-­industry meetings. All of ­these efforts w ­ ere orchestrated to undermine the public’s access to information and deliberations on ­whether to log a native forest. This case was particularly stunning in its excess given that it was a domestic dispute over one patch of forest, which raised the question, What would an alliance between the state and multinational corporations do to ensure access to much more profitable and power­ful resources such as oil and gas? A third event, not identified by the younger participants, occurred in 1985 when the French orchestrated the bombing of Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior in Auckland’s harbor, which killed one person.27 At the time, Greenpeace was campaigning to stop nuclear testing in the South Pacific, and the French government, which was conducting ­those tests, was trying to stop it. Several French agent cells w ­ ere in New Zealand planning the bombing, or terrorist attack, on an environmental organ­ization, and one agent infiltrated Greenpeace’s Auckland office. Only two French agents ­were arrested, although they w ­ ere not the ones who placed the bomb. They pleaded guilty to manslaughter, and one agent received a seven-­year sentence and the other received a ten-­year sentence. They served two years on a military base in French Polynesia before being released. ­These three incidents fostered a sense among many of the professional activists and community advocates that their groups could be infiltrated and that their online activities and correspondence could be monitored. ­These beliefs ­shaped their campaigns and their interactions with me.

An Allied Ethnography • 21

Impacts on Civil Society Activists believed that the state or O&G corporations may have been observing them as they ­were trying to observe the corporations and state. Some of the activists appeared to be monitoring me, as I was trying to surveil all three of them. No one knows for sure, but the presence of multinational corporations in frontier regions of exploration and re­sis­tance breeds justifiable paranoia. According to one antidrilling activist, “The fear, OK, real or not, the fear that it could happen is real. It tends to make you think twice about hitting the ‘send’ button. Definitely. Makes you stop and not necessarily express that feeling you have on Facebook or in an email or on the phone. It does. P ­ eople are on guard.” From the perspective of another, activists have “to question who is getting involved a bit, and to be aware that they have in the past put infiltrators in. So it’s wondering when that’s ­going to happen, if it h ­ asn’t already.” Several of the more well-­known activists ­were confident that their emails ­were being accessed by someone. In response, their strategy was to talk to ­people in person. Accordingly, one told me, “It’s all tapped. . . . ​[This group] has already had the police around, just to inquire, ‘­You’re not g­ oing to do anything?’ And they said, ‘No, of course not.’ And the t­ hing is with this law [the Terrorism Suppression Act], even if you say, ‘I’m planning,’ or ‘I’d like to do this . . . ,’ they could do you for conspiracy. That you conspire to commit a crime. So it’s not so easy [to or­ga­nize anymore].” In referencing the same incident, another person said, “We ­were very freaked out. It was very disturbing. . . . ​We changed the way we ­were talking especially in emails a­ fter that. Like no fun jokes about anything that we might do. . . . ​If they ever got access to it l­ ater, they could use every­thing. They could use something that was ages ago for a case that ­they’re building.” Another activist asked the government directly ­whether it was monitoring them. I was told, “If you are not [being monitored], ­they’ll say, ‘We ­don’t have any file on you.’ Other­wise t­ hey’ll say, ‘We can neither confirm nor deny.’ And I got a ‘neither confirm nor deny.’ So I just assume every­thing I communicate is being monitored and I ­wouldn’t plan an action through electronic means ­these days. . . . ​It’s just real­ity.” Additional concerns included the role of the English-­speaking Five Eyes global network.28 According to one activist, the New Zealand government w ­ ill “prob­ably allow the Americans to do it for them. Who knows? We ­don’t know. We could never find out. . . . ​But I’d be surprised if we w ­ eren’t [being monitored], to be honest with you. . . . ​We have no intentions of d­ oing anything illegal. And ­whether or not they know that, who knows.” In 2014 antidrilling activists received some confirmation of their fears when Edward Snowden said that the New Zealand Government Communications Security Bureau was collecting data on New Zealanders for the U.S. National Security Agency. It was suggested that such information may be accessible by the New Zealand government.29

22  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Beyond surveillance of activist organ­izations and organizers, the ease and speed of distributing or manipulating photos and videos online w ­ ere intimidating for some individuals. While professional and community groups often want and need public and media attention and a perpetual online image to broaden awareness, individual members may be wary of having their own f­ aces and names associated with a campaign—­especially on websites they do not control. From my time taking photo­graphs at public events, it appeared that some ­people w ­ ere comfortable with some public displays but w ­ ere uncomfortable with how images of ­those displays could be used by ­others at a ­later date and in a dif­fer­ent context. In one incident, a prodrilling supporter photographed an antidrilling rally and posted images of the activists’ cars and petroleum-­based raingear and kayaks to call into question the sincerity of their activism. In this way, private citizens who want to act in accordance with their convictions may be inhibited, fearing the loss of privacy and control over their own images—­ especially in small towns where such images could harm their families, current or f­ uture employment, or neighbor relations. Likewise, the public-­private conundrum occurred when I gave a public talk on a university campus. The audience was a mix of academics, community advocates, and ­those with a general interest in the recent O&G proposals, including the local media. During my talk, someone in the audience complained to me and a photojournalist about the photo­graphs being taken. The photographer identified themselves and asked the audience for permission. This person refused. They had been to a surveillance conference the month before and ­were concerned about how the photo­graphs would be used to gather data on attendees. In another instance, someone told me that they chose not to attend community meetings for fear of being associated with or taking a position on the issue being discussed. I was told, “I’m r­ eally careful my face ­doesn’t get into the newspaper, . . . ​or even have my photo­g raph taken sitting in a meeting and appearing on the tele­vi­sion that night.” Each of ­these efforts to question or thwart surveillance demonstrated the presence of a “security culture,” in which citizens and activists guard against the collection of data on their identities, activities, and communications by known and unknown observers.30 In conceptualizing “ecologies of repression,” Pellow argues that “state and corporate repression have ­ripple effects beyond immediate targets,” in a way that may “potentially discourage or encourage ­future re­sis­tance.”31 Certainly demo­ cratic socie­ties suffer when p­ eople fear or stop attending informational meetings in the belief that their presence ­will be monitored, documented, stored, or manipulated online in manners that are harmful to them in unexpected ways in the unforeseeable ­future. Online technologies facilitate personal contacts, event announcements, and information exchanges (written, visual, and auditory),32 while also impeding civic participation and activism. On the benign side, some city councils w ­ ere

An Allied Ethnography • 23

beginning to livestream meetings to make them more transparent and accessible, and o­ thers w ­ ere allowing online public submissions to proposals and then maintaining ­those submissions for public review. Online exchanges may also bloom around controversial issues, facilitating local or national debate. On the other hand, online activity may be archived in­def­initely or used to shame, bully, or confront ­those who disagree at the given time or distant ­future. Perceived surveillance may also provoke public security concerns and heighten mistrust, especially among individuals who are not protected by professional or orga­ nizational associations.

Impacts on Research For allied research, online technologies are equally paradoxical. They facilitate preliminary introductions and access to potential participants, while also decreasing confidentiality guarantees and a participant’s sense of privacy and security. For many of the professional organizers and some of the grassroots leaders I contacted, it was not uncommon or unexpected to be “found” or approached online for an interview, given their public positions on certain issues or their organ­ization’s reputation. Their understanding of their own online presence facilitated contact. Yet ­others w ­ ere shocked, puzzled, or alarmed by how they w ­ ere found by an unknown, nonlocal researcher. Even though they had taken a public position in recent months, they had failed to understand the ease of identifying them and acquiring their personal contact information. Some failed to imagine that a public comment against an oil proj­ect could become permanently available to anyone. Unintentionally, my email requests abetted them in recognizing the scope of their online footprints and how their antidrilling sentiments existed in­de­pen­dently of them. Discovery of their online information and existing surveillance concerns overlapped for some residents in relation to me. One who had agreed to meet me expressed sincere apologies when ­later declining b­ ecause of personal safety concerns. For someone ­else, my interview request provoked a series of worrisome questions: “A concern that came to mind when I read your attachments was ‘could the information I give you in any way make more difficult our efforts?’ ” They also asked ­whether my publications would “help industry and government to know how to undermine or stop our efforts to gain and share information.” And then they asked how I had found their name. To the final question, the answer was ­simple: online. They had been interviewed in the local media, had spoken at a public meeting, or had a publicly accessible online group or Facebook page that referenced the new O&G proposals, the Rena spill, or climate change. My search abilities are basic: I used Google. Their apprehensions demonstrated a defensive wariness of outsiders when confronting entities larger than themselves for the first time, and indicated

24  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

the additional strains imposed on them by an outside researcher—­when for the most part they ­were just regular p­ eople trying to be engaged citizens. The ease of online searches also spurred ­others to search for and share information about me, which may have erased some doubt or conveyed a degree of mutual openness. One person wrote to me, “I got an email from someone that had heard you are around and [they w ­ ere] cynical. [They said] it might be used by industry against us.” While their apprehensions reflected a security culture, in this instance online technologies enabled potential participants to investigate my employment, publications, and online teaching evaluations (prompting one to express empathy). Their investigations also meant that they could go into an interview already influenced by what they had found online about me. On a more collaborative note, the ease of online communications also extended the participant-­researcher relationship by enabling ongoing exchanges. Although researchers may physically fly in for interviews, they no longer dis­appear when they return to their home institutions. The person-­to-­person online connections are extended in­def­initely, potentially benefiting t­ hose participants and researchers who have online access by facilitating ongoing or renewed conversations ­toward a mutual and beneficial exchange of information.

Banking Time Every­one who met with me also offered me the gift of their time, as well as their stories, generosities, experiences, and beliefs, and some requested some of my time beyond the interview. In ­doing so, they introduced me to the “time bank.”33 The time bank is a community effort to put into the communal “bank” the time one individual expends in assisting o­ thers in the community, and in exchange that person can draw out the same amount of time from anyone ­else in the community when assistance is needed. The time of a person is valued equally and exchanged evenly within the community, rather than being based on a person’s par­tic­ul­ ar expertise, ­labor, or skill. ­There w ­ ere several established and promising time-­bank communities, and a few participants invited me to enter into similar time exchanges. The first request was made ­a fter an outdoor event, when someone asked me to email some of my photos. When I did, it was the time I took to upload, sort, and send them that was appreciated. ­A fter acknowledging that my research would not assist their community directly, another told me, “I hope your work goes to supporting o­ thers in some way. . . . ​Yeah, that’s why I give my time.” A ­ fter another interview, a community advocate asked me to speak to their group as a gesture of exchanging ideas and time. More explic­itly, a fourth person wrote in an email, “I understand that your presence ­here is on a give and take basis. You ­will take our stories and share the knowledge you have that could help us. To this end, would you like to prepare a workshop pre­sen­ta­tion about how communities

An Allied Ethnography • 25

have organised successfully and created bound­aries against the oil industry?” I agreed to the request, but a specific time and place ­were never determined. This type of request, however, would be made by four other p­ eople, and I said no to only one, who wanted me to speak about my specific findings in New Zealand, which ­were too underanalyzed to pre­sent at the time. Time banks offer allied ethnographers a unique reciprocal arrangement by promoting researcher contributions to a community in a manner and timeframe that ­matters to the community, while eliciting time from community members for an interview. However, in one instance, my practice of time-­ banking unsettled one community who then questioned my a­ ctual role as a “researcher.” A ­ fter settling into the spirit of time banks, I donated my l­ abor at a small community event and experienced a negative reaction: I spooked the close-­knit community of activists, who ­were deep in a culture of security. Before arriving to this town, I had called a local guest­house to make a reservation, and the receptionist genially asked why I was visiting. In an attempt to be au­then­ tic and transparent, I explained why. In turn, they told an activist, who told ­others, who thought that I was “working for the other side.” Worse still, I usually get to events early, and on this day I assisted in unloading an or­ga­niz­er’s car. This is the mandatory grunt work, or sweat equity, before and a­ fter public events or monthly meetings, and often too few help. L ­ ater I would learn that ­people who witnessed my actions w ­ ere suspicious of my generosity of ­labor and time. Every­one knew every­one, and no one knew me. ­These ­little acts had become questionable, and several ­people would remain suspicious of me for the duration of my visit in this small town that incidentally had a time-­bank initiative u­ nder way. In short, researchers walk into communities for “data” and provoke a range of reactions to their presence. While some participants w ­ ere public personas accustomed to the spotlight, the majority ­were not, but a sense of urgency and their desire to be heard overrode their hesitancy or preference for a private life. For ­others, their suspicions of state or corporate surveillance and their uncertainties regarding research protection guarantees or physical infiltration led them to rebuff contact, hindering conversations and attendance at public meetings. ­These snippets are shared to illustrate the perceived risks among activists and community residents, who w ­ ere undergoing some degree of stress or duress and nevertheless agreed to meet with me. In d­ oing so, they courted chance and contributed to the practice and product of allied ethnography. In the words of one, “If ­there’s some chance that [this interview] ­will support worldwide efforts, then it was all worth it for me.”

3

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives It’s this r­ eally archaic mentality that New Zealand is ­going to get rich by digging every­thing up and selling it overseas and privatizing all of our wealth by attracting foreign investment . . . ​by turning New Zealand into a third-­world country owned by foreign corporations. . . . ​ We are just ­going backwards.

To study oil is to travel with the industry and its products from the first seismic test to eventual green­house gas emissions and waste disposal. To study oil is to investigate the associated contradictions at each step along its entire pathway, including the paradoxes of wealth and poverty, bravado and uncertainty, benevolence and injury, and life and memorials. Oil is part of a global exchange that is both intimate in con­temporary consumptions and remote when extracted in or transported across distal communities, lands, and oceans. Oil is also pervasive, and ­those living ­today know no other life before or beyond the age of oil. Oil is distinct as well in its impacts and institutional protections. W ­ hether in North Amer­i­ca, the South Pacific, or the Arctic, oil risks may escalate, and be escalated by, structural and financial inequities as states and corporations break trail despite ongoing conflicts and contaminations.

26

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 27

While some suggest that the “easy” oil is gone, t­ here was nothing easy about extracting or transporting oil for ­those burdened rather than privileged by it—­ ever. The vio­lence and injustices enacted for the product on communities, economies, and ecosystems across low-­and high-­income nations—­even before being coupled with climate change—­are well documented.1 Some of the industry’s recent and problematic endeavors include the Deepwater Horizon exploratory rig disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, the Keystone XL pipeline proposed and contested across North Amer­i­ca, hydraulic fracturing near homes and farmlands in the United States and Australia, and tar sands extraction in Alberta. Even though each broadened the awareness of oil risks in the Anthropocene, only environmental and climate activists have sustained demands for a transition from fossil fuels b­ ecause of climate change, and only affected residents have sustained attention on localized dangers. To lay the foundation for the New Zealand experience, this chapter organizes the global history of the product and pro­cesses into three eras of exploration and extraction. ­A fter this, I introduce the dominant and critical oil paradigms. I contend that a critical oil paradigm has been developing and strengthening from at least five con­temporary experiences: (1) globally accessible rec­ords of acute and chronic environmental health impacts in oil and gas (O&G) regions; (2) multiple disasters documented by affected residents, activists, scientists, and the media; (3) a tenacious h ­ uman defense for the protection of natu­ral environments, other species, and habitats; (4) industry expansions into previously unaffected areas, including working-­secure and middle-­class neighborhoods or previously privileged landscapes or coastlines in wealthier nations; and (5) the science, media attention, and public recognition of anthropogenic climate change. The first three points had failed to transform petroleum’s dominant narrative ­until the third wave of exploration and extraction affected middle-­class areas in member nations of the Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD) (the fourth point) and u­ ntil a younger generation grew up concerned about the climate and their ­futures (the fifth point). Each point is substantiated in subsequent chapters. A critical lens challenges proindustry assumptions, corporate privileges, acquiescent cultures, and industry promotions, and questions why industry executives appear to have greater access to world leaders—­elected, appointed, or seized—­than most citizens. This shift has been supported by affected p­ eople, investigative journalists, documentarians, activists, and social scientists detailing the detrimental injustices experienced by some and the power and privilege of o­ thers. At the time of this study, New Zealanders w ­ ere discovering the industry’s local and global influences, and their own position relative to it; and in response, many mobilized for their communities, rural farmlands, and offshore ­waters, and against becoming another sacrificial O&G frontier.

28  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Three Flows of Oil One way to understand petroleum is by locating the global po­liti­cal economy of oil and oil advocacy in the third and most extreme era of exploration and extraction.2 Thinking of the “flow” of oil conveys the material substance, its global distribution, monetary exchanges, tangible spills, mobility of toxins, and transnational campaigns of re­sis­tance and promotion.3 ­These flows began with commercial production in North Amer­i­ca in the 1850s, and for a c­ entury, the United States was the world’s largest producer, and remains a major producer and consumer. Early in this period, the first “offshore” pier-­connected drilling well was constructed, and in the 1920s and 1930s, the M ­ iddle East began producing commercially.4 While some mark 1945 and World War II as the beginning of the U.S. petro-­dependent period,5 in terms of global rather than domestic eras, the 1940s and 1950s served as a transition from the first to the second wave of exploration and extraction, including a shift t­ oward offshore drilling in the 1950s and an intractable global de­pen­dency. Beginning in the 1960s, the second wave was distinguished as a global one, including up-­and-­coming oil-­producing nations, national or nationalized companies, resource nationalism, royalty renegotiations, crises of supply, offshore drilling, and disasters at sea. It was a time of exploring in new and more difficult terrains, including Alaska, the Amazon, and Africa. Pipelines w ­ ere laid, roads ­were built, and towns sprang up. Offshore, the industry expanded into more challenging conditions in North Amer­i­ca and Eu­rope, including Norway’s entry into the North Sea in the 1960s and 1970s and Britain’s offshore debut in the British North Sea in the 1970s and 1980s. Even t­ oday, technological innovations occur in North Amer­i­ca and Eu­rope and are then taken to the fields of former colonies or low-­income nations if ­those nations accept private partnerships or desire the flow of oil exports for some royalties and global leverage. During this period, novel and risky technologies offshore led to extreme disasters; and ­until 1963, all offshore fields ­were in the calmer ­waters of the Gulf of Mexico. When the first offshore lease was sold in Southern California in 1966, it was quickly followed by the Santa Barbara spill of 1969, which galvanized the environmental movement and environmental sociology in the United States.6 In Norwegian w ­ aters, a blowout occurred in 1977, and the Amoco Cadiz tanker ran aground off France in 1978. That spill was followed by the 1979 Ixtoc 1 exploratory well explosion and a ten-­month leak at a Pemex operation in the Gulf of Mexico. In 1983, the Nowruz field in the Persian Gulf poured oil for seven months b­ ecause workers could not access the area due to the Iran-­Iraq War, and in 1989 the Exxon Valdez tanker ran aground, pouring more oil along the coast of Alaska. Although the images and reports ­were not obtained as easily as they are in the digital age, the second wave of exploration and extraction

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 29

proved to be a period of g­ reat risk at sea, particularly from offshore transportation and the use of new technologies in new locales. The third era, from the late 1990s to the pre­sent, is arguably even more aggressive in this protracted age of oil exploration, conflict, and contamination.7 “Easy” fields are already acquired, depleted, or nearly depleted, so the industry is using even more unconventional, energy-­intensive, or extreme technologies to reach into newer frontiers, including deeper or ultra-­deepwater conditions, harsher climes such as the Arctic, and areas reached through the use of hydraulic fracturing and horizontal or directional drilling. Oil extracted during this period has been labeled the “last drops” and the “dregs.”8 Although only four of the twenty-­five largest companies w ­ ere founded during the third wave, two w ­ ere in Rus­sia and two w ­ ere in China. Of the twenty-­ five biggest production companies in 2012, fifteen w ­ ere state owned, six w ­ ere private, and three ­were partially or quasi–­state owned.9 In some ways, state-­ owned Chinese companies are emulating North American and Eu­ro­pean ones by exploring throughout Africa, Latin Amer­i­ca, and Asia, in what has been described as China’s neo­co­lo­nial attempt to acquire o­ thers’ land and resources for the homeland.10 During this period, the George W. Bush administration also went to war in Iraq presumably for oil, while North American and Eu­ro­ pean companies consolidated power into one “big oil interlock.”11 This interlocking network ties board members, advisers, trustees, financiers, utilities, media, and other corporations (such as Walmart and Monsanto) and nonprofits (including the Nature Conservancy) to the oil industry’s corporate interests. This web began with the “seven s­ isters” of the 1970s, which eventually consolidated into four well-­known corporations that control upstream and downstream flows, from extraction to retail.12 They are Royal Dutch Shell (Britain and the Netherlands), Exxon Mobil (United States), BP (Britain), and Chevron (United States). Each has or has had an interest in New Zealand. Certainly, the irregularities among brand-­name multinational corporations in certain locales, including Shell’s ongoing operations in Nigeria and Texaco’s (­later Chevron’s) historic operations in the Ec­ua­dor­ian Amazon, carry a disproportionate international notoriety. Although ­human suffering and ecological contamination launched transnational campaigns against both Shell and Texaco, the international tone was one of punishing the corporations, rather than immediately correcting the damages. Yet neither com­pany operated alone, and ­there w ­ ere many ­others in many other places with perhaps equally poor community and environmental standards that failed to generate global attention. State-­owned companies may be particularly well protected against domestic re­sis­tance or transnational alliances,13 and the locations where northern activists fail to tread may be especially vulnerable to extreme acts of structural and environmental vio­lence. This account is not meant to defend individual corporations or to show “both sides,” but to note that ­there is a disparity of

30  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

global awareness and re­sis­tance efforts. Some trou­bles generate national or global campaigns, and ­others do not; and the most disempowered communities with the least international scrutiny may live u­ nder the worst conditions. At the time of this study, New Zealand was a frontier at the “bottom of the world,” with multiple examples before it to guide decisions on its energy f­ utures, its royalty distributions, its regulatory standards, and the socioecological sacrifices that its residents ­were willing to make. In one of the more stinging judgments of frontier status in both high-­and low-­income nations, oil specialist Michael Watts identified the Niger delta and the Gulf of Mexico as compatible in exemplifying “frontier capitalism with speculative, spectacularized, and violent forms of enclosure, dispossession, and profit-­taking.”14 In ­these frontiers, “routinized plunder” of resources may as well be labeled “economies of vio­lence,” and “accumulation by dispossession is a defining feature.”15 For access, elites assem­ble (and frontiers should expect) “shock troops of the advancing oil production network” to lay policy, cultivate enthusiasm, and limit inquiry and re­sis­tance.16 Aotearoa had multiple examples from the second and third eras to forecast ­future experiences. ­These cases ranged from some of the worst known circumstances, such as ­those found in Nigeria in terms of inequitable revenue distributions, civil conflicts, and extreme pollution, to some of the better examples, including Norway and its oil-­funded social ser­vices for current and f­ uture generations. Some nation-­states split the difference. Ec­ua­dor achieved increased employment and improvement in some social indicators, coupled with environmental health risks. Likewise, the United States offers a mix of state-­level options from Alaska, which provides an annual dividend to residents, to the Gulf Coast states, and particularly Louisiana, which receives relatively ­little in terms of taxes and employment, while experiencing low social and health attainment and the burdens associated with routine pollution. So far the third era is not boding well for global climate change or for the communities and terrestrial and marine species and ecosystems neighboring new O&G activities.

New Zealand’s O&G History Since the first wave of exploration and extraction, New Zealand has closely followed its colonial networks in much more modest ways. Exploration began around 1865, with early Eu­ro­pean “discoveries” occurring around natu­ral seepages in and beyond the province of Taranaki.17 Even though Māori knew of the seeps, some references still identify the “discovery” as Eu­ro­pean in the colonial tradition—­without clearly defining its association with commerce and private owner­ship. Wells ­were drilled beyond Taranaki but ­were not as productive, so commercial activities ­were concentrated within Taranaki Province and its nearshore ­waters to the southwest of the North Island.

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 31

Despite government incentives to explore for and refine oil (or pollute the environment), the first era was marked by effort and disappointment, as well as cycles of finding dry wells, losing money, forming new partnerships, finding more money, and trying again with the assistance of government support.18 The first well was struck (or the land was raided) in 1866 in Taranaki, but it was so insignificant that it was called nothing more than “a gnat’s whisper on the world’s petrochemical stage.”19 The country’s first refinery opened in 1913, closed in 1914, and was dismantled and shipped to other British interests in 1920.20 At the time, Aotearoa was not seen as financially attractive enough to justify British government investment when Britain had greater oil interests in Iran.21 Then, in 1937, ­toward the end of the first era of activity, New Zealand enacted the Petroleum Act, which shifted subsurface mineral rights to the state and away from individual landowners, allowing “some of the world’s major oil companies to join the search.”22 In general, oil companies prefer to negotiate with a friendly central government, rather than multiple individual landowners. This period was also depicted as one of promotion and swagger in statements such as, “Oil has always been a game of high stakes played by tough, hard-­slogging men at the wellhead and equally tough hard-­headed men in the boardroom.”23 Yet interspersed through this period of optimism ­were the hiccups of contention. Property was damaged;24 anger r­ ose against the “invasion by ‘foreign’ interests” (an Australian com­pany); and railway workers held their noses against the smoke and smell of Taranaki oil.25 As the industry was spreading in the late 1940s, Māori argued that oil could not be extracted near a sacred stream, and a beach committee opposed drilling ­because of “pollution and disfigurement of the area.”26 Elsewhere, residents complained that the well equipment was so loud that “for seven years it growled and whined away u­ ntil pressure from neighbours . . . ​became unbearable” and eventually it was moved beyond the residential area.27 Disasters and explosions w ­ ere reported. The wooden derricks ­were particularly hazardous, and a 1929 spill “badly polluted” Ngamotu Beach and its marine life.28 Exploration also occurred alongside land confiscations, treaty agreements, and disagreements over the intrinsic value of taonga (the land’s trea­sures or resources as recognized by Māori). Throughout this period, residents witnessed government support, local complaints, and global influence that waxed and waned on oil. Then as now, land and sea ­were used as testing labs for commercial interests, externalizing the costs and uncertainties and maintaining an image of adventure and expedition.29 Then as now, narratives of re­sis­tance succumbed to dominant promotions and the industry’s ability to command public consent and po­liti­cal support. When Moturoa Oilfields employed fifty p­ eople during the Depression of the 1930s, it “was regarded as something of a savior.”30 The spikes and slides in activity during this period represented a pattern of technological change and fluctuations of global cap­i­tal­ist interest that continue to govern operations in the frontiers.

32  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

During the industry’s second advance in the late 1950s, New Zealand expanded into (or occupied) onshore and offshore gas fields and constructed the Marsden Refinery for domestic use. Although it was a time of gas, some of the new fields produced small amounts of oil.31 The offshore Maui A platform was of par­tic­u­lar significance for the growing, rural community. “Their crews, and the oil experts, ­were cosmopolitan, and brought new cultural, social and economic values to New Plymouth at a time when the rest of the country seemed to be entering a recession in all three spheres.”32 In the 1970s, global oil shortages ­were so severe for New Zealanders that the government banned “weekend sales of petrol and introduced ‘carless days.’ ”33 New fields ­were treated as signs of hope and revival. Yet even during this period, complaints over vista and scale resurfaced. Some residents objected to the holding tanks as “disfiguring New Plymouth’s western skyline,” and a gas field that “illuminated the suburb” attracted thousands of tourist-­like observers, upsetting locals.34 As in the past, offshore gas development during this period saw a surge in confidence and enthusiasm only to be followed by a drop in production and employment. In interviews with me, older residents recalled when the industry left the region at the end of the second wave—­and what it meant to them when employment opportunities ­were lost for themselves and their ­children and when friends or neighbors left. The collective memory of how an O&G town or commercial center, such as New Plymouth, rises and falls with O&G could be considered its own promotional trope. Memories of the “good times” appear to overplay the ascending benefits and to downplay the looming pain, thereby endorsing the booms and ignoring the busts of extractive economies. Third-­era endeavors began around 2000. But to understand the industry is to understand the potential for long delays between exploration and extraction. For example, the Mangehewa gas field (or zone of ecological vio­lence) was discovered in 1960, was redrilled in 1997, and went into production in 1998. The Kupe field was identified in 1986 but was held pending demand ­until 2009 (when the looting began), and Pohokura was known in 2000 but was not productive (or pillaged) ­until 2006.35 The offshore Tui field was permitted in 1996 and went into production in 2007, marking it as the country’s first far offshore development. The transition from discovery to production is often influenced by a corporation’s existing proj­ects, volume expectations, global prices, availability of equipment, or state regulations, requisite permits, or bidding pro­cesses. At the time of this research, third-­wave technologies and demands had expanded the industry’s onshore and offshore potential within and, more contentiously, beyond Taranaki. With a colonial and modern history of extracting or producing for export (including dairy, meat, wool, and timber), Aotearoa was poised to become a potentially major O&G frontier subjected to the risks and rewards of large-­scale extraction for export.

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 33

This study began when the area “beyond Taranaki” was likened to the “Texas of the South Pacific,”36 and when the East Coast of the North Island was described by a Canadian com­pany as a frontier “literally leaking oil and gas.”37 The even greater quantities offshore caused one observer to salivate: “In the high-­stakes game of oil exploration New Zealand is frontier country. With the fourth biggest [offshore] exclusive economic zone in the world and 15 basins that could produce hydrocarbons, the potential is enormous.”38 The state projected a doubling of the country’s oil production between 2010 and 203039 and expressed a desire to increase exports “from [NZ]$3 billion in 2008 to [NZ]​$30 billion by 2025.”40 Expansions beyond Taranaki began in 2005, when the state scheduled its first offshore block offer and onshore pi­lot wells ­were drilled.41 Multiple block offers and bids for exploration or extraction within and beyond Taranaki progressed from t­ here. By 2014, onshore interests extended into two regions beyond Taranaki, and offshore permits w ­ ere granted in four additional basins greater in total than the country’s landmass. Across time and place, oil was struck (or raided), and the industry expanded (or occupied) new areas. Cap­i­tal­ists explored (or looted). Rigs produced (or ransacked). The first actions listed are time-­honored and accepted by the dominant oil worldview. The second deeds, noted in parentheses, are jarring, violent, and rarely spoken. Throughout this section, the first verbs have mimicked the status quo and invited easy readership for ­those lulled by the dominant paradigm. The second, parenthesized verbs may have encouraged readers to mock or distrust me as an activist rather than a researcher. The first perspective was dominant and easily accepted; the other standpoint was critical and possibly rejected. Yet on the back of climate change worries, known disasters, and a new generation, a softer version of the latter was on the cusp of usurping old worldviews and carving out a new path critical of industry power and public dependencies on O&G. Th ­ ese competing sentiments and arguments w ­ ill be carried across subsequent chapters to convey how New Zealanders deliberated on the direction of their nation.

Dominant Oil Paradigm Across t­ hese timeframes and locales, a dominant oil paradigm was cultivated to support the exploitation of the environment and neighboring communities for the ongoing production and consumption of petroleum and petroleum-­ based products and for the i­magined or realized comfort or wealth that oil provides. For one scholar, the industry tied its product to numerous everyday consumptions “to create a sense of the unavoidability of oil.”42 Over time, global “petrocultures,” or the social and cultural experiences and inclusions of oil in everyday life, have sheltered the industry from critical public and po­liti­cal

34  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

inspection.43 Petrocultures exist when and where petroleum pervades multiple aspects of one’s life—­overtly and covertly to produce a mind-­set of ac­cep­tance, tolerance, or indifference, as well as a product that is so pervasive as to be imperceptible. Proactive cultural infiltrations and corporate sponsorships include benevolent images sponsored throughout communities and public arenas, or what I consider to be visual and sensory opportunity spaces. Corporate sponsorships occur in aquar­iums near oil extraction facilities, ­after disasters, through tourism, in oil towns, in schools and health clinics, and in museums.44 Sponsorships may follow a trail of ecological and social prob­lems, life-­taking disasters, and citizen calls for conservation or sustainable alternatives. Yet throughout, ­there is a common theme of the industry or corporations working to build or rebuild, situate, rehabilitate, or reframe oil in a positive light for ongoing or ­future access or consumption and the cessation of objections. Sherry Cable argues that, when applied to the natu­ral environment, the dominant worldview reveals an “assumption that maximizing wealth is impor­ tant,” a “belief that risks are acceptable,” and an “assumption that t­ here are no physical limits to growth.”45 Once oil at tolerable prices flowed back into the pumps ­after the 1970s, the risks of de­pen­dency and extraction ­were suppressed—­ until third-­era expansions in frontier regions and communities. When prices ­rose a­ fter that period, the dominant call in the United States was not to conserve or transition into other energy sources but rather to increase production domestically or secure access to another’s supply. For the industry, “transition” may be code for extraction to depletion despite the extremities, and then control over the next energy supply or transportation technology. In 2018, Exxon Mobil began r­ unning full-­page advertisements in the New York Times on f­ uture fuels, including algae and the cellulosic biomass of plant ­matter, while Shell advertised a ­future of no-­carbon transport technologies. The dominant worldview was advocated by national and multinational corporations; supported by politicians and policy; protected by soldiers and mercenaries; maintained by workers, their families, and ­those seeking employment; enabled by scientists and engineers; a­ dopted and cossetted by consumers; and uncontested by the unaffected. Like the treadmills of production and destruction,46 this dominant narrative sustained the toxic toil and intoxicating accumulation of wealth or power for some. Si­mul­ta­neously, the everyday vio­lence or injustice of oil was rendered anecdotal or invisible, rather than global and systemic.47 Oil’s influences and securities have been examined through vari­ous conceptualizations, including the “oil industrial complex” or “oil industrial core,” the “petro-­dependent mode” or “petro-­dependent state,” and the “oil complex” or “oil assemblage.”48 Each one attempts to locate the industry conceptually and materially within the state and everyday life. When oil scholars discovered the prob­lem of petroleum in low-­income nations, they called it a “paradox of plenty,”

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 35

a “resource curse,” and “violent environments.”49 Oil-­led development strategies spurred crises of social, economic, and po­liti­cal turmoil due to national debts, military expenditures, internal security, and wanton waste of royalties, while fostering neglect of domestic linkages, agricultural production for local consumption, and smaller industries and businesses.50 Democracy was impaired,51 and state institutions ­were kept weak to prevent challenges to an oil-­managed economy.52 From a more recent but equally substantial amount of analy­sis of wealthier nations, o­ thers have identified a “demo­cratic veneer,”53 regulatory capture,54 demo­cratic backsliding, and fabricated competitions between employment, the economy, community well-­b eing, and the environment. “Petro-­dependency and democracy are incompatible,” argues Cable. “The inequities are too ­great; the resources are too l­imited; and the world’s diverse voices are too muted.”55 Nevertheless, or subsequently, the industry expanded and continued to dominate to the detriment of civic life and ecological well-­being.

Critical Oil Paradigm Even though the dominant paradigm brought havoc (or benefit) to isolated or marginalized p­ eople and places, it shielded the regime from widespread inspection—­until recently. Some of the broad working-­secure and ­middle classes of OECD nations, including academics, activists, citizens, journalists, and some politicians, have become increasingly critical of standard O&G operations, as subsequent chapters ­will attest. If the industry had only contained its associated controversies in historically powerless, low-­income, or desertlike domains where its money and influence had already ensured compliance or silence, few citizens, consumers, or researchers of wealthier nations would have noticed or cared. But with third-­wave dispersions near them and in a time of known risks and climate change, the previously incurious ­were compelled to examine industry motives and practices. Each subsequent chapter illustrates how the scale of exploration and extraction subverted Aotearoa’s detachment from domestic and global operations and pushed it ­toward a more alarmed and informed understanding. The severity of O&G-­related illnesses in par­tic­u ­lar necessitates attention in­de­pen­dent of the specific conflicts within New Zealand. Even though this is not a public health study, the risks of premature morbidity or mortality, which reside throughout the lifecycle of oil and its derivatives, are foundational to driving public critique. Oil contaminates the soil, ­water, food, and air where it or its associated chemicals or products are extracted, refined, transported, emitted, leaked, abandoned, or dumped. Simply put, oil is toxic; and cancers, rashes, respiratory prob­lems, and other injuries and stressors have been identified across multiple exposure pathways near production or dumping sites and at the point of refining or petrochemical production.56 Yet despite the documented

36  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

On St. Clair Beach near Dunedin, climate activists mobilize against the threat of expanding oil extraction in frontier w ­ aters.

harms, the public health warnings and precautions near fence-­line communities are less than forthright, and the known risks at petrol or gasoline stations, where warning labels advise consumers not to swallow, touch, or breathe oil’s vapors, have failed to raise consumer unease before or beyond the pump. Beyond major disasters, low-­volume, chronic exposure has been described as “second­hand petroleum smoke,” a poisoning that has reduced the quality and longevity of ­human life with ­little po­liti­cal discussion.57 Si­mul­ta­neously, neighboring communities have become so eco­nom­ically and culturally aligned with the interests of adjacent oil fields that few complain despite personal knowledge of rare diseases and chronic illnesses. In one case in the United States, teachers, principals, parents, students, and government officials observed without public complaint as alumni and teachers became ill, and students suffered while in the classroom or on the sports fields. Collectively, and over de­cades, they ­were so intertwined with the industry’s toxic residuals that they ignored the pollution in f­ avor of the status quo.58 Despite numerous and convincing accounts, direct correlation is challenged within the dominant paradigm. The source and impact of single chemicals are challenged; synergistic effects are ignored or untested; and the accounts of residents, popu­lar epidemiologists, or citizen scientists are discounted.59 In tandem, industry-­friendly scientists may underestimate impact, restrict par­ameters

Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives • 37

of study, or demand study replications when seeking dif­fer­ent outcomes. It is the strategy of vested interests to raise doubt, question o­ thers’ science, fail to investigate citizen complaints, and demand 100 ­percent certainty. With O&G in par­tic­u­lar, ­there are investments in the technology, engineering, and science to find, extract, and refine the product, without complementary investments in conducting rigorous health impact assessments. While t­ here is no shortage of misery, ­every pos­si­ble industry-­linked causation is disputed or determined inconclusive. In other words, l­ egal experts may request the liberal insertion of protective qualifiers—­such as may, perhaps, possibly, and allegedly—in this section to limit certainty on the health risks associated with exposure to petroleum and petrochemicals. Over time, it has become nearly impossible to say that a par­tic­u­lar pro­cess, exposure incident, chemical, corporation, or location has caused a specific cancer or illness in an individual or community cluster. In light of such public betrayals, a “new regulatory paradigm” has been advocated in which “opinions submitted to regulatory agencies by corporate scientists and, especially, the product defense industry must be taken as advocacy primarily, not as science.”60 It calls for regulatory agencies to impose academic and ethical standards on industry-­produced reports, and to make the raw data collected by industry and the private sector open to public access and review.61 To this astute argument, I would add that the voices, experiences, documentations, and explanations of residents should be mandated as statements of residential and experiential knowledge, thus becoming official community-­based appraisals of life near O&G operations to reinforce citizen-­led challenges to the dominant—­though waning—­narrative. Although New Zealand is not a nation of civil conflict, extreme poverty, or chronic ecological disasters, it is an OECD nation, an O&G frontier, and a novel case to observe what Watts identifies as “the enduring hallmarks of con­ temporary hydrocarbon capitalism.”62 In the words of one activist, the hallmarks of the global oil industrial complex w ­ ill make Aotearoa “just another place in the world that ­those companies come to and exploit. . . . ​A country our size, t­ hey’ll make a meal of us. ­They’ll make a meal of our politicians, our regulatory authorities. . . . ​A nd all that wealth, all that oil, dis­appears across the horizon, never to be seen again.” Expansion within traditional extractive regions or economies is a series of secured steps and known protocols between industry, government, and civil society. Expansion into frontiers, as was the case of New Zealand, occurs during a period in which industry and its allies seek to s­ ettle or colonize a place and ­people through repression, regulatory or cultural capture, or rewards. New Zealand was in this strug­gle when my research began. And many frontier residents ­were questioning the industry’s promises by using the industry’s well-­ documented history of conflict and contamination against it. As the industry

38  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

was trying to embed itself into New Zealand’s f­ uture, residents and activists mobilized to force a national discussion on the merits and shortcomings of entering into a national arrangement to explore for and extract O&G. Research was conducted when O&G in the abstract was becoming physical properties in neighborhoods, along coastlines, at sea, and near rural farmlands. At home, online, in town halls, and on marae (Māori meeting grounds), ­people ­were connecting the dots. From the critical and widespread standpoint of one resident, the uncertainties ­were too g­ reat: “You can regulate and monitor all sorts of t­ hings to try and make them safe, but at the end of the day is it ­really what you want? What happens to your dairy industry ­because they are drilling in the ­middle of your agricultural land? What happens to your tourism b­ ecause ­you’ve got derricks everywhere, trucks everywhere, waste everywhere? What happens to the health of the community ­because of the fracking fluid, and the dumping of stuff in the ­water? . . . ​You can get all the regulation and monitoring in places as best as you can, and still not have answered all of t­ hose questions.”

4

Oil at the Bottom of the World [Corporations] regard New Zealand as something of a banana republic. And that short-­term opportunistic advantage in regulations is more impor­tant than longer-­term stability for the industry.

Before the third era of oil and gas exploration and extraction, Aotearoa New Zealand had been a blip on the global radar, and oil and gas (O&G) had been only a blip in the public’s mind. Despite Taranaki’s century-­long production and multiple generations of consumption, the extraction of oil had generated ­little national attention u­ ntil the industry received the green light to expand into frontier communities, farmlands, and offshore w ­ aters. Between 2005 and 2015, the state began opening new lands and seafloors for exploration at a pace and scale that stunned communities both within and far beyond Taranaki. “In the last few years,” according to one antidrilling activist, “they have just been carving up the country and selling it off to the highest bidder.” In determining the course of the country, at least two variables played to the hand of the industry (cultural and regulatory captures); one to the state (legislation); and one to residents and activists who opposed this transition (sustained, or­ga­nized re­sis­tance). Another was more vexing and had the potential to serve all sides: defining taonga (natu­ral and cultural trea­sures or resources). While extractive industries are known to manipulate the po­liti­cal body through 39

40  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

“regulatory capture,” this study finds that the public is also manipulated through cultural capture, a practice in which the industry appropriates and dominates visual opportunity spaces and sensory opportunity spaces to promote its interests, advertise goodwill, and normalize the industry’s presence as an essential part of the region’s fabric and identity. Over time, cultural capture through the taking of t­ hese spaces instills generational allegiances and leniencies. While regulatory capture permits toxic alliances between industry, state, and local councils, cultural capture encourages the public to look away from any prob­lems or unsettling co­a li­tions, such as the troubling associations between Taranaki’s oil and dairy industries, or what they call their “black and white gold.” With the government’s shift t­ oward export-­oriented production and supportive legislation, local councils, frontier communities, and national activists took notice. “What the government is wanting to do is pretty much in every­ body’s area,” one activist said. “So I think ­people are listening to it a bit more than they ever did.” They ­were learning that extraction was a national agenda in a global arena imposed on them and their social and ecological habitats. This chapter drills down on some of the experiences in Taranaki to shed light on the mechanisms by which the industry achieves public consent or ambivalence in traditionally extractive regions, the revisions of legislation to f­ avor industry interests beyond Taranaki, and the thresholds at which affected communities and activists resist industry activities and po­liti­cal accommodations.

Cultural Capture and Conflict Extractive industries may infiltrate a community’s everyday lives to cultivate ac­cep­tance or normalize the risks of extraction while suppressing public queries or investigations. Patterns of promoting the benefits and denying or downplaying the burdens frequently emerge and are frequently accompanied by the silencing of public concerns, which may be assisted by complacent or corporate media.1 Studies find that extractive industries engage in “proactive” forms of power, including information control and diversionary tactics, while politicians coerce residents by stigmatizing or threatening them in order to align community and industry interests.2 “Cultures of repression” may also occur around exploitative industries, in which “re­sis­tance movements and dissent are discounted, refused, disallowed, misrecognized, and devalued in the public sphere.”3 The oil industry in par­tic­u­lar has been found to operate in such a way “that existing societal institutions function to undermine dissent and minimize the opportunities for au­then­tic change,”4 and “to corral public opinion to the goal of extracting and amassing capital.”5 Over the years and across multiple regional studies, sociologists have demonstrated unequivocally how po­liti­cal and economic elites achieve public ac­cep­tance of extractive or unjust industry

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 41

activities by cultivating the public’s loyalty, exploiting their need of employment, and stifling their concerns. In New Zealand, Taranaki Province and its commercial center, the town of New Plymouth, exemplified the industry’s cultural capture. The region was saturated with proindustry propaganda and filled with a compliant and proextraction population. Unlike regulatory capture, in which government agencies become beholden to the industries that they are tasked with policing, cultural capture is achieved when local officials, schools, communities, organ­izations, and the media become conversant in privileging production and the dominant oil paradigm, despite the social and environmental risks. Even the waxing and waning of investments, production, or prices tie community and po­liti­cal patronage to a system of de­pen­dency that supports increased extraction and security illusions. As indicated in the previous chapter, ­these regions perceive themselves as beneficiaries and collaborators in O&G “development,” rather than as subjects to corporate interests and profits. Cultural capture is observed at festivals, in museums, in shops, on sports fields, and along public streets, which collectively represent visual and sensory opportunity spaces that teem with oil advocacy, sponsorships, and promotions. To the social constructs of the senses,6 participatory observations in Taranaki revealed corporate utility of such spaces in ways that linked the industry’s presence with gratifying social experiences, which further curtailed residential imaginations of a life beyond O&G extraction. Stamps of industry benevolence and paternalism on the communal psyche existed to normalize the industry’s command over public and private spaces within the community. In New Plymouth, two annual festivals ­were emblematic. One was the annual AmeriCARna festival, a three-­day road rally, showcase of antique or classic American cars, and cele­bration of the sensory pleasures and nostalgia associated with older-­model cars. The other was the World of M ­ usic, Arts and Dance (WOMAD) festival, where corporations intruded into (or enabled) the multiday event. Shell and the New Zealand operator Todd Energy ­were major sponsors, and with industry support, WOMAD was able to bring international artists into local schools before and ­after the festival. Since its inception in 2004, WOMAD had been enjoyed by many, but it was not u­ ntil the industry reached beyond Taranaki that newly identified antiexpansion or antidrilling activists discovered their own personal turmoil in front of the industry’s main stage. The heightened indulgence of an outdoor ­music festival amplified their internal tensions. According to one, “When I’m dancing away at WOMAD, I look up and I see Todd Energy up t­ here, and I do cringe. But I also love WOMAD. So it’s that real pushing and pulling internally that a lot of us have.” For a Taranaki local who avoided WOMAD, it was just another con­ temporary instance of the historic “blankets and beads” mentality: “It underlines the ­whole blankets and beads attitude, and a w ­ hole level of colonial attitude ­here,

42  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

and it flows through every­thing: getting a new swimming pool for a school [­today], or a new bridge for the settlers [then].” In the absence of the O&G industry, “WOMAD would prob­ably not exist, but we would have local concerts from some local musicians and dancers.” A letter writer shared a similarly unsettling dilemma: “Have we become so unwilling to rely on each other that we w ­ ill allow ­every trea­sured community event and resource to be paid for by big corporations who use us for advertising? Our pools, our schools, our rugby shirts, our rec centres? I stood alone in a sea of fist-­raised Womad punters on Sunday night chanting with Arrested Development to stand up for a better world. Our fists ­were branded with the log­os of oil companies who are profiting from the poisoning of this planet. The irony made me sick.”7 Both WOMAD and AmeriCARna illustrate the industry’s entrenched involvement in a region’s sensual pleasures, while also demonstrating disproportionately smaller, individual voices raising concerns. According to one complaint against the car show, “It never ceases to astound how the mass of onlookers seem unable to associate (even remotely), t­ hese hideous monstrosities with the worrying climate change trends.”8 Comments against both events reflected the growing recognition of climate change and the escalation of national tensions on ­whether to expand or retreat from O&G extraction (and consumption to a lesser extent). Museums are another platform to pair the industry with entertainment and education. Even though museums have been criticized for their se­lection, reification, denial, or concealment of certain storylines,9 they still h ­ ouse artefacts and portray a p­ eople and place to visitors. What is seen and suppressed is equally illuminating; and while not begrudging any museum sponsors, the O&G exhibit at the Puke Ariki museum of New Plymouth proved how a single, well-­ funded private entity has the capacity to direct public understanding. As portrayed in the exhibit, O&G was a skilled, technical, advanced knowledge industry that contributed mightily to the region. Extensive informational and promotional displays of industry operations and history would be expected at industry-­owned, on-­site visitor centers that I also visited, but museum exhibits funded and directed by industry erased criticism and risk while concealing the promotional intent of the display.10 Unlike the annual festivals, the museum was a daily legitimization of the industry to locals, visitors, and school groups. On any given day, O&G also infiltrated soft consumer businesses. In New Plymouth gift shops, the O&G industry was embossed on colorful stickers for ­children and displayed in photography books that depicted O&G as integral to the province’s economy, culture, and scenery.11 In them, the industry was “naturalized” into the outdoor experience, and the aesthetically appealing photos muddled ­whether nature was the backdrop to the industry or vice versa. Likewise, the logo of the clothing line Taranaki Hardcore was emblazoned

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 43

across the region in apparel, bumper stickers, and billboards. It featured the region’s natu­ral and industrial markers: Mount Taranaki, strong surf, and the region’s economic “lifeblood,” or its black and white gold. Cogs represented the O&G industry, and barbwire fencing represented its dairy industry. Both ­were encircling (or constricting) Taranaki’s natu­ral environment. The O&G industry was especially skilled at catering to youths and parents in what amounted to a transgenerational capture of local recreation. Shell Todd Oil Ser­vices sponsored fifty-­two student sporting events throughout the year, then reminded the public of its largesse with full-­page photo layouts.12 A ­ fter listing the corporate-­f unded sports uniforms, swimming pool, gardens, and parks, one resident said, “They are brainwashed from a very young age. It’s hard to change this relationship, this thinking of gratitude for the com­pany.” The social constructions of nature w ­ ere also not spared from industry manipulations. At the Marine Information Centre near Port Taranaki, one sign listed overfishing, the generic changing times, and changing ­hazards as the coastline’s greatest environmental threats. The “change” was in individual be­hav­iors, including personal litter and uncontrolled dogs. While the dogs of careless pet ­owners certainly disturb penguins and penguin nests, it would seem that port traffic, offshore drilling, and routine leaks or spills w ­ ere potentially greater threats to marine life. Nevertheless, the role of O&G was ignored in the educational effort on individual responsibility.13 Another explicit example was Shell Todd Oil Ser­vices’ financial support of the Sandy Bay Ecological Reserve, a seabird nesting area and sand dune revegetation proj­ect. From the standpoint of one resident, “The irony is that Shell, the parent com­pany, is one of the biggest producers of fossil fuels globally and therefore holds some significant percentage as a producer of the effects of climate change, which ­will in a c­ ouple of centuries take the w ­ hole of the Sandy Bay reserve away.” While extractive industries have been identified as greenwashing their terrestrial practices (or aqua-­washing their practices when a marine-­centered perspective is ­adopted), their implicit influence over a citizenry’s actionable knowledge is equally, if not more, disconcerting. However, times ­were changing, and critical observers w ­ ere identifying the industry’s hypocrisies in preserving while also destroying coastlines. A final and representative example of cultural capture in Taranaki occurred in an environmental booth at WOMAD when I was badgered by two volunteers ­after they asked about my work. According to my field notes, the exchange unfolded like this: F IRS T VOLUN T EER  ​What legislative change would you make in New Zealand?

Answer now! ME  ​Well I’m not from New Zealand. I ­don’t know all the issues ­here.

44  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

F IRS T VOLUN T EER  ​No. Answer now! ME  ​Well in the context of my work I guess I would say address climate change

and consider a moratorium or ban on new oil proj­ects and any petrochemicals that are known to cause harm to h ­ uman health. ­Those would be priorities. F IRS T VOLUN T EER  ​Do you have a cell phone? That’s toxic! SECOND VOLUN T EER  ​This video screen is emitting toxins!

Their responses sounded rehearsed, a practiced tactic when anyone questioned the role of O&G in Taranaki, or more pertinently the position of environmental groups in regard to O&G extraction. So I asked how they would answer their own question. The first volunteer said that they would reforest mountaintops in New Zealand and stop hikers and skiers from visiting. Not only did the industry’s cultural capture include ­music festivals, youth activities, and educational and nature-­based displays, its support troops also included environmental volunteers, who encouraged activism in one area (mountaintop conservation) and blocked inquiry into another (O&G extraction). The encounter raised the question, Why ­were volunteers in an environmental tent so protective of the fossil fuel industry? Sponsorships, cultural capture, and employment opportunities provide some answers. Each example peers into the minutiae of daily life while collectively displaying the breadth of industry manipulations of a population, environmental groups, and local government—­while at school, listening to ­music, visiting a museum, or trying to preserve the coastline. In short, legacies of a colonial past and con­temporary neo­co­lo­nial binds fused together, magnifying the effects of corporations over public space and public understanding of civic life and the environment. Promotional public images routinized extraction where all ages gathered. Norming the presence of the industry’s product and pro­cesses occurred at the point of the sublime, where O&G made pos­si­ble the sounds and movements at WOMAD, to the mundane, where O&G provided physical, urgent relief, as when I observed one person run into an O&G roadside visitor center just to use the rest­room. The O&G industry was useful and omnipresent, just like McDonald’s across the United States. In volume and public display, sponsored and co-­opted sensations of a less-­than-­benign industry overshadowed public ser­ vice, po­liti­cal obligation, local artists, and the public health warnings at the pump or along fa­cil­i­ty fence lines. Over time, the privatized taking of public spaces impaired civic engagement, public inquiry, and ­house­hold curiosity. In the words of one resident, local organ­izations and businesses “certainly d­ on’t badmouth the oil and gas industry b­ ecause they know that is such a big money bringer to the community. . . . ​­People just accept the risks and just suck it up essentially.” For one resident with deep roots in Taranaki, they only realized their own passivity when they began to question the new proposals near their land. ­A fter

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 45

one meeting, this resident recalled, the com­pany representatives “­were so friendly, cups of tea and cookies and t­ hings, but I said, ‘I still ­haven’t gotten any answers from you guys.’ I was r­ eally being polite. I was always polite, r­ eally polite. ‘I’m still r­ eally worried.’ And the guy leaned over to me, and kind of patted me on the arm and knee, and said, ‘Go home, have a bath, have a wine, just trust us.’ And immediately, as soon as he did that, I went, ‘Ahhhhh’ [with an intake of breath], and thought, ‘Oh my God, t­ here is a r­ eally big prob­lem ­here.’ ” According to a more activist-­oriented perspective, “They are buying a social license to operate basically. And rather than paying taxes to the government that could then be used to fund ­these ­things at least one step in­de­pen­dent of the companies, they pay the government a very low royalty for operations, . . . ​ and so the companies have sufficient money left over so they can throw a pittance h ­ ere and ­there to pretend that they are d­ oing the right ­thing.” Beyond Taranaki, ­there ­were two other efforts ­under way to cultivate ac­cep­ tance. One occurred along the country’s coastlines, and the other was driven into the frontiers. From the retail side of industry operations, BP sponsored the country’s surf rescue program, including its Surf Life Saving lifeguard club, rescue boats, and jet skis, which normalized the com­pany’s presence and its product on public beaches. Who could criticize a multinational corporation that was helping to save lives—­unless one asked why state funds w ­ ere not available

BP, the multinational oil com­pany and retailer, cosponsors New Zealand’s Surf Life Saving programs, including ­these surf rescue boats in Piha.

46  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

or not used for this impor­tant public ser­vice? Not only was the BP logo prominently displayed, but the com­pany was associated with a safe day at the beach. The second promotional campaign was one taken quite literally on the road and into the new O&G frontiers. New Zealand Oil & Gas and TAG Oil (of Canada) launched a dinosaur roadshow for ­children called What Lives Down ­Under? It toured the country in a shiny black trailer, stopping at parks and schools and offering ­free access to scientific and interactive exploration activities, hands-on educational games, and entertaining physics and geology displays. When I toured it, the trailer was an adventure for scientifically minded youths and parents. It was fun, stimulating, and informative. More importantly, New Zealand Oil & Gas was reinventing itself within and beyond Taranaki: “As a science-­based exploration business, we are helping communities to understand how science contributes to our quality of life ­today.”14 While no one ever raised doubts about the BP surf rescue program, some in the frontier communities shared their concerns with me about the balance and bias of the private educational campaign that was touring the country without a public ­counter that clarified the role of fossil fuels in climate change, the expected impacts of climate change on Aotearoa, and the dangers of exploration and extraction. According to one frontier resident, “Changing p­ eople’s viewpoint is extremely difficult, and that’s why we are so concerned about the infiltration of the school system by the fossil fuel lobby ­because they get to the kids and then the kids develop t­ hese viewpoints and then t­ hey’ve trapped another generation.” In an opinion piece, Rosemary Penwarden of Oil F ­ ree Otago asked why New Zealand Oil & Gas preferred roadshows for ­children to public meetings where new exploration was proposed.15 Catherine Cheung and Emily Bailey of Climate Justice Taranaki also encouraged ­people in frontier communities not to be fooled by the “pro-­oil propaganda” and to consider the “environmental damage and social injustice caused by the fossil fuel industry in the last 200 years.”16 Likewise, when Venture Taranaki, an industry advocacy group, produced The Wealth beneath Our Feet, a promotional report for frontier decision makers on how to replicate Taranaki’s success story, some residents cried foul. “The New Zealand government likes to hold Taranaki up as a model of what [O&G] can do in terms of creating employment and economic opportunity. But Taranaki tribal ­people almost uniformly deny that. They say that ­there has been no benefit to them. ­There have been no jobs for them. ­There’s been no spin off for them. They are left with 100 ­percent of the risk. They are left with 100 ­percent of the pollution.” Re­sis­tance was brewing, and while both pro-­and antiexpansionists ­were trying to influence public understanding and po­liti­cal direction, antidrillers w ­ ere also trying to block the industry’s cultural domination within and beyond Taranaki.

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 47

Regulatory Capture and Toxic Alliances Unlike cultural capture, regulatory capture is a corporate tactic to reduce government oversight by writing or guiding state laws or policies and by inducing regulators to f­ avor industry prerogatives over the well-­being of adjacent communities, natu­ral environments, and businesses. In this way, state-­industry cooperation, revolving doors, and interlocking directorates beget exemptions, waived penalties, selective rec­ord keeping, loopholes, and the practice of feet-­ dragging to undermine the regulations and agencies that appear to signal appropriate safeguards. One of the more blatant seizures of state oversight was determined ­after the Deepwater Horizon oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, when it was revealed that the federal agency charged with safety and environmental enforcement was too close to the operators to adequately and in­de­pen­dently inspect their offshore practices.17 In another case, a report by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency found that the practice of hydraulic fracturing was safe, before it was revealed that one corporation influenced the report and that five of the seven members of the peer-­review pro­cess w ­ ere employed by the industry.18 In Taranaki, similar alignments ­were as unsettling, and eventually warranted a forewarning to frontier communities from the Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE) that “public involvement and transparency are also vital for avoiding real or perceived ‘regulatory capture.’ ”19 In interviews, one antidrilling activist in a frontier community referred to government ministers as “corporate servants,” while another in Taranaki suggested that “the companies and councils actually look like each other. They got p­ eople in both council and com­pany that have worked in both, so it is r­ eally hard to distinguish between the two.” More than one Taranaki resident offered a verbal flowchart of how the regulated are represented as the regulators and how individuals or their relatives served on multiple boards to influence decisions. According to one, “Kids ­will work as surveyors, or wives ­will work in the district. . . . ​A nd they say ­there’s no conflict of interest. . . . ​A nother ­will sign a report as con­sul­ tant, and then sign the same report as part of the council. And ­people ­don’t see it as a conflict of interest b­ ecause that’s the mentality h ­ ere.” When residents tried to submit complaints to the council about the noise or a “funny smell,” they ­were told to talk to the com­pany. “You get all ­these mixed messages and crossovers that are ­really not healthy.” More than one resident in Taranaki described trying to access public rec­ ords on chemicals inserted under­ground as a never-­ending loop, as they w ­ ere passed from one government agency to another. Th ­ ese stories circulated among community members and pointed to a string of institutional irresponsibility and growing distrust. Accordingly, one resident told me, “The bottom line is that nobody other than the com­pany themselves know what they are putting

48  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

down the wells, what is coming back up the wells, and what’s ­going onto the landfarms [a practice of tilling industry waste on pastures].” While I never verified t­ hese comments, many shared similar ones, illustrating ordinary practices in an industry-­dominated province and suggesting the possibility of chronic and underregulated chemical exposures. Consistently referring to their evidence as anecdotal, one citizen-­investigator heard from workers who clean industrial tanks of “having burns on their arms” from the ­water. House­holds in Kapuni, a small community near one industrial site, believed unlined waste disposal pits, which permitted the leaching of petrochemicals and wastewater into the soil and groundwater, ­were a cause of vari­ ous illnesses,20 yet direct correlation was never proved. Their personal and neighborhood assessments ­were exceedingly difficult to corroborate scientifically and definitively, and in­de­pen­dent health assessments ­were lacking. One of the more controversial examples of the industry’s capture of state oversight was the little-­tested, little-­known practice of “landfarming” or “land-­ spreading,” a waste management method of disposing O&G drilling waste on fallow farmland.21 According to regional promotions, Taranaki breathes and bleeds oil and dairy. Yet with both industries residing in close proximity to each other, landfarming was perceived as one of the riskier couplings—­once p­ eople within and beyond Taranaki learned of the practice. Landfarming is the pro­cess in which solid industrial waste undergoes surface or near-­surface bioremediation, using a mix-­bury-­cover, till and retill, or spreading technique.22 Landfarming has been practiced in Taranaki since the mid-1990s,23 and as of 2014, twenty-­three sites had been made available for landfarming and eleven farms had accepted or conducted landfarming.24 Public knowledge of this long-­running practice became prevalent around 2013 in part b­ ecause of media coverage, national concerns for dairy safety and exports, and greater scrutiny of standard operations in Taranaki by frontier communities and antidrilling activists beyond Taranaki, who had begun investigating the lifecycle of the product before it reached the pump and before extraction began near their neighborhoods. Around this time, a reporter cautiously noted that “while the [local] authorities say the practice is safe and does not have an environmental effect, they themselves admit ­there is ­limited information to inform their decisions.”25 Within a few days of publication, Fonterra, a cooperative owned by more than ten thousand dairy farmers, announced it would not collect milk from landfarmed properties.26 Although the cooperative expressed confidence in landfarming in general, it said the cost of testing for petrochemicals had become too high. In defense of the practice, a report commissioned by the Taranaki Regional Council featured a soil scientist arguing that “landfarming in Taranaki made sandy, coastal farmland ten times better for dairying,” and a council member advocating for the ac­cep­tance of drilling waste from beyond Taranaki to build

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 49

more productive pastures in Taranaki.27 A year l­ater the PCE criticized how landfarming had been monitored: “­There are instances of c­ attle grazing on landfarmed areas before the bioremediation is complete. Regardless of the ­actual risk, this is not acceptable, and the situation needs resolving.”28 A ­ fter noting inconsistencies in landfarming inspections, the PCE also observed that a Taranaki Regional Council report indicated that the landfarm “looked good” and “looked healthy” and that c­ attle was identified as mixing the drilling mud with the topsoil through their “hoof action”29—­even though the former seemed scientifically unsound and the latter seemed c­ ounter to consent conditions. ­Those who spoke to me indicated that residents, dairy consumers, and landfarm workers w ­ ere not informed of the potential risks, while in­de­pen­dent and peer-­reviewed research on the safety of landfarming and chemical concentrations ­were lacking.30 An additional concern centered on the proposed plans for expansion beyond Taranaki and the subsequent increase of waste, coupled with land scarcity. According to the PCE, “The waste from the few exploration wells now being drilling in the East Coast Basin is being trucked to Taranaki for disposal. This ­will not be tenable if wells begin to multiply ­there.”31 Resident-­activists agreed: “I ­don’t know what ­will happen when the landfarms run out of space. . . . ​Maybe they w ­ ill dispose of it in public lands, in the forests, or onto the roads. For us, they just have to stop drilling, and then ­there w ­ on’t be waste prob­lems.” Another emphasized the additional sacrifices that Taranaki would be making for the national expansion plans: “Taranaki has agreed to take waste from elsewhere, . . . ​ [­because other] councils ­won’t let them landfarm!” Injecting an additional dimension into this environmental justice strug­gle, Māori consider the transfer of one’s waste to another community to be culturally inappropriate and insensitive. “­There’s a cultural issue from a Māori perspective that if you have waste, you keep it,” one person said. “You have to manage your own waste.” In this way, traditional Māori waste management practices w ­ ere the essence of one tenet of environmental justice: that personal or industrial waste is not dumped on o­ thers. Another repercussion of lax regulations was a documented case of cross-­ contamination between Taranaki’s black and white gold. In this instance, a truck used for drilling waste also carried milk, and in a transport and pro­cessing mix-up contaminated fourteen tankers of milk. Fortunately, the incident was discovered before the milk reached market.32 Unfortunately for the industry, this incident generated more negative attention, raising more public alarms over standard operations where O&G dominated. “We are trying to run ­these oil wells in the ­middle of our dairy farms,” one resident said. “The two industries are too close and accidents like this are occurring. . . . ​I can see oil operating quite happily with the milk industry, but the milk industry is ­going to find it harder and harder to operate with integrity with the oil industry.”

50  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Even though a critical narrative was emerging, on multiple occasions I was told it was social or professional suicide to publicly confront the oil industry in Taranaki and the dairy industry anywhere in the country. “The real­ity is that dairy has been in Taranaki for years, but to criticize any of it is just sacrilege,” one resident said. “Criticizing dairy is like heresy, and criticizing oil and gas is also like heresy, so it is very difficult to speak out against e­ ither of it.” According to an environmental activist outside Taranaki, “Every­one’s got a farmer in their f­ amily somewhere, or farmers in their direct community. . . . ​[Farmers] are not all rape and pillage, whereas the oil and gas industry has one motive and it’s to extract and minimize the risks where they can, but only where they can. It is easier to drum up vocal support for naysaying against oil and gas than dairy” outside Taranaki. According to another environmental activist outside Taranaki, “We criticize the oil and gas staunchly, and we sort of encourage the dairy and other farming practices to more sustainable ways. . . . ​But oil and gas is more external, an invader r­ eally. They ­don’t belong ­here.” Before the consequences of regulatory capture and the advance of O&G beyond Taranaki ­were known, few citizens or activists beyond Taranaki had considered the impacts of O&G in Taranaki. I was told that not “many p­ eople ­were taking that much notice” ­until the economic agenda expressed its wishes “to open up our country’s fossil fuels for foreign companies.” Another antiexpansionist concurred: “Taranaki has happened in a bit of a ­bubble. I d­ on’t even think many New Zealanders ­were aware of the scope of the drilling in Taranaki.” With their newfound knowledge, they “discovered” some of the burdens of residing near the industry and sought to keep it at bay. Cultural and regulatory capture ­were just some of the red flags that had begun emanating from Taranaki about the oversize role the industry played in local politics, neighboring businesses, and affected communities.

Accommodating Extraction: Then and Now Despite ­these alarms, the state sought to accommodate the industry further by rewriting legislation and attempting to s­ ettle frontier communities and councils into compliance with the national directives. Before outlining third-­ era accommodations, I ­will provide a brief account of early arrangements that indicate a long-­running institutional deference ­toward extractive industries at the expense of Māori in par­tic­u ­lar. This period was followed by the Māori re­nais­sance of the 1970s, which gave Māori more tools and empowerment to contest or benefit from O&G operations. In 1840 and before oil exploration began, British and Māori leaders signed the Treaty of Waitangi, or Te Tiriti o Waitangi. This treaty encompassed three broad points: (1) it gave the British monarch all rights and power; (2) it maintained Māori chieftain status and possession of lands, forests, and fisheries; and

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 51

(3) it guaranteed British rights and privileges to all New Zealanders.33 During its signing, Māori believed their hereditary kings or chiefs would govern alongside the British monarch. Since then, English-­and Māori-­language interpretations of the treaty have varied and remain in dispute. Shortly a­ fter its signing, oil exploration began in Taranaki. And by the 1860s, three wars had occurred in Taranaki between Māori and the En­glish settlers over the confiscations of Māori land and land provisions for En­glish settlers for farming and oil to a lesser extent. “Maori, by ­every name, w ­ ere largely dispossessed, dispirited and defeated” within thirty years of En­g lish arrival, according to one assessment.34 According to another observer, “We are still dealing with the consequences of t­ hose pivotal decisions and moments in time 154 years ­later.”35 British land confiscations and early support of En­glish farming and oil exploration explain Māori marginalization in Taranaki ­today. According to one activist, “The oil industry first discovered and started tapping into oil as early as 1860 in the Taranaki area, and so it was almost immediately ­after the Taranaki ­people w ­ ere forced off their lands at gunpoint, had their villages burnt, communities destroyed. The men w ­ ere taken away and imprisoned. The oil industry was prob­ably one of the first industries that immediately r­ ose up on the confiscated lands.” The legacies of this period mean that Māori in Taranaki “are in a state of recovery—­sort of rediscovery and recovery at the moment,” according to the same activist. Nationwide, Māori recovery began through cultural and l­ egal channels during the Māori re­nais­sance when the original treaty was revised and the Waitangi Tribunal was established to investigate long-­running injustices, land grievances, and treaty violations.36 Even though the tribunal’s decisions ­were nonbinding, Māori gained more land, cash settlements, and a greater share of the fishing industry.37 The iwi (tribes) of Taranaki received millions, ranging from NZ$14.5 million in 2002 to NZ$87 million in 2014.38 The iwi who settled in 2015 for NZ$70 million also received an apology, the right to purchase surplus state-­owned land, and repre­sen­ta­tion on two committees within the Taranaki Regional Council. However, the state excluded petroleum from settlements, a position interpreted by some as a “breach of the princi­ples.” Then in 2003 the tribunal found that Māori w ­ ere unfairly treated by the Petroleum Act of 1937, which nationalized the country’s O&G reserves.39 Ultimately, the tribunal determined that Māori had the right to receive economic gain from petroleum, which could be millions in past and f­ uture royalties or settlements. Yet in the end, tribunal decisions ­were unenforceable recommendations without any ­legal authority, and the government retorted that “it ­will ignore the finding.”40 For Māori, third-­ wave O&G activities reopened old grievances and launched new complaints and opportunities.

52  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

At the time of this study, public meetings w ­ ere being held in the frontier regions and government reports ­were being prepared to inform local councils and residents with no previous O&G history about the permitting pro­cesses and expected industry activities. Given the novelty and scale of proposals, the government was establishing new agencies or reor­ga­niz­ing existing ones, writing or rewriting policies, and instituting regulatory changes, which appeared directed at facilitating and speeding industry access rather than tightly regulating it. At t­ hese meetings, residents learned the steps and scale of onshore and offshore expansion plans. They learned how the state designates areas, or opens blocks of land or sea, for prospecting or seismic testing to assess the potential presence and volume of O&G. Corporations then submit bids or proposals, and some are awarded access. Once awarded, companies may take several years to complete each step—­from seismic testing, to exploration, to extraction—­and each step is reviewed by one or multiple regulatory agencies. If onshore or within twelve nautical miles of a coastline, the state and corporation approach local councils, iwi, communities, and landowners to negotiate the terms of access—­ even though access has already been granted by the state. While the twelve nearshore nautical miles are governed locally, the central government’s purview extends two hundred miles farther offshore. In interviews, many residents and activists spoke of at least one national or local change that they believed was part of a pattern that disempowered civil society when civil society most needed to be strengthened to challenge the state-­ industry alliance. A public perception of backroom deals was rising, rattling the national psyche. Accepted practices in Taranaki ­were decidedly intolerable to the frontier communities. According to one resident, local meetings without public rec­ord w ­ ere occurring, and while perhaps workaday in Taranaki, they ­were startling in the frontiers. Residents ­were losing trust in what had been reasonably respected and transparent local bodies. “That’s just not how we roll in New Zealand,” one resident told me. “We are supposed to be this r­ eally transparent country. I think we are at the top three in the corruption and transparency index, and it just feels like a real affront.”41 When residents sought clarity at public meetings, they received vague answers on the procedures, legislation, regulations, and risks. At one meeting, residents ­were told by a government representative that “­because we are in a transition, I d­ on’t want to get into the details of the dif­f er­ent agencies.” According to a seasoned activist, “No government has undermined the legislation protecting the land, air, and ­water like the current government, and in such rapid speed that it makes your head spin—­ever.” For t­ hose who “knew nothing,” the learning curve was steep. As one with no history of or­ga­nized re­sis­ tance observed, “I knew nothing. Now we all know about legislation, the RMA [Resource Management Act], who t­ hese p­ eople are. We’ve had to learn. . . . ​ ­There’s a hunger out t­ here to understand in a neutral way ­because ­there’s mis-

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 53

trust of blogs, mistrust of business, mistrust of ‘greenies.’ So who do you trust? Who do you believe? And every­body mistrusts the government [laughing].” At many of the forums or meetings I attended, ­people ­were trying to understand the industry alongside complex regulations, new government agencies, and their own ability or inability to influence them. At one conference, a mayor indicated that local communities ­were in the position to influence the regulation of onshore activity, but they could not reject it. This appeared to be a dawning crux among many: they w ­ ere invited to listen and learn, but they could not reject the transition ­toward fossil fuel extraction. They ­were learning that democracies do not function at the highest standards within the po­liti­cal economy of oil, and that the industry’s right of access appeared to supersede community rights to know and to deliberate. Around this time, even the representative of a relatively small U.S. com­pany was identified as saying, “It is difficult to find a place as industry friendly as New Zealand with as favourable an economic and po­liti­cal climate.”42 The formulations and reformulations of agencies, staff, and policies put the public and local councils at a disadvantage relative to the industry and industry-­ friendly politicians. For many, the government was seen as giving away the country’s natu­ral resources, and multinational corporations ­were seen as treating New Zealand like an un­regu­la­ted, resource-­rich, low-­income nation. “We’ve got [the proextraction lobbyists] r­ eally ­going for broke, driven largely I think by American oil companies, working hard on government to get the least environmental regulation pos­si­ble,” one activist said. “It basically creates the impression that they are cowboys, that they are not committed to g­ oing through proper first-­world procedures.” Although in image U.S. companies may have been perceived as the worst of many bad actors, they ­were not alone. Corporations from Brazil, Canada, and Eu­rope also sought and acquired access. A short account of the legislative and amendment changes that ­were made to accommodate the industry and the public’s interpretations of such changes barely conveys the depth of frustration and sense of futility p­ eople endured at public meetings, at home, and online as they tried to decipher the legislative tools and ­legal or policy pro­cesses that w ­ ere being rapidly altered to facilitate extraction and undermine their own procedural participation.43

The Resource Management Act of 1991 The RMA is the country’s principal mechanism to address the environment in relation to “development.” From the beginning, it served as a compromise between competing views. One view emphasized sustainable development—­ before ­others began to question ­whether ­those two words could be joined in any meaningful way for truly just and sustainable socie­ties and economies. Another stance extended Māori values and voices in decision-­making, while a third promoted greater local control and influence.44 Concerning sustainable

54  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

development, one of the RMA’s architects recognized the “inherent contradiction” in sustainability and development and sought to prioritize long-­term socioecological well-­being over short-­term economic gains.45 Individual words also mattered, as demonstrated by a last-­minute word change from “unnecessary” to “inappropriate” that altered coastal outcomes by enabling developers to demonstrate an “appropriate”—­rather than a “necessary”—­proj­ect development.46 Occurring outside public debate, this slight alteration permitted coastal “development,” or housing construction, u­ nder the RMA. For Māori, the RMA led to increased participation and greater institutional engagement and comanagement of natu­ral resources. Ancestral lands, sacred sites, taonga, kaitiakitanga (guardianship), and the Treaty of Waitangi w ­ ere all recognized in the RMA.47 Yet early on, councils strug­gled to include Māori at the ­table and Māori remained skeptical of attaining full participation.48 More than two de­cades a­ fter the RMA, Māori w ­ ere invested in and empowered by it, and iwi representatives served on regional conservation boards ­under the Department of Conservation. As for “local control,” what sounded empowering was in practice subverted— at least in Taranaki. According to Taranaki residents, “local control” essentially meant O&G determination without national or in­de­pen­dent standards since local councils lacked the resources to monitor or effectively manage the industry or ­were too aligned with the industry for in­de­pen­dent monitoring. “If you actually go down to the regional council, you’ll see that the oil and gas companies are violating the consents all the time,” one resident said. “But if you demand more testing, then the regional council ­will say, ‘Well, OK, ­we’ll just increase your rates.’ . . . ​A nd t­ here would always be somebody on the other side complaining about rates ­going up.” In addition, local control could be overruled if the activity was deemed of national significance as O&G was being interpreted at the time. A comparable example occurred in Texas and Oklahoma in 2015 when both state legislatures ruled that individual towns or cities could not impose bans on hydraulic fracturing. Frontier communities also discovered that the RMA failed to address the multiple and cumulative effects of the industry. Specifically, the definition of “affected” was considered too narrow in scope. “We are all affected parties if this industry establishes and changes the ­whole nature of the town. But that’s when they say, ‘Are you affected by this road?’ ‘Are you affected by this bit of work that we are ­doing now?’ It’s a gray area in the Resource Management Act—­ this space of accumulative effects.”

The Local Government Act of 2002—­Amended 2014 When the Local Government Act was ­adopted, it was to direct local authorities to fulfill “sustainable development” by achieving “the four well-­beings”: social, economic, environmental, and cultural.49 With the turn ­toward extrac-

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 55

tion, the central government amended the act in 2014 to reflect its economic priorities at the expense of t­ hese other considerations. The four well-­beings w ­ ere rescinded in ­favor of “cutting red tape for businesses and developers.”50 The government indicated that the original Local Government Act was also “ ‘misconstrued’ to mean ‘participatory democracy,’ ” when in fact it had always meant “representative democracy.” “The Task Force maintained participatory democracy was inherently impractical and inefficient. Taken to the extreme, it meant mob rule.”51 In essence, the Crown undermined local citizens in f­ avor of national and multinational corporations when the O&G industry was expanding its operations into frontier areas. Even when public “consultations” occurred, they ­were inadequate for t­ hose opposed to drilling. As clarified in one interview, “Consultation is not [an oil com­pany] or a ministry coming ­here and telling us what they are ­going to do, and walking away and ticking a box: we consulted with them. No. That’s maybe a definition of consultation, but it’s not the definition. . . . ​We tell you what we’d like you to do, [and we would like you] to pull t­ hese two blocks out [of the permitting pro­cess].” In trying to clarify the contradictions and misunderstandings of “local consent,” the PCE wrote, “Outside Taranaki, drilling an oil and gas well generally does require a consent from the regional council, but the council does not have the option of saying ‘no.’ ”52 Ideally, public consult is a tool of empowerment intended to level the field. More accurately, it is a meaningless public exercise or veneer of demo­cratic practices. ­Those I attended ­were one-­way pre­sen­ta­tions without adequate time for, or answers to, community questions. For one citizen, this amendment was one in a string of endeavors to reduce local capacities: “The government’s been quite blunt about restricting the ability for p­ eople to have their say about what ­they’re ­doing, . . . ​by overriding some of the local council powers and further emasculating them.”

The Exclusive Economic Zone and Continental Shelf Act of 1964—­Revised 2012 While the RMA and “local consent” covered land and w ­ ater out to twelve nautical miles, the Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) and Continental Shelf Act was a legislative framework to manage, promote, and develop marine resources that extend two hundred miles beyond the nation’s nearshore ­waters. Regional councils govern nearshore ­waters, while the Environmental Protection Authority controls the EEZ.53 Po­liti­cally, the EEZ reor­ga­nized power and advanced practices of annexation, colonization, and enclosures into the sea for each coastal nation. According to Venture Taranaki, New Zealand had economic rights over “an area 22 times that of New Zealand’s land area, three quarters the size of Australia or 1 ­percent of the earth’s surface. The area is likely to contain billions of dollars worth of resources including petroleum.”54

56  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

With the impending arrival of an offshore rig in frontier ­waters, Forest & Bird and Greenpeace, two major environmental organ­izations, filed a complaint that New Zealand had an obligation ­under the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea to protect the sea within its EEZ and failed to do so when it permitted O&G exploration without in­de­pen­dent environmental impact assessments.55 The team argued that the revised EEZ and Continental Shelf Act failed to meet U.N. obligations by failing to ensure public notification and widespread consultations and by failing to demonstrate control over risky activities.56 It was understood that companies that had received offshore exploration permits before the revisions could submit their own impact assessments. As one coastal resident explained, “It’s a travesty that an international com­pany can come in and write the rules on how their own industry should operate within our territorial ­waters. . . . ​I mean whose country is this? This is our country, and we should set the rules on how they operate, and what they can and c­ an’t do.” The revised act created three consenting categories or classes: permitted, discretionary, and prohibited activity. At first, O&G was designated a discretionary activity, and therefore requiring public notification, expert evidence, and marine consent. However, a fourth category was added a year ­later. The new category ranked exploratory drilling as “non-­notified discretionary.” This change meant that affected coastal communities would not have the right to be notified of exploration drills occurring in the EEZ. It is believed that industry promoters influenced the government in designating this additional category during the exploration phase to hinder public involvement while giving decision-­making power without public comment to the newly formed Environmental Protection Authority. The government argued that the risk of a major oil spill was low during the exploration phase, so regulatory oversight should also be minimal. In reply, Gary Taylor, chair of the Environmental Defence Society, argued that “a low probability/high consequences event should be treated as a high-­risk and red-­flagged. . . . ​A secretive, in-­house approvals regime is unacceptable and dangerous.”57 Many ­others recalled that the Deepwater Horizon blowout in the Gulf of Mexico occurred during the exploratory phase. According to an antidrilling activist, the addition of the nonnotified category to permit exploration without public understanding or consent was an “undue influence of industry and the removal of the public’s capacity to engage in ­these very impor­tant decisions. We are basically told to mind our own business and let the industry get on with what the industry needs to get on with, aided and abetted by our elected representatives.” For a coastal resident, the nonnotified category meant that government representatives “are just shills for the big companies. They are just the oil salesmen for t­ hese companies.”

Oil at the Bottom of the World  • 57

The Crown Minerals Act of 1991—­Amended 2013 The Crown Minerals Act established the l­ egal framework of Crown owner­ship of all under­ground minerals, including O&G. According to ­people interviewed, one of the more egregious amendments occurred in 2013 when a five-­hundred-­ meter exclusion or noninterference zone was placed around exploratory or drilling vessels at sea and any violations ­were open to criminal charges.58 The amendment was in response to an offshore protest led by a Māori-­Greenpeace co­ali­tion against an exploratory rig. When one of the protest captains was arrested, the case was thrown out of court ­after it was determined that local police had no jurisdiction in the EEZ. This amendment was seen as an agreement between industry and government to exert ­legal control over the public’s ability and right to protest in the EEZ. More bluntly, it was seen as the militarization of the seas in national defense of multinational corporations at the expense of citizen rights. For one activist, the combined changes meant “we are losing sovereignty when oil companies can write their own regulation and we cannot protest at sea.”

Preserving Cultural or Capital Taonga? Operationalizing taonga, a Māori word for something like natu­ral and cultural trea­sures or resources with their own essence or life force, became increasingly pertinent and complicated in assessing the ­legal and cultural obligations of the state and extractive industries in meeting the ­people’s expectations of environmental conservation and cultural preservation of Māori beliefs, traditions, and rights. During this period of distinguishing between extraction advocates and adversaries, defining taonga—­for whom and by whom—­became crucial in determining value, guardianship, and compensation in relation to O&G for an increasingly bicultural population. For antidrilling activists, the Māori perspective of taonga was a potential rights-­based tool to impede industry advancements. However, it could also be used for compensation or royalties if extraction ensued. The editor of New Zealand Geographic explained, “In the Maori tradition, land is a taonga—­both a resource and a trea­sure. It is not so much owned as occupied, an assessment which fosters a sense of guardianship—­kaitiakitanga— on behalf of ­future generations. The land is to be used, but not abused. Above all, its living essence is to be respected.”59 According to academics at the University of Otago, “Minerals, including ­those which may not have been considered taonga in the past, are now being recognized as taonga as much as any other natu­ ral or physical resource.”60 While not identifying O&G as such, they explained that taonga is “an underpinning princi­ple [for Māori] and is interrelated to the princi­ples of mauri [a life force] and kaitiakitanga [stewardship or ancestral obligation], and therefore rangatiratanga [iwi leadership and self-­determination].”61

58  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

Accordingly, Māori iwi have the right to govern decisions made on behalf of and in regard to tangible and intangible resources in ways that sustain the resources’ essence as defined by Māori historical and con­temporary understandings. In the context of O&G, the Waitangi Tribunal, which sought to address con­temporary settlement concerns regarding the historic treaty, determined that the Petroleum Act of 1937 breached iwi rights, including their rights to land and taonga. Nevertheless, the tribunal skirted definitive claims that oil was a Māori trea­sure, arguing that it was unnecessary to determine ­whether petroleum was actually taonga when deliberating on oil compensation. During the period of O&G expansions, ­people w ­ ere forced to reflect on ­whether the natu­ral and marine environments, and terrestrial or aquatic natures, w ­ ere cultural trea­sures to be valued, protected, or preserved for every­ one now and in the ­future or for the very essence of the resource itself, or ­whether they w ­ ere economic resources for commercial or public utility or financial gain, or w ­ hether they ­were some combination of the two. To distinguish ­these competing interpretations, I began to think of them as cultural taonga and capital taonga. As such, New Zealanders w ­ ere debating which represented the greater trea­sure or resource for themselves, the nation, and their ­future: the preservation and protection of the land, sea, or essence of fossil fuels, or the economic value of the under­ground fuel. From the perspective of a critical place inquiry, it appeared that O&G near rural farmlands or in Taranaki was closer to capital taonga and thereby exploitable, while offshore marine environments and frontier coastlines w ­ ere nearer to cultural taonga and thereby worthy of protection. Over time, proextraction support troops had co-­opted the tenor of Taranaki, and the majority of Taranaki residents leaned (or learned to lean) ­toward extraction and a preference for the private value of O&G. In contrast, residents beyond Taranaki and with no O&G history leaned t­ oward defending the cultural significance, and communal and small-­business relationships with the natu­ral environment. Th ­ ese distinctions w ­ ere also bolstered by a nationally and globally informed public. Even if local or national politicians ­were dazzled by the promises and expertise of multinational corporations, citizens and activists w ­ ere not persuaded by the dominant narrative. They w ­ ere not bowed by global corporations, nor subdued by central government. In connecting historical conflicts between Māori and the state with con­ temporary antidrilling campaigns, more than one Māori referenced their treaty settlement negotiations as footing and vision for their growing re­sis­tance: “We fought the government for years for our settlement b­ ecause they had taken our lands from us. So w ­ e’ve always been in that mode of climbing a mountain. . . . ​ We’ve had to stick our head above the pulpit if you like, and just try and dodge the sword ­because that’s what life has always been like for us. We never think about the po­liti­cal fallout.”

5

License to Criticize From Disasters to Re­sis­tance We d­ on’t have the knowledge in order to adequately deal with a comparatively small oil spill. Rena was a tiny ­little spill compared to what could happen if a deepwater rig blows out.

When offshore oil exploration was just beginning in New Zealand, two disasters occurred. The first was the 2010 BP Deepwater Horizon blowout that killed eleven workers and poured oil into the Gulf of Mexico for almost three months. The second struck New Zealand in 2011 when Rena, a cargo tanker, wrecked onto a nearshore reef, spilling oil and container debris along the Bay of Plenty. As oil and chemical dispersants ­were still flowing into the Gulf of Mexico, New Zealand awarded Petrobras of Brazil offshore exploration rights. Petrobras then began seismic testing in 2011 and was followed by Shell in 2013 and U.S.-­based Anadarko in 2014. ­Whether in production hubs or frontiers, sustained re­sis­tance to oil exploration or extraction has failed to materialize even ­after a disaster. The absence of opposition occurs in part ­because of the dominant paradigm, the industry’s support troops and regulatory and cultural capture, the presence of ally economies including tourism and agriculture, and a history of tying cultural identity and economic security to extraction.1 Not only has oil remade its image over and over again, but civil society has repeatedly believed or left unchallenged 59

60  •  Toxic and Intoxicating Oil

the local promises and forgot or never knew the global betrayals. Simply put, ­there has been no shortage of disasters, just the reoccurrence of generational, locational, or global amnesia regarding them, or the willingness to accept the risks for documented or implied benefits, such as employment. But not always, and not in the case of Aotearoa. In a nation that had not yet completed the groundwork of tying resident well-­being to extraction, antidrilling activists superimposed both disasters onto oil and gas (O&G) activities in frontier ­waters. Collectively, ­these two disasters legitimized the perceived perils of offshore exploration, and in ­doing so became risk referents for the nation. For coastal communities, they served as shock motivators to question the safety of offshore exploration, and for national antidrilling groups, they became now-­or-­never focusing events to launch a campaign of re­sis­tance. From the onset, national activists realized the government’s folly in announcing an agreement with Petrobras when it did. “If I ­were government, I would have waited at least u­ ntil they capped the well in the Gulf,” one of them said. “And then the Rena happened!” As another observed, “­People suddenly ­didn’t have as much faith [in the government] as they might have had if Rena h ­ adn’t happened.” As w ­ ill be illustrated in this chapter, personal memories and global evocations cast long shadows over state and industry efforts to drill offshore. Once Rena ran aground, residents and activists observed how ill prepared and under­ equipped the island nation was for a relatively small nearshore spill and how dependent the state was on international assistance for its response and recovery plan. Citizen volunteers also labored and enlisted their own ingenuity in cleaning up the spill. While the significance of citizens’ intellectual contributions has been identified previously,2 this study demonstrates how a community’s sweat equity—­required to compensate for what was perceived as the government’s ineptness—­deepened the public’s knowledge of the state’s lax disaster recovery plans and strengthened their voices against government and industry assurances. By connecting the dots between what tran­spired along the Bay of Plenty and in the Gulf of Mexico, New Zealanders acquired a social license to criticize state policies and corporate practices. ­Whether in coastal communities or as part of the national antidrilling co­ali­tion, opposition was fostered by retelling the firsthand accounts and experiential knowledge of Rena, and by deducing the risks of offshore exploration from the Gulf of Mexico tragedy. ­These two catastrophes not only shed light on the risks of offshore drilling, they energized the re­sis­tance.

Routinization of Vio­lence Oil begets disaster; and accessing, pro­cessing, and transporting petroleum is risky. Yet leaks, spills, and injuries are often compartmentalized to minimize

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public understanding. Major offshore blowouts are separated from routine onshore spills; airborne refinery pollution is detached from pipeline leaks into waterways; and community sickness is isolated from workplace h ­ azards and worker illnesses. ­Human lives have been lost, communities have been disrupted, and ecosystems have been damaged along oil’s many commercial pathways in the normalization, isolation, and routinization of oil “accidents.”3 Oil also endures despite the “best” cleanup efforts. ­After the oil carrier Exxon Valdez wrecked off the coast of Alaska in 1989, oil spill contingency and cleanup plans at sea and along shorelines ­were labeled for what they remain ­today: “fantasies.”4 Twenty years afterward, an official follow-up report indicated that “oil persists in the environment, and in places, is nearly as toxic as it was the first few weeks ­after the spill,” residing deep in the sand or rock crevices and without necessarily losing its toxicity to weathering.5 Given the unanticipated slow speed of evaporation and erosion, the report suggested that “it w ­ ill still take de­cades and possibly centuries for the oil to dis­appear entirely.”6 Stated plainly, major spills mock solutions. Some disasters mark a generation. Each of the past three generations in the United States can claim a major oil disaster: the 1969 Santa Barbara oil spill, the 1989 Exxon Valdez wreck, and the 2010 Deepwater Horizon blowout. Mexicans experienced the 1979 Ixtoc I disaster in the Gulf that spilled oil for nine months; and three de­cades ­later, Australians lived through the Montara blowout that dumped oil into the Timor Sea for more than seventy days. An uncovered quarry pit from Britain’s worse oil spill, the 1967 Torrey Canyon supertanker wreck, still exists. Regarding the durability of oil and oil disasters, an investigative journalist wrote that the Torrey Canyon disaster “is living proof that big oil spills plague ecosystems for de­cades. Forty-­three years on, the crude from the Torrey Canyon is still killing wildlife on a daily basis.”7 In other words, spills ­today become inheritance toxins, since no one knows how to make oil dis­appear safely. New Zealand has not been spared, though the documented spills have been relatively “minor” in volume and reflective of the country’s commercial interests. They include the log ship Jody F Millennium (2002), the container ship Rotoma (1999), and the fishing vessels Seafresh 1 (2000) and Don Wong (1998), and in Taranaki, where oil extraction dominates, the Austrian com­pany OMV released oil in the Maari offshore field in 2010 and then again in 2015. As part of “living with high-­risk technologies,” disasters have become “normal accidents.”8 Often ­these disasters are due to h ­ uman and technological errors, coupled with cost-­cutting efforts to speed up production and shortchange maintenance, too few working too fast or too long, or shoddy or inadequate safeguards or safety plans. The individual worker is not at fault. Fault frequently lies with the profit-­driven production decisions of corporations over safety and too ­little oversight or regulation.9 ­These disasters are preventable and

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avoidable, and t­ here are many more of them that are unknown except by the directly affected, or that become known only when the same com­pany is a repeat offender or the disasters are so large as to prohibit willful ignorance. Certainly, the depth and breadth of impacts are so chronic, complex, and potentially destructive that individuals may resist knowing the links between them and their daily consumption or employment, or may strug­gle to connect how the po­liti­cal economy of oil conceals or provokes such vio­lence.10 Depending on who commands the narrative, the “real­ity” of risk has the potential to be “dramatized or minimized, transformed or simply denied.”11 So while each major disaster may serve as a “focusing event,”12 leading to some legislative changes and public displays of shame, reductions in extractive activities or sustained campaigns against such activities have not been realized. ­After the Exxon Valdez disaster, non-­Native Alaskans “simply decried the spill” and returned to the belief “that their personal economies ­were married to ­those of the industry, and that the state or someone would protect their marriage.”13 Despite the number, scale, and toxicity, oil disasters had been temporary shocks, never enduring setbacks—­until activists in New Zealand linked two disasters to generate and sustain re­sis­tance against frontier exploration and extraction.

Oil Promises, ­Human Losses Multiple accounts indicate that the O&G industry makes promises, while workers, neighboring communities, and natu­ral environments suffer the pro­ cesses utilized to acquire the product. In practice, the industry is permitted to operate on the edge of probabilities without adequate safeguards when the probable or pos­si­ble occurs. Facing the risk of lives lost and a toxic substance at sea, nations could regulate to prevent the impossible and corporations could prepare for the impossible. But neither do, and disasters keep happening—­ especially in periods of frontier expansions or when using new technologies. During the second wave of exploration in the 1980s, the ­Piper Alpha production platform off the coast of Aberdeen, Scotland, became the deadliest known rig disaster, killing 167 workers. It preceded the Ocean Ranger exploration rig, which sank off Newfoundland, taking the lives of 84 men, in frontier ­waters in 1982. Susan Dodd, in one of the most power­ful books on industry-­ state collusion and public manipulation, demonstrates the tremendous effort the industry and the Canadian government engaged in to remake “the promise of oil” and to quiet t­ hose who grieved the loss of loved ones a­ fter the Ocean Ranger listed and sank.14 Oil workers died as a result of the careless practices of American companies in frontier w ­ aters; negligence in worker training for emergency events; and failures to supply necessary, low-­cost safety equipment to survive a cold-­water disaster at sea. Workers died and their families suffered ­under a veil of (neo)colonial relationships in which the region consented early

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to oil’s promises; the Canadian government accepted a subordinate position in negotiations with U.S. corporations; and Newfoundlanders replicated a colonized position with the central government a­ fter the disaster. Dodd’s critique, demonstrating why constant oversight is necessary, is best represented in her voice. First, “to maximize profit, corporations expose us to exactly the level of risk they think their host communities w ­ ill tolerate.”15 Second, the Ocean Ranger and Deepwater Horizon ­were “identical in one crucial regard: in each case, governments anxious to harness petroleum profits for cultural renewal in a ‘have not’ region left oil companies to operate without external regulation.”16 Fi­nally, Dodd reasons that “we live out the destiny moulded for us by g­ reat men instead of participating in demo­cratic deliberations of our own.”17 Corporations attest to best practices, though they fail—­and fail repeatedly—to adhere to their own pronouncements, and more often than not are not checked by state regulations or public inquisitiveness. Instead, the state-­corporate alliance purchases public silence through signed confidentiality agreements and social control by paying affected families. Individual corporations and the broad po­liti­cal economy of oil w ­ ere never punished and have yet to suffer the consequence of their negligence or cavalier attitudes. Much like Canada in its second-­era experience, New Zealand was an O&G frontier with a colonial history of extracting or producing raw resources for export. During the third wave of exploration, it also had too l­ ittle industry know-­how to write and enforce regulations to safeguard coastal communities, the marine environment, and coastal or maritime businesses. It too risked waxing on promises and safety pronouncements and waning on regulatory safeguards. Yet in this case, activist-­citizens inserted themselves and asserted their right of self-­determination beyond state directives and multinational desires. For them, “the Deepwater Horizon changed every­thing. It was the Chernobyl of the oil industry. . . . ​No one had ever thought that ­there was something very, very dif­fer­ent about deepsea drilling.” And then, they experienced Rena.

Rena: An Oil and Cargo Spill Like Deepwater Horizon, Rena was an avoidable disaster and was emblematic of the enduring h ­ azards of oil at sea and along coastlines.18 Rena was a cargo ship traveling outside designated sea-­lanes and rushing to meet a tidal win­dow when it ran aground near the Port of Tauranga. Once lodged on Astrolabe Reef, it began listing, leaking oil, and dropping containers—­a few at a time in response to wind and wave actions and the settling and breaking of the vessel. As oil and cargo fouled the sea and eventually the coastline, ­there w ­ ere striking (yet common) images of oil sheening off the sea, streaking from the wreck, rolling to shore, and covering seabirds and penguins. The affected area ranged from sandy beaches to rocky shorelines, and from tourism towns, such as Mount

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Maunganui, to rural communities, including Maketū, and the inhabited islands of Motiti and Matakana. The disaster occurred when the Bay of Plenty was gearing up for its summer tourism season. The cargo washing ashore included powered milk, meat, leather and animal skins, blocks of butter, rotting food, dry noodle packets, timber, packaging beads, and recycled and bundled trash.19 In interviews, witnesses recalled the container waste as “horrible,” “a mess,” “never-­ending,” and “revolting.” At the time, a journalist wrote, “Rotting sealife, rancid butter and oil combined into a putrid stench that is almost indescribable and totally unforgettable.”20 Fortunately none of the twenty-­five crewmembers w ­ ere injured. The official incident report identified the wreck as “the most challenging marine pollution emergency to have confronted New Zealand in recent history.”21 The disaster was unpre­ce­dented for the nation, but it could have been expected given the traffic and documented shortcuts and haphazard journeys to port. Within hours, the lead responder, Maritime New Zealand (MNZ), declared it a tier 3 national oil spill emergency, the highest response level, in recognition of its status as a “nationally significant” oil spill.22 By global standards, it was a ­little spill. How a BP-­like, multiweek, open-­tap oil disaster would compare if a cargo tanker generated the nation’s highest emergency ranking was an alarming prospect for marine and coastal advocates. As representative of many vessels at sea, Rena led a global life. It was commissioned by an Israeli com­pany, built in Germany in 1989, and sold to a subsidiary of a Greek-­owned group, whose crew and technical management w ­ ere provided by a com­pany based in South Africa. Rena was registered in Liberia, chartered by a Swiss multinational, insured by the Swedish Club, and crewed by Filipinos. A ­ fter the wreck, the o­ wners appointed salvage companies with nineteenth-­century roots in Denmark and the Netherlands, alongside a younger, Florida-­based com­pany (not far from where I live). A tugboat stationed in Taranaki’s offshore oil fields arrived to assist, but it would eventually be replaced by a more stable, Singapore-­based tug designed for rough ­waters and stormy conditions. Once most of the oil was removed from the ship (but not from the sea), focus shifted to removing the containers, enabled by an international, fifteen-­vessel flotilla, including an Australian barge, a vessel flagged in Antigua and Barbuda, and another flagged in Dominica. MNZ had a “planned de­pen­dency on external advice from London Offshore Con­sul­tants” in assessing the grounding and response risks, and it “took expert counsel from the Australian Maritime Safety Authority,” a government agency that responded with a coordinator, eleven members of Australia’s National Response Team, and forty metric tons of equipment.23 Onshore, a British com­ pany held the contract for debris recovery of containers and container goods. Rena revealed a host of systemic trou­bles to observant residents. They realized that the island nation was dependent on extensive international assistance

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that was days and weeks away. They also learned that even though ships ­were supposed to remain three nautical miles north of the reef, many ships took shortcuts even riskier than the path taken by Rena,24 and that ­there appeared to be l­ittle effort to prevent such occurrences from becoming commonplace. “It was kind of unsettling for p­ eople when, during the ­middle of the Rena response, ­there was another vessel that almost ran ashore, almost banged into the rocks at Mount Maunganui,” one affected resident said. “And then it turns out that ­those kinds of events w ­ ere not hugely unusual for a ship to just deviate from the chartered course.” The public also heard that Rena was not being operated with an information system that facilitated geo­graph­i­cal mapping or awareness at sea, and would have cost only $30,000.25 National activists who opposed offshore drilling seized on this disaster, seeking to ingrain in national memory the disconcerting and inherent risks of oil at sea, the state’s lax regulations and ­limited cleanup proficiencies, and the an­ guish the spill brought to the country. Coastal residents’ disbelief at what unfolded led them to doubt the state’s ability to safely manage offshore exploration. ­Those who volunteered in or observed the cleanup effort granted themselves a social license to criticize the state and multinational corporations’ preparedness and ability to safeguard ­human life, wildlife, and the environment.

“A ­Little Government Waits” Once Rena ran aground, it served as a shock motivator for many coastal residents to resist offshore exploration. From the beginning, a sequence of momentous events and inadequate responses occurred. According to worried residents, three good weather days passed without any vis­i­ble activity of officials or salvage crews. By the second day, an oil slick was reported. By the third day, a bird covered in oil was found, and a bird death count had begun. Then bad weather prevented a maritime response. Only on the fifth day did efforts to pump oil from the vessel begin. In interviews and through media accounts, p­ eople expressed how the government and MNZ in par­tic­u­lar dithered, offered uncertain and inadequate responses, and failed to communicate with the public. Nearly two years ­later when I was ­there, the government and MNZ had yet to recover their reputations. “Rena was t­ here for ages, and yet no one was d­ oing anything,” a coastal resident said. “Well, they say they ­were d­ oing something, but it looked like they ­were ­doing nothing.” A citizen-­artist expressed the sentiments of many when painting a public mural with the demand, “Less hui, more do-­ey!”26 In other words, the public wanted to see fewer meetings (hui in Māori) and more action (or “do-ey” in En­glish). Another resident recalled their realization that the government was overwhelmed: “It was two days a­ fter the grounding, we attended our first meeting [with MNZ and other officials]. . . . ​and I asked if we could

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have some equipment to start responding to the oil, and they c­ ouldn’t even offer certainty around that. That’s how much of a mess and chaotic it was.” More than two years a­ fter Rena, a citizen-­poet read this indictment at an antidrilling rally in another part of the country: While the oil spills in the sea, a ­little government waits. While p­ eople line up keen to help, a ­little government waits. While places we got ­free food from get wrecked, a ­little government waits. For five days while the sea was calm, a l­ ittle government waits.27

Through interviews, media accounts, and artistic expressions, an image of an undersized and tentative state apparatus emerged and persisted through the retelling by many of a “­little government” unable to take command of a small, nearshore spill. Although o­ thers cannot fully comprehend the trauma residents would have felt seeing dead or injured wildlife or imagining a damaged reef, one could ache for and possibly understand a small fraction of their distress when reviewing any of the photo­graphs or online videos of the disaster. In contrast to Taranaki residents who w ­ ere surrounded by visual and sensory promotions of the oil industry, residents along the Bay of Plenty ­were affronted by the offense of the product itself. In a way unlike any other, this visual and sensory assault shocked coastal residents, heightened national understandings of the risks of offshore drilling, and galvanized re­sis­tance.

Sweat Equity, Eight Thousand Strong Five days a­ fter the wreck, clumps of oil began washing ashore, appearing on the beach as the spring season began. At this point, MNZ requested that the public stay away from the toxic substance and beach access between Mount Maunganui and Maketū Point—­a distance of about 20 kilo­meters (12.5 miles)—­ was restricted for more than a month.28 Public health warnings ­were clear as reported through the media: “­People should not touch or attempt to clean-up oil, as it is toxic. . . . ​Do not touch anything with oil on it—it is toxic and should not be in contact with skin. Do not take shellfish to eat.”29 ­Later, MNZ retracted its warning ­a fter determining that the heavy fuel oil reaching the shoreline was not toxic to ­human health, or of “relatively low toxicity.”30 With the exception of body bags, funeral pro­cessions, or destroyed homes, few images capture the act of socializing risk as successfully as images of volunteers cleaning up a coastline ­after an oil spill. As oil blackened the sand and became embedded in rocky outcrops, New Zealanders stood up. Eight thousand local and out-­of-­town volunteers registered to participate in the cleanup—­despite the health risks.31 Although organizers could not verify ­whether every­one

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registered actually participated, the number was spoken of in homage to the “world’s largest volunteer effort” to clean up an oil spill.32 Hired teams wore white Tyveks or hazardous material suits, gumboots, and blue gloves. Unused respirators may have hung around their necks. Volunteer groups w ­ ere said to be given supplies, but according to one journalist, “­there was no training given and no real control.”33 According to ­those interviewed, citizens in rural areas wore their own sneakers, shorts, T-­shirts, and plastic h ­ ouse­hold cleaning gloves. Their experiential knowledge of cleaning up a relatively small spill led them to doubt or question the safety of offshore oil exploration. For many, the speed of the volunteer mobilization effort served as a striking contrast to the state’s perceived slow reaction. Coast Care, a group within the Bay of Plenty Regional Council, established an online registry to or­ga­nize volunteers into training sessions and brigades. Before Rena, Coast Care was recognized as a coastal conservation success story ­because of the collaboration between community volunteers and council partners.34 So when Rena struck, Coast Care and its volunteers w ­ ere already committed to each other and the coastline’s protection. “The beaches brought out the best in New Zealand as locals and visitors flocked to the coast ­after the first of the oil came ashore, ­eager to help clean up a­ fter the Rena, and it brought out the worst in the form of ­those national/Crown officials, who at first tried to stop them,” according to one postdisaster analy­ sis.35 The state tried to stop them, perhaps b­ ecause of oil’s toxicity or its own need to control the situation when undergoing a crisis of competency and legitimacy of authority, but the p­ eople persisted.36 According to one antidrilling activist, “It taught us that the officials, when facing a catastrophe like that, all run together and sit around on their computers, on their phones, trying to figure out what to do. And on the other hand, the citizens run out on the beaches and try and clean up the oil spill with their bare hands and buckets and spades and bare feet.” Citizen involvement was described as a way to heal the beach and beach community. “­People ­were yearning to just get out ­there,” recalled one resident. “They ­couldn’t stand by watching the beach get black.” In a survey conducted by the Coast Care volunteer program, volunteers “reported feeling angry, powerless, heartbroken, and concerned” when they first learned of the spill. While volunteers identified several reasons for participating, one encompassing reason was “the concept of kaitiakitanga, such as feeling a sense of duty and responsibility, conservation, a desire to help the community and ­future generations.”37 Once the cleanup effort was completed, volunteers expressed a greater sense of belonging and “genuine bond” to the community. “All differences aside, we just got on with the job. We had a job to do,” one recalled. For another, “it was a ­great experience at the time ­because we had all of ­these government agencies and volunteers and tangata whenua [Māori, p­ eople of the land] groups trying to achieve the same objective.” Residents also identified specific individuals who

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worked steadfastly for the community and the beaches or who revealed to o­ thers a hidden leadership quality that surpassed that of “official leaders.” ­After the cleanup, MNZ and other public officials w ­ ere advised not to “underestimate the connection of communities to significant places. The passion, determination and commitment of the ­people who volunteered, some many times over, is the single most impor­tant ele­ment of the success of the volunteer programme.”38 On the one hand, this study supports ­others in identifying how ­people come together immediately ­after disasters to assist each other, and in ­doing so experience a sense of empowerment, utopia, direction, and communal ties, ­until po­liti­cal or economic interests disrupt such bonds and replace the growing feelings of solidarity and closeness with ideas of competition, elite control, and economic priorities.39 On the other hand, this study pinpoints an omission in studies of citizen-­ scientists and intellectual collaborations,40 in finding that the brute contributions that affected communities make to correct injustice, modify risk, or clean up disasters are significant. Few studies have assessed the meaning or outcome of voluntary, physical l­abor to clean up government incompetence, “routine” accidents, or industry catastrophes. This lapse may be the result of restrictions on public access due to health risks, which limit citizen access and therefore their insights and voices while protecting the polluter from public scrutiny. Paid cleanup crews along the Gulf of Mexico, for example, signed confidentiality agreements, while t­ hose who took high-­paying cleanup jobs a­ fter the Exxon Valdez disaster ­were labeled “spillionaires” for accepting oil money.41 Even though cleanup restrictions protect the health and safety of p­ eople, community ­labor and sensory knowledge of impact have the capacity to strengthen a critical, community-­centered narrative on the risk of oil. Following Rena, some volunteers began speaking at community meetings on coastal issues as a bloc of knowledgeable citizens and “Rena volunteers.” While I am not advocating that social scientists don hazmat suits, the significance of sweat equity or voluntary physical exertion around toxic disasters has not been adequately examined for how the ­labor advances civic understandings and inspires critical inquiry. Hearing from ­those who voluntarily cleaned up elite messes uncovered the insight, license, and legitimacy that physical ­labor bestowed on them. A person’s and community’s unpaid l­ abor granted them the right to speak on the disaster and on other local or national issues related to the coastal environment or oil. Regarding the 2013 legislation to restrict protests near exploration vessels, one person said, “I know that r­ eally rankled a ­whole lot of p­ eople who w ­ ere associated with Rena just b­ ecause it was still very raw. They ­were saying, ‘We’ve just had to clean up all this oil, surely we should be able to express our views about f­ uture oil exploration in our area.’ ” ­Others recognized that while their physical l­ abor was valued in the moment, they w ­ ere excluded or dismissed when trying to offer intellectual insights gath-

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ered from the cleanup. “When it all turned to custard, we w ­ ere kept at arm’s length. You know, ‘Thank you for the help, but ­don’t tell us what to do.’ ” The official postdisaster investigation substantiated t­ hese sentiments for rural Māori in par­tic­u­lar.42 For coastal communities potentially affected by offshore exploration and extraction, Rena warranted attention. First, they observed the state failing to meet public expectations in managing a nearshore wreck and cleaning up a small oil spill. Second, national awareness of eight thousand volunteers d­ oing the job of the state, the port authority, the cargo industry, or some unknown, professional cleanup crew inspired pride in civic engagement, as well as alarm that the contingency plan was reliant on untrained residents. In addition, the individual’s or community’s invaluable sweat equity begot deeper insights and stronger voices, which led to a more profound understanding of the impacts and risks of offshore drilling. For O&G proponents, Rena was an inopportune disaster.

Distinctly Māori For Māori, who lived through Rena and participated in its cleanup, their experiences, expertise, and resources ­were harbingers for what would ­matter to Māori across the country as they began responding to offshore O&G proposals. Not only did Māori suffer distinct impacts, including marked social and cultural disruptions, but they also marshaled their invaluable local knowledge and marae (meeting h ­ ouses and grounds). Each experience lent insight into the potential vulnerability and resilience of Māori communities, and into their motivations and capacities to resist offshore exploration. In recognizing a cultural duality, one person explained that Māori offer “two worldviews” into understanding Rena: “the collective worldview of New Zealanders . . . ​and an iwi worldview, which see ­things in cultural terms that are dif­fer­ent. And so the evaluative pro­cess i­sn’t necessarily just about the science around toxicity. It’s around the nonmaterial values and perspectives.” In interviews, Māori identified pronounced social and cultural distress, valuable (yet undervalued) local ecological knowledge, and the importance of the marae. Social and cultural disruptions included a break in Māori roles, relationships, and ­house­hold securities. For ­those on Motiti, an island of cliffs and rocky shores closest to the wreck, Rena upset the coveted, self-­determined isolation that characterized the self-­governing community of the forty or so inhabitants who lived with few visitors, unpaved roads, and l­ imited electricity. When Rena lodged on Otaiti (Astrolabe Reef), oil and debris washed ashore, he­li­cop­ters flew overhead, mainland officials mobilized, support ships appeared, and professional recovery and volunteer cleanup crews materialized. Yet “the iwi ­didn’t want just anyone traipsing over t­ here and scraping the rocks b­ ecause

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a lot of the rocks and the area are tapu [or sacred]. Well, the w ­ hole island is pretty sacred to the whenua [­people] over ­there,” one person observed. “It got quite culturally sensitive.” On the mainland, youth and sibling bonding practices w ­ ere also interrupted when ­children could not go to the beach. According to one parent, “We are a real poor community and kids ­here have no other playground. The beach is their playground.” When the ­children and young teens ­were unable to go to the beach, the “tuakana princi­ple” was suspended. Tuakana is the practice of teaching, learning, growing up, and growing bonds. “The ­little ones learn how to re­spect their elders [their older siblings], and the elders learn how to show leadership and care for the younger ones. So that ­stopped ­because they w ­ eren’t coming to the beach anymore.” In the ­house­hold, some ­children also observed the stress on their parents and grandparents due to the temporary loss of traditional practices and an uncertainty of when such activities would be pos­si­ble again. When recalling this hardship, one person paused, recovered their breath, and with emotion resumed: One of the kids said, “My nan was angry and she was crying for the kaimoana [seafood].’ Even though it was about a pipi [a bivalve collected at low tide], it goes further than that, it’s about that relationship that y­ ou’ve hurt. I have this relationship with this pipi through whakapapa, through genealogy, through our gods, and it’s been harmed, so my well-­being is being harmed ­because it’s not well. It’s also their cupboard. And it’s a real story, like it is a real truth. Half of the ­people rely for subsistence-­level stuff on collecting kaimoana, and they ­couldn’t do that. They c­ ouldn’t set their fishnets. They ­couldn’t even get in a boat, if they owned a boat, to get mussels b­ ecause ­there ­were booms in place. Observing that was real painful.

Following the Exxon Valdez spill, many coastal Native Alaskans also expressed social and psychological distress due to the loss of traditional and subsistence practices tied to the sea,43 and they continued to express extreme cultural and ecological suffering more than five years ­after the disaster.44 Two years a­ fter Rena, sadness remained near the surface for Māori who w ­ ere involved in organ­izing their communities and cleaning the coastline. “I reflect back to the times of our ancestors and how they would have felt when the impacts of Rena ­were felt, and then I look down at our beach, and I still hurt,” one told me. To convey their anguish and their cultural and ancestral connections with the natu­ral environment, another person said, “­There’s a special relationship that tangata whenua [Māori ­people] have with the environment that’s eternal. And if it’s put in any harm’s way, if it’s extinguished, then ­you’ve lost it forever. It’s how personal it is, and how we re­spect our environment and

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the ancestors or the gods of our environment, and that utmost re­spect and protection.” Beyond the physical impacts, much more was damaged by Rena, and much more could be injured if a larger offshore spill occurred. A second pronounced distinction was Māori expertise, which has been called “real-­time observations based in the traditional ecological knowledge of Native Science.”45 If heeded, Māori knowledge could have facilitated or hastened the cleanup efforts of visiting professionals and non-­Māori volunteers. Yet their firsthand, empirical knowledge of weather patterns, tides, coastlines, cliffs, rivers, and estuaries was often ignored—at least initially. On Motiti, mainland volunteers believed themselves to be experts relative to t­ hose whose intimate understandings of the island ­were cultivated over many generations. One tragicomedy, told to me with some mischievous glee, conveys the potential for cross-­cultural conflicts: “A group of [mainland] volunteers—­prob­ably early twenties or early thirties—­didn’t want to listen to this child [who was supposed to be leading the visiting volunteers]. So the volunteers carried off on their own and ended up getting stuck down the cliff with the incoming tide. And then t­hose same [local Māori] kids had to rescue them. . . . ​Then we’d get government officials saying, ‘Well, you ­can’t have kids as team leaders.’ And we’d say, ‘I would rather have a twelve-­year-­old who knew where they ­were ­going than a thirty-­year-­old who did not know, or ­didn’t want to know, or who thought they knew every­thing.’ ” Intergenerational and cross-­cultural distrust regarding expertise continued to hamper cleanup efforts, even ­after ­those mainland volunteers ­were sent off the island by the elders. Another strug­g le happened over appropriate equipment: “We said we need steel-­capped boots. We need mountain boots, rock-­ climbing boots, and they w ­ ere sending over rubber gumboots. They thought, ‘Ah no, you just want the flash boots over ­there, trying to get on all the good stuff.’ And then they go over ­there, slipping b­ ecause they ­were in gumboots, and the gumboots get stuck in the rocks and their foot comes out. . . . ​And this is what it was. ­They’d looked at us like, ‘What do you know? You ­haven’t done this before. W ­ e’re the experts.’ ” And when the mainland “experts” said they would blast hot w ­ ater to remove the oil, the community asked how they would heat the ­water without electricity. On the mainland, rural communities also disagreed with authorities unfamiliar with their coastline. “When [the Incident Command Centre] came down, they ­were ignoring us,” one resident recalled. “They would place the boom where they thought it would work, and we ­were just sitting ­there saying, ‘When the tide turns we are ­going to have to send five ­people down ­there ­because the boom is ­going to break.’ Sure enough, we’d know on the turn of the tide to send down our boom team to check and to replace it how we had it originally. That continuous ignoring of local knowledge was frustrating, especially when it just added work at this end for us.”

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Recognizing one’s wisdom and voluntary l­abor in comparison with the state’s responses also lent authority to Māori voices. In an interview with two ­people, each one filling in for the other, I was told the following: “Rena has made every­one a bit less shy.” “Yeah, we used to hide in the background.” “Yeah, you used to think that local authority figures w ­ ere someone you listened to, and you just do what you w ­ ere told. And now, it’s, ‘No. Who said we have to do that?’ It has made us, as a p­ eople, stand up a bit more.”

A year ­a fter the wreck, the Maketū (Te Arawa) community designed a research program to incorporate traditional ecological knowledge alongside applied science “to create a roadmap for restoring the mauri [life essence] of the environment to its pre-­Rena state.”46 In describing the disaster as “a wakeup call,” Raewyn Bennett, Te Arawa ki Tai Trust chairperson, advised the greater community, “We all need to pay attention to building environmental resilience, and that includes growing the capacity of our p­ eople, from our pipi pickers to our professors.”47 Two years ­after Rena, Māori still remembered how their local expertise was undervalued and how they had to force themselves into circles of leadership and knowledge sharing. They also sounded disillusioned when recalling how “authorities” or “helpers” w ­ ere shown to be inadequate to the task or dismissive of resident efforts. Yet despite ­these significant obstacles, Māori held an ace in their hand, specifically their marae. The marae is much more than a meeting h ­ ouse. It holds deep significance and historical and symbolic weight for Māori, and it is by invitation that guests enter. Not the first time, but ­a fter subsequent visits to dif­fer­ent marae, my sentiment was one of entering into a community’s home, with a nourishing kitchen and communal dining area, a community living room to gather and discuss, and wide-­open outdoor ceremonial and play spaces. While the cultural import of specific items eluded me, the wall carvings and ancestral portraits conveyed the magnitude of tradition. For a visitor, the marae represented both formal protocol and elegant space, alongside a nested feeling of well-­being when full of ­people and in the care of the hosts. The marae was also a meeting place during the Rena recovery and when Māori deliberated on the O&G proposals. According to Ata Brett Stephenson, “The centrality of the marae to Māori communities is absolute in terms of cultural practice, learning, and development.”48 During disasters, “most marae have well-­established plans for, among other t­ hings, coordinated relief and care in emergency situations.”49 The marae also provides “vari­ous forms of hospitality (accommodation, sleeping, food preparation, meals), as well as the collective and social skills of the p­ eople who regularly associate with it. Heightening

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the usefulness of the marae in disaster preparedness is the high cultural value place on manaakitanga [hosting and care giving].”50 For Māori affected by Rena, the marae served as refuge. It provided a sense of safety and a place to or­ga­nize recovery response plans. By serving in this way, it became a place of honor and pride for host communities. As remembered by one or­ga­nizer, “­Every day a­ fter [the volunteers, workers, and community] had had a cleanup, we put on a feed for them at the marae. It was all voluntary. I think that was part of being based at a marae, and making sure that we look ­after and take care of the volunteers however we could. Making sure that they had had a feed, and that they ­didn’t have any bad experiences even if they ­were a ­little bit uncomfortable coming to a marae, if they ­weren’t used to marae surroundings, and the pro­cesses, and the protocols. So we w ­ ere r­ eally proud of that—­that we had trained, and fed, and looked ­after that many ­people.” On the ­whole, Māori experiences, knowledge, and resources—in both their obscurity and prominence—­were qualities during the Rena disaster that would be called on to appraise O&G expansion plans. Their socioecological knowledge, unique place attachment, and relationship with the coastal environment became critical insights to challenge offshore exploration, while the marae served as sites for town halls and assemblies.

National Re­sis­tance: Now-­or-­Never Focusing Events For antidrilling activists, the message was clear: a BP-­like disaster would be a national calamity beyond the imaginations of most residents and the state. Rena was a regional disaster, but it was a relatively small one compared with the possibility of an uncontrollable flow of oil offshore. For them, the Rena and Deepwater Horizon disasters coalesced into now-­or-­never focusing events to raise doubt about New Zealand’s preparedness and the safety of offshore exploration. So when a public meeting on Petrobras’s offshore interests occurred while oil from Rena was still “washing up on the rocks,” antidrilling activists held a demonstration “dressed in the overalls that the cleaners ­were using with gloves and gumboots and gas masks,” and a banner that read “­You’re right. Oil does create jobs for the coast.” The nation’s self-­inflicted wounds of too l­ittle, too late during Rena—­ alongside the unfathomable scale of the Gulf of Mexico blowout—­would be recalled in interviews, through the media, and at public meetings. In contrast to the erasures enacted or ­adopted in the United States and Canada ­after their own disasters,51 New Zealand’s activists strove to maintain links between disaster experiences and oil exploration. To broaden opposition, they utilized three risk referents: the emotional weight of Rena, the comparative value and scale of the Gulf of Mexico disaster, and the mocking motif of New Zealand’s disaster response fleet as the “three aluminum dinghies.” The image of three dinghies

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underscored their fears and si­mul­ta­neously lampooned the government’s ability to respond to a major disaster. Recollections bridged the horrific ecological damages experienced, observed, or foretold with the satirized response equipment and demonstrated lack of readiness.

Risk Referent I: The Weight of Rena Within the first week of r­ unning aground, Rena deepened understanding of the substance of oil and stimulated national discussions on the risks of offshore drilling and the country’s preparedness plans. Greenpeace Aotearoa New Zealand was one of the first to amplify a lethal association between Rena and offshore exploration in a banner that displayed the oily black body prints of ­little blue penguins, lined up one ­after the other, with the caption, “Rena did this. Deep sea oil drilling could be 1000 times worse.” The ­little blue penguins, which feed at sea and nest along rocky shorelines or hillside burrows, became a “spokes-­ species” for the re­sis­tance.52 Green Party members of Parliament also reinforced the links between Rena and offshore exploration. “We have to put a moratorium on even testing well[s] in New Zealand ­waters ­until we can prove that our oil spill response plans are adequate,” reasoned Gareth Hughes.53 Speaking at a public rally, Catherine Delahunty related her experience: “I went over to the Rena and I scraped oil off the beach. . . . ​When ­you’ve seen that, you ­will never forget. You ­will never forget what a small oil spill can do and how pathetic Maritime New Zealand’s response was.”54 The media bolstered the connections. “Politicians have scoffed at ­those who draw doomsday parallels between Rena and proposed deepwater oil drilling off East Cape, but ­those cautionary voices should be given due consideration,” wrote one journalist.55 Six days a­ fter Rena, the New Zealand Herald editorial board debated offshore drilling: “The ship has not found­ered on some wild and remote part of the coast. . . . ​Environmentalists are fairly asking why a country that depends upon oil imports is not better equipped to deal with a maritime emergency. They also won­der how the Government can contemplate offshore oil drilling when the country is so lamentably ill-­equipped to deal with a spill.”56 In an early online comment, one reader responded, “It has become plainly apparent that New Zealand is woefully ill-­prepared for dealing with even a relatively *minor* oil spill, and yet the Government is still defending & encouraging deep sea oil drilling.”57 The New Zealand Herald also conducted an online survey that asked readers whether the government had acted too slowly.58 ­A fter reviewing the comments of more than four hundred ­people, I found three public positions. One stance supported the dominant oil narrative and long-­running po­liti­cal or economic arguments against the “greenies.” As one respondent wrote, “Be reasonable! ­There have been no lives lost. ­There are plenty more birds where the last lot came

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from.” The second was a critique of standard government and industry practices: “How on earth is one of the busiest ports in NZ operating without basic safety/contingency plans? It ­doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that accidents happen.” The third standpoint expressed worry over deep-­sea drilling: “The reaction was way too slow and we are seriously ­under resourced to deal with spills effectively. . . . ​Meanwhile National [the po­liti­cal party in power] want to open up our w ­ aters for deep sea oil drilling!?” For coastal residents beyond the zone of impact, the spill was expressed to me as “definitely a big wakeup call. . . . ​It brought it home, that’s for sure.” According to an activist, “The ­whole silver lining of Rena is that it launched and spearheaded a w ­ hole lot of grassroots campaigns to come into existence.” Even more cynically, another emphasized, “Our w ­ hole oil response plan was exposed as a joke during the Rena disaster. That was only 350 tonnes of oil, next to the coast, on the surface, and to be honest most ­people went themselves ­because they could see that the government did not know what it was d­ oing. It was a complete and utter disaster.” Rena not only shed light on the risks of a spill, it substantiated national calls to reject offshore exploration. As one activist said, “Rena was like the lead story on the news for three months. . . . ​You just c­ ouldn’t escape. . . . ​So I guess it was seen as an opportunity to suddenly get into the forefront of p­ eople’s minds the real­ity of [offshore drilling].” Antidrilling activists refused to let ­others forget that the Rena experience provided firsthand knowledge of the nation’s inability to manage a relatively small nearshore spill, let alone a major, multimonth blowout far offshore.

Risk Referent II: Gulf Comparisons Rena and the BP disaster also converged into one oily, toxic possibility if offshore drilling began. The iconic images of both spills—­and the connections fostered by the antidrilling camp—­validated perceived risks. “­There is no doubt the two events that put deep-­sea drilling on the agenda for most p­ eople have been the Rena and the spill in the Gulf of Mexico,” stressed one activist. “They just got that saturation of tele­vi­sion coverage that nothing ­else does; and the anguished sense of p­ eople who ­were on the edge of the bay when the Rena oil was washing up. You know the kind of sense that the world is out of control.” For another activist, both disasters “­were gifts.” But it was the spill in the Gulf that magnified public alarm: “Watching the disaster unfold over ­there was, I ­don’t want this to sound bad, it was a real boost to our campaign ­because ­there you had the evidence of how dangerous it was; how the oil industry ­didn’t have the ability to contain it immediately; the desperate attempts they had to try and contain it. . . . ​A ll the dif­fer­ent t­ hings they ­were trying to do to stop it, and they w ­ ere all failing. . . . ​Unfortunately, it is a tragic validation of all of our concerns.” Similarly, at a public meeting on offshore exploration, someone in

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Following the Rena oil spill, New Zealand’s response equipment was ridiculed by antidrilling activists and coastal residents as the “three aluminum dinghies.”

the audience reminded every­one in the room, We w ­ ere appalled with Rena and it was a drop. A BP spill could annihilate us as a country. As narrated by antidrilling activists, p­ eople on the coastal frontiers w ­ ere discovering—­and could not look away from—­oil’s disastrous properties.

Risk Referent III: “Three Dinghies” National scorn of the Rena response and international comparisons with the Gulf disaster also coalesced into public ridicule of the island nation’s coastal and offshore emergency response plan. In interviews with me and the media, ­people referred derisively to the nation’s maritime equipment as a minnow fleet of three ­little dinghies. “When you look at what happened in the Gulf of Mexico, they mobilized ships within hours. You had all t­ hese boats, t­ hese responders, pouring into the Gulf, and ­there was nothing that they could do for three months,” explained one activist. “So I d­ on’t know what we are expected to do with our three ­little eleven-­meter aluminum dinghies. . . . ​They are not much bigger than your average recreational fishing boat.” On the rec­ord, many ­others disparaged the fleet. On MNZ in par­tic­u­lar, Ralph Hogan of the coastal group No Drill Kaikoura wrote, “­Those are the well-­intentioned folks with the three dinghies and a ­whole lot of toxic dispersants.”59 In an interview with the media, Ngai Tahu chair Mark Solomon was

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quoted as saying, “­We’re being used in many ways as an experiment, and as Anadarko admitted on tele­vi­sion, it would take a fortnight to get equipment ­here. Our opposition is about the government not having the pro­cesses to be able to address a spill. The Minister, Simon Bridges, was on tele­vi­sion talking about our response boats—­three 11-­metre aluminum boats! If you look at the (BP) Gulf of Mexico spill, they had over 100 ships trying to contain that. They failed miserably. What are we ­going to do with three aluminum dinghies?”60 John Wathen, a resident of the Gulf Coast who spoke at a conference in Dunedin, described Aotearoa’s remoteness as a “­recipe for failure”: “We had hundreds of ships, thousands of p­ eople at the ready, but we failed. We ­couldn’t keep oil off our shores. . . . ​­There’s no such plan or infrastructure in New Zealand to ­handle anything like this. The nearest boat, the nearest relief well is weeks away—if that’s pos­si­ble.”61 Gareth Hughes, who was consistently out­spoken against offshore drilling, declared at a public rally, “Maritime New Zealand has 3 boats they call skimmers, which are more akin to dinghies. . . . ​I mean let’s be frank; they strug­gled with only 300 tons from the Rena.”62 In Parliament, Hughes called attention to the state’s inadequacies: “We saw two and a half jumbo jets full of oil spill response equipment fly into the country. We saw how woefully unprepared we ­were. . . . ​We see a massive percentage of the oil spill response equipment stored in Singapore.”63 Given New Zealand’s size and geo­graph­i­cal isolation, Rena required extensive international assistance in the form of crew and equipment. And in the case of a deepwater blowout, one assessment indicated that “four jumbo jets full of equipment would need to be deployed to deal with the emergency,” and that it could take two to four weeks to get the equipment from the United Kingdom to the well site.64 Yet no amount of equipment on-­site or imported would be able to adequately address a disaster like the Deepwater Horizon spill, as demonstrated in the Gulf. The connections between disasters and offshore drilling ­were painfully obvious to coastal residents. In comparison with other oil disaster studies, this one demonstrates how the memory and confluence of comparative disasters across place and beyond direct impact may be harnessed by activist groups to transfer one experience onto O&G proposals elsewhere. The Gulf disaster enabled an empirical, sensorial, and inferential comparison with the physically and emotionally lived regional disaster of Rena. Antidrilling groups refused to let the memories and associations of both disasters be forgotten or to be untethered from offshore exploration.

Illusions of Recovery and Safety Major oil disasters mock notions of short-­or even long-­term recovery. Locally caught seafood becomes unsafe; cleanup activities are dangerous; and the oil

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waste transitions into an inheritance toxin carted from one community to another. In what New Zealand’s official review called the “waste train,” approximately ten thousand metric tons of Rena’s oil and sandy oil waste ­were transported approximately seventy miles across the North Island to a landfill.65 In a graphic news account on the volatile and enduring life of oil, a soil microbiologist said it could take up to one hundred years for the oil from Rena to degrade, and a landfill man­ag­er explained how the toxic substance would be contained in a triple-­lined container and how specialized gear would be used to protect employees.66 While elite interests are known to rush the illusion of removal, safety, and recovery, neither science nor technology, politics nor economics, could make oil dis­appear. When proponents of offshore drilling sought to remake the safety of oil (as they had with the promise of oil in Canada), residents offered markedly personal, impassioned, and informed interpretations of risk and injury infused by their connections to each other and the coastal and marine environment. According to one coastal resident, “What is signed off as clean by Maritime New Zealand ­under the national oil spill response plan is a dif­fer­ent standard to what a local person, or a local Māori person, might consider to be an acceptable clean. . . . ​­Here, if residents find any oil on the beach that’s an unacceptable level of contamination.” In one long exchange at a public meeting on the offshore permitting pro­ cesses, multiple attendees batted away the reassurances of a panel of government employees. One recalled the devastation of Rena: “[If ­there is a deep-­sea oil spill,] ­there ­will be more oil in five minutes than in five months of Rena, and the corporation ­will quietly walk away.” To applause, they continued, “­There is one upside and a shitload of downside.” As the panel sought to downplay or negate the risks, one panelist said that ­there was a huge amount of “emotion” surrounding the perception of risk. Another panelist suggested, “Life is not without risk. Take air travel . . . ,” and the audience groaned. Another attendee spoke up and said a spill “would wipe this town out.” In the exchange, a panelist told the audience that they had to keep the risk of a spill in proportion and that New Zealand could provide a rapid and large response, reminding the audience that with Rena, twenty mobilized on day one, two hundred on day four, and more than two thousand by day five. An exasperated resident returned to the proportionality comment by describing Rena as a small spill. Someone e­ lse in the audience reminded the government representatives that they ­were still cleaning it up two years l­ ater. To which the government representative conceded that oil reappears, but it is almost undetectable. Still another audience member reminded the panel why ­people ­were concerned: If you do your research, you find that oil companies act poorly. They are not tidying up a­ fter themselves.67 The seventeenth audience member to speak asked how New Zealand

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with l­ ittle money and few resources could cope if the United States with money and resources could not cope. Both disasters provided ammunition for residents to fight institutional efforts to minimize their worry. While the government sought to restore its reputation by suggesting that lessons had been learned and industry representatives sought redemption by maintaining that the “best practices” would be used ­after the Gulf of Mexico disaster, the memories of both disasters granted citizens the social license and authority to carry their complaints into town halls. They contested offshore drilling proposals by reminding the state and industry alike that the public had yet to forget the ineptness of both institutions. In a postdisaster assessment of the North American oil industry, Susan Dodd reasons that a “refusal of closure” for affected p­ eople “can be po­liti­cally effective, particularly for underdogs. A rational sense of injustice fuelled by obsessive focus and a refusal of comforting stories may be the definition of a critical attitude.”68 In this way, activists in Aotearoa kept the memories of Rena and Deepwater Horizon alive to supplant the dominant paradigm. For a small population at the bottom of the world, ­these oil disasters reached into the homes of many—­whether through the intimate loss of beloved places, or the disquieting sense that economic interests w ­ ere replacing the collective value and interconnectedness of ­human life, traditional practices, ecological well-­being, and cultural taonga or intrinsic trea­sures. New Zealanders showed how past disasters remain relevant when activists or affected communities keep their grievances and painful memories fixed to the risk of exploration and extraction—­particularly in frontier communities and before the industry becomes entrenched through regulatory and cultural capture. For one coastal resident far from the Rena spill, t­ hese two disasters forewarned of potential losses and foretold their re­sis­tance to offshore drilling: The number one concern is impacts on the environment, impacts to the sea, impacts to coastlines, and impacts to marine animals and shellfish, and our traditional lifeways, such as being able to go down to the beach and gather kaimoana or seafood. That concern is very much on the back of two t­ hings in ­peoples’ consciousness: one is the blowout of the Macondo well, so the Deepwater Horizon; and the other is the wreckage of the Rena, which happened in Tauranga about three years ago. ­Those two ­things have become, in my opinion, conflated as the evils of oil on coastlines. Th ­ ose are key reference points for ­people.

6

Marine Justice Defending the Seas, Claiming the Coastline We have a value called kaitiakitanga, which is a guardianship. And for centuries the ocean has looked a­ fter us. . . . ​A nd now we need to look ­a fter our oceans.

In defense of the ocean and coastlines, coastal residents, beach lovers, and marine activists drew a line in the sand against offshore oil and gas (O&G) exploration. From the shores of Aotearoa, this chapter advances a framework for marine justice and coastal and marine sociology, inclusive of an island ­people’s culture, knowledge, stewardship, and tradition of activism at sea. The scale of New Zealand’s O&G potential invoked the image of an underwater Saudi Arabia. As noted by one antidrilling activist, “The government was marketing New Zealand as a big—­the Saudi Arabia of the South Pacific—­kind of ­thing. Come ­here and ­we’ll support you if you want to invest.” According to another, “The fear is that if t­ here ­were g­ reat oil deposits, . . . ​and they find a mini–­Saudi Arabia, ­there would be a rush ­here. You would have so many rigs that when you look out to sea, ­things would start to change.” Activists ­were describing what Michael Watts has identified as the “­great deepwater land grab.”1 ­Whether the deposit projections ­were accurate or ­were 80

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used to court major corporations was uncertain. But from the maps and activist assessments, it was clear that offshore permits ­were being granted or considered in five basins off both the North and South Islands, totaling more sea surface than the landmass of the North Island.2 New Zealand’s exclusive economic zone (EEZ), which extends the country’s economic rights two hundred nautical miles out to sea, represented an oceanic area that was “22 times that of New Zealand’s land area” and potentially “billions of dollars worth of resources including petroleum.”3 In this marine environment, t­ here is no local jurisdiction, and kaitiakitanga (the practice of Māori guardianship) is not officially recognized.4 Consent is established through the Environmental Protection Authority; however, corporations that acquired offshore permits before 2012 and during the time of coastal disasters w ­ ere not required to get marine consents. Instead, they w ­ ere allowed to set their own standards, guidelines, or impact assessments. Without a national history of deepwater drilling, the offshore blocks w ­ ere, for the antidrilling camp, “essentially the Wild West in terms of environmental regulation.” If all of the proposed blocks ­were permitted and O&G ­were found, New Zealand would become an island nation almost encircled by blocks, rigs, platforms, and transport and supply ships—­save for the west coast of the South Island. Once in operation, some rigs or platforms ­were expected to be vis­i­ble or witnessed as industrial sky glow from shore. O ­ thers would be invisible—­ potentially placing them out of sight and out of mind. Depths ranged from 1,400 meters, about the depth of the Deepwater Horizon Macondo Prospect in the Gulf of Mexico, to 3,100 meters. Underscoring the severity of conditions, Exxon Mobil in 2010 relinquished its exploration permit in the G ­ reat South Basin at the country’s southern tip in part ­because of the “remote location,” “harsh operating environment,” and “high technical risk.”5 To understand how New Zealanders responded to living near a marine frontier in a time of known disasters and climate change, this chapter provides a comparative analy­sis of competing narratives of deepwater exploration offered by three coastal communities and Greenpeace. While some defended the sea and coastline in the interest of cultural taonga (the intrinsic value of natu­ral trea­sures), o­ thers aligned with state and corporate interests in adopting capital taonga (the privatization of natu­ral resources) as a primary driver, and still ­others shifted along a continuum between the two. The affected communities and or­ga­nized campaigns w ­ ere broad in scope, ranging from rural Māori communities throughout the East Cape and East Coast of the North Island, who mobilized against the Brazilian corporation Petrobras, to multiple communities on both the North and South Islands who aligned against Anadarko, a U.S. corporation with multiple offshore interests. The national activist group Greenpeace Aotearoa New Zealand supported local efforts, researched potential impacts, and generated national awareness. On the

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South Island, the w ­ hale watching ecotourism community of Kaikoura developed economic, ecological, and cultural arguments against offshore exploration, while the university town of Dunedin and the greater Otago region ­were divided by pro-­and antiextraction co­ali­tions and broad public support for the corporation with the global brand name, Royal Dutch Shell. In combination and to varying degrees, t­ hese four cases (Greenpeace and the communities of East Cape, Kaikoura, and Otago) represented the hallmarks of an emerging marine justice frame. Coastal residents mobilized in defense of the local marine life and for their coastal cultures and identities. Nationwide, ­people saw marine or coastal activism as a tradition among island ­people, and coastal p­ eople who ­were directly affected used their deep marine knowledge to ­counter industry or state promotions. At this time, many New Zealanders perceived the global seafaring commodity chain of O&G, as embodied in the arrivals of Petrobras, Shell, and Anadarko, as one of the greatest threats pressing in on them. This chapter advances saltwater and coastal sociology (or sociologies) by inviting social scientists to explore the ocean through the lenses of po­liti­cal economy, justice, culture, and knowledge.6 Nautical meta­phors or an aquatic lexicon w ­ ill replace more common terra-­centric word choices and concepts—­ not as a gratuitous or gimmicky device but as an illustration of the dominance of landlubber orientations and descriptors. Despite the fact that Earth is a planet with more salt w ­ ater than surface soil, and despite the variety and vastness of coastal communities, economies, and work and play spaces at sea, the En­glish language is replete with terrestrial, rather than seafaring, standpoints. Or­ga­nized re­sis­tance for some interpretation of coastal or offshore justice began in 2010 and was energized by the disasters in the Gulf of Mexico and Bay of Plenty. In 2013 when I arrived, ­people who ­were already committed to their coastal communities, shorelines, aquatic spaces, and saltwater environments w ­ ere alarmed by the speed and scale of proposals and exploratory rigs. “It is very new for New Zealand to suddenly have this massive big power­f ul industry schmoozing with government,” one activist said. “It is this feeling of urgency, ‘Gotta get in ­there quickly.’ It is happening under­neath our noses, before anyone ­really realizes what is ­going on.” In response to the industry’s arrival, citizens showed up, spoke up, and acted up. As a collective, they ­were committed to the survival of something other than and much greater than themselves. Yet they ­were not alone, and competing activisms for and against drilling meant that the nation grappled with what was more precious: the sea and coastline or the possibility of underwater O&G fields. As a multisited coastal ethnography, this chapter links several communities dotted along the shoreline to advance saltwater and coastal sociologies, and to encourage greater and submerged so­cio­log­i­cal imaginations and theorization nearshore and far offshore. As a case, extractive industries are particularly suitable for social aquatic analy­sis as they exhibit a history, much like disasters, of

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upending the status quo and revealing where rhe­toric and action converge, deviate, or capsize. As a case in point and despite New Zealand’s ­imagined love affair with its marine environment, the nation watched the decimation of its dolphin pool, drilled for O&G near the Taranaki shoreline with ­little national concern, and may enable (by ignoring) practices of h ­ uman and ecological vio­ lence on some of its commercial fishing boats. In the past, economic interests challenged and won over constructs of coastal stewardship, but with new threats, including offshore exploration and climate change, groups and communities w ­ ere mobilizing in defense of the ocean.

Coastal and Saltwater Sociology With only a few exceptions,7 the field of sociology has skimmed the ocean’s surface—­despite its import, and even though p­ eople live, work, study, play, pray, and feed at sea and along its landline. The ocean transports ­people and consumer goods, conceals militaries, and floats debris from one continent to another. It serves as a conduit of globalization and as a waste depository, aquatic habitat, and reserve of minerals and fossil fuels. ­People pollute and exploit it; some are calmed or energized by it. Yet doggedly, sociologists have ignored it. For the discipline, the ocean is one of the final frontiers for research, emergent ideas, novel ethnographies, and the testing of land-­based concepts. In the absence of an accepted umbrella term, sociologists have used marine sociology, maritime sociology, and sociology of oceans.8 Saltwater sociology resonates as well. The other side of this inquiry or field of study is coastal sociology, and thus ­there is the potential for a plurality of aquatic and coastal sociologies.9 When social scientists ventured into the ocean, their sea legs came from the perspectives of culture, the environment, geopolitics, l­abor, and social constructionism, and through cases of aquaculture, climate change, commercial fishing, disaster, ­offshore extraction, plastic pollution, and shipping.10 If one looks, the flows and fluidity of the ocean redirect philosophically landlocked orientations of place t­ oward ocean spaces, thereby challenging “ ‘terracentric’ epistemology,” or the “implicit conflation of land and society.”11 As such, saltwater and coastal sociology invites a broad utility of spatial prepositions pertaining to how socie­ties and po­liti­cal economies experience the ocean: at, on, in, with, by, beside, along, beneath, u­ nder, or through it. In the absence of robust so­cio­log­i­cal voices, many ­others, including marine journalists, biologists, ecologists, geographers, and novelists, as well as dreamers, thinkers, captains, and activists, have offered their insights on ­people connecting with the sea.12 For nations and corporations, the ocean represents a global economy and global display of power and privilege. As such, oceans have been carved into domestic and global commons, offshore factories, and sea-­lanes for transporting p­ eople and commercial goods. Since 1982, each coastal nation has governed

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its own EEZ, which, worldwide, accounts for about 41 ­percent of the ocean.13 International w ­ aters beyond the EEZs represent a vast blue space with l­ imited regional or international oversight, regulation, or agreement. Within and beyond EEZs, wealthy nations and power­ful corporations have engaged in a history of exploitation and “oceanic imperialism.”14 In New Zealand, a government report advocating for increased O&G extraction chided civil society as being ill informed on the importance of the marine environment as an economic engine: “Our marine environment is intricately linked to our society and economy. Almost all our imports and exports, both of value and volume, pass through the marine environment; most of our oil and gas reserves are located offshore; and our fishing industry is significant. Yet ­there is ­limited understanding of how much ­these and other activities together contribute to New Zealand’s economy.”15 Ignored ­were the maritime abuses. In addition to the Rena disaster, New Zealand’s ­waters have been the site of “floating sweatshops” and modern-­day enslavement of Indonesian and Filipino crews.16 When Māori iwi (tribes) won treaty rights to fish commercially, all iwi ­were given 10 ­percent of the existing quota, 20 ­percent of ­future stock quotas, and a half share in the com­pany Sea­ lord, which eventually became a Māori-­owned fishing com­pany.17 The squid industry in par­tic­u­lar, whose quota was held exclusively by Māori and leased to South Korean interests, displayed the global complexities, national privileges, and international injustices of the marine economy. So when a ministerial report suggested that all fishing vessels be reflagged to force compliance with national laws in order to reduce the risk of ­labor abuses and ecological pollution, some Māori with commercial fishing interests argued that the change would impair their treaty rights.18 It appeared that acts of vio­lence on leased fishing vessels warranted less concern or protection than Māori treaty rights to practice commercial fishing at their own discretion. A Māori cap­i­tal­ist is still a cap­i­tal­ist. Underwater, un­regu­la­ted fishing practices also led to the decline of the world’s smallest dolphin. Before the 1970s, ­there w ­ ere approximately 30,000 Hector’s dolphins in New Zealand’s ­waters. Through the use of longer and larger nylon gill nets for commercial and recreational purposes, the population was reduced to about 7,000. The population of an even rarer subspecies, Maui’s dolphin, was reduced by almost 90 ­percent to an estimated 110. While marine sanctuaries and regulations w ­ ere established in the late 1980s, the sobering assessment was that “Maui’s dolphins ­will take more than two centuries to recover to half their abundance before fishers began setting gill-­nets, and more than 1000 years to fully recover to that 1970s population, if at all.”19 When explaining why ­human activity in the twentieth ­century damaged the oceans more than all of the preceding centuries combined, marine scientist Sylvia Earle identifies a h ­ uman “attitude that the ocean is so vast, so resil-

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ient, it ­shouldn’t ­matter how much we take out of—or put into it.”20 Yet individual or cultural explanations for any phenomenon conceal the degree of po­liti­cal or economic influence over a group’s opportunities or constraints. When offshore oil exploration was expanding into frontier ­waters during the second wave of extractive activities in the United States, California residents rejected it given their sense that ocean access and coastal views w ­ ere a birthright.21 In contrast, Louisiana residents with a tradition of extracting resources from the bayous accepted Big Oil’s possession of the Gulf. In another part of the country, New En­glanders believed that the sea was governed by commercial fishers.22 According to Native Hawaiians and Oceanic p­ eople of the South Pacific, “The ocean is where we [Oceanic p­ eople] cleanse, dance, play, train, and die. It is the point from which we have always leapt off, physically and philosophically, into our pasts and our ­futures.”23 The absence or presence of large-­ scale extractive industries in t­ hese regions directed residents’ “cultural” practices and interpretations of the sea. For New Zealanders, the coast “is deeply ingrained in [their] culture and identity.”24 Yet the examples of commercial fishing activities and the near loss of a marine species suggest other­wise. For them, the need to differentiate coastal identities and rights reached crisis proportions during legislative debates on Māori tradition and customary rights to the foreshore and seabed. Th ­ ose debates w ­ ere triggered when the tribe on the South Island attempted to engage in commercial aquaculture and was blocked by the state from ­doing so. The dispute hinged on w ­ hether the foreshore and seabed w ­ ere owned by the Crown, except for areas already in private owner­ship, as legislated,25 or w ­ hether they ­were part of the taonga protected by the 1840 treaty, as reasoned by the Waitangi Tribunal. The dispute over owner­ship became “an extremely emotional one b­ ecause the identity and self-­awareness of all New Zealanders is strongly bound up with the coast.”26 To repeal this legislation, Māori split from the ­Labour Party and formed the Māori Party.27 For New Zealanders, the sea hugs them in, holds them together, and divides them. The sea carried first ­people and second settlers to the islands; and for Māori, the sea has the twin role of linking them to their ancestors and separating them from their past: “The sea acts as a barrier, stretching beyond the horizon to Hawaiki where the spirts go, and separating you from your kindred dead who, in life, gathered kaimoana (seafood) from the rock pools at your feet.”28 While New Zealanders are connected by an ocean-­borne migration story and share in how their memories, securities, sustenance, and culture link them to the coast, Māori possess distinct historical and con­temporary traditions and relationships with the marine environment and with each other through the marine environment. When I asked ­people about the sea or coastline, many of them veered far beyond their contention with offshore drilling to explain the

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depth of their opposition. One coupled colonialization and the Rena spill: “If ­there’s an oil spill, we w ­ ill lose our kaimoana. That means we w ­ on’t be able to share that practice of gathering, . . . ​and for us that means we ­can’t share it with the next generation. It’s not just taking away food, it’s wiping out that history. And I think what is extra hurtful for iwi is that when Pākehā [white p­ eople] came to New Zealand, the first t­ hing they tried to do is wipe our culture out. . . . ​ Losing your culture is a terrible, terrible ­thing to happen ­because a part of you ­doesn’t exist. . . . ​­There’s a cultural identity looking to be lost if t­ here’s an oil spill.” When asked the meaning of the coast, ­those of Eu­ro­pean descent also replied with both personal understandings and a national allegiance: “New Zealanders have this quite strong sense of loyalty or responsibility to the sea.” As another said, “If you told New Zealanders tomorrow that they w ­ eren’t g­ oing to have access to their beaches any longer, you’d get an uproar.” At an Oil ­Free ­Future conference, one speaker confirmed this bond by quantifying the perceived or ­actual u­ nion: “75 ­percent of New Zealanders live near the ocean, 90 ­percent of our territory is ­water.”29 For an island nation with a colonial history and complex pre­sent, both the sea and offshore drilling possessed the potential to unite or splinter them further. If their coastal affinities inspired re­sis­tance to offshore activities, their marine literacy served as a tool of re­sis­tance. One of the best accounts of the durability, flexibility, and vitality of community-­based ocean knowledge is found in the study of Hawaiian tourism and surfing culture, in which “waves of knowing” and living persisted despite past exploitation and exclusion. Hawaiian seafaring communities possessed “oceanic literacy” or “the applied knowledge of seascape epistemology,” an ocean-­based knowledge that affirmed cultural practices and resisted marginalization, while connecting islanders across generations and to their Oceanic neighbors.30 Such knowledge empowered and nourished an Oceanic ­people and offered them an alternative to colonial appropriations and neo­co­lo­nial commercialization.31 Knowing the tides, waves, and rhythms of the sea enabled Hawaiians to live with “mobility, flexibility, and dignity within a Western-­dominant real­ity.”32 For Māori, early navigation to Aotearoa confirmed their own expertise. “We are sea voyagers, navigators, ­peoples of first exploration and discovery dif­fer­ ent from t­ hose who came l­ ater following predetermined routes,” writes Ata Brett Stephenson to correct colonial narratives and assumptions. “We followed the birds, the stars, and the swells—we did not just drift with the winds.”33 Likewise, island-­to-­island navigation in the South Pacific was one of rest stops and markers, in contrast to the Western navigator, “who voyages across a vast and formless plane . . . ​devoid of place-­specificity.”34 Further still, Māori identified underwater volcanoes along the Ring of Fire before con­temporary scientists documented them.35 And during the Rena cleanup, Māori recognized that a

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broader appreciation of their coastal knowledge would have aided cleanup efforts. Over time many Indigenous island communities and traditional fishers w ­ ere forcibly separated from or denied their traditional routes and specialized knowledge by colonial, postcolonial, neo­co­lo­nial, global, and commercial disruptions. Con­temporary marine extractors also failed to listen to local users and instead—as on land—­implemented a saltwater treadmill of destruction.36 Proindustry regulations that ignored local fishers or traditional knowledge led to the “managed annihilation” of marine life as state “management” plans destroyed the commercial fish populations.37 Marine man­ag­ers and policy makers are now arguing for a stronger sense and practice of “marine citizenship,” in which individuals possess rights, responsibilities, and obligations to the sea.38 “Marine citizenship” sounds like Indigenous, traditional, or Māori kaitiakitanga. Apparently, ­after permitting or tolerating extensive destruction and profiteering, marine “man­ag­ers” are now turning to traditional local users for assistance. For an island nation nearer to Antarctica than the headquarters of O&G corporations, New Zealand’s collective history, culture, and identity foretold a spirited challenge to offshore drilling. Likewise, its inhabitants’ history of international activism and activism at and for the sea portended that they would build a broad campaign willing to confront entities much larger than themselves. The ocean possessed unassailable meaning worthy of a mobilized defense,39 and protesting at and for the sea w ­ ere iconic acts of New Zealand’s collective history, culture, and identity.

A Harbinger: Punching beyond the Shoreline Despite being a nation of four million ­people, New Zealanders embodied a history and reputation of possessing a transnational consciousness, inserting themselves into world politics, and punching beyond their shorelines, ­whether against nuclear testing in the South Pacific, apartheid in South Africa, land grabs by British settlers, or Japa­nese whaling in Pacific w ­ aters. When Prime Minister Jacinda Arden introduced herself and the country to the United Nations General Assembly in 2018, she referenced the 1980s and her youth as a time when “we ­didn’t just observe international events, we challenged them.”40 Her statement reminded New Zealanders and an international audience of the country’s cultural willingness to engage in acts of global defiance. Their antinuclear and proenvironmental stance was established in the 1960s, strengthened in the 1970s when Greenpeace opened an Auckland office, and deepened further when an environmental po­liti­cal party was formed.41 New Zealanders campaigned at sea against nuclear testing in the South Pacific and fought entry of nuclear-­armed and nuclear-­capable ships into their harbors. When they attempted to block U.S. military ships with small vessels, private

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boats, and even surfboards, they generated national pride, international media attention, and iconic images of individuals facing off against the military might of a global power at sea. The antinuclear campaign was broad-­based ­because of the public’s fear of radioactive exposure and frustration over their own government’s reluctance or inability to defend the young and geo­graph­i­ cally isolated nation from Eu­ro­pean testing activities in the South Pacific.42 New Zealanders succeeded in adopting a nuclear ban in 1984, and the country remains nuclear-­free ­today. For their nuclear ban and activism in domestic and international ­waters, they stood alone without peers. Subsequently, the activist community bonded and an identity emerged, and when offshore drilling was announced, past achievements w ­ ere recalled to sustain themselves and the next generation. At public events and in personal interviews, they recited successful acts of re­sis­tance as national tradition to stand on the right side of world history. “[The multinational corporations] understand that we may be small but we do punch above our weight, and we can become quite influential leaders,” advised one anti­ drilling activist. At a public rally, Greenpeace campaigner Steve Abel also reminded the crowd of the nation’s past success: We can do it. We can stop this. We need to see this flotilla, and this gathering, and all of t­ hese gatherings happening around the nation as an ongoing strug­gle that we w ­ ill continue ­until such time that it is made clear to this government and subsequent governments, and this com­pany, and subsequent companies, and any com­pany that comes and looks h ­ ere that they are not welcomed. They are not wanted, and all attempts that they make to establish themselves in this part of the world ­will be met with resolute re­sis­tance. And that’s how we got rid of nuclear ships. . . . ​[­There are] many, many other examples that we could give in this country of where p­ eople have stood resolute and determinedly for years upon years to get the outcomes that are necessary for us to have a society that is functional and sustainable and that represents the values that we hold as a nation, which are the integrity of our oceans and our coastlines.43

At rallies, Greenpeace offered audiences energy and maritime civic lessons. As a younger coastal activist explained, “We are r­ eally trying to work on that kind of public mandate so that New Zealand becomes a l­ ittle bit like the nuclear-­ free issue where it d­ oesn’t even m ­ atter what government or what policies are in. The p­ eople see this as our identity that we ­don’t allow this in our country.” Activists ­were experienced and shrewd enough to recognize the drudgery and requisite land-­based l­ abor to build a visually compelling movement at sea and along the country’s coastlines. Boat and beach protests w ­ ere emotionally gratifying, but the necessary work also occurred before and ­after: in calling and

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writing letters to government officials and the media, designing educational brochures, conducting research, documenting and investigating harmful elite decisions or actions, attending town hall meetings, speaking with neighbors, organ­izing community meetings, and filing lawsuits, to name a few activities. Putting coastal communities and aquatic ecosystems with no history of O&G extraction in the path of becoming a deepwater factory elicited coastal and national responses. Local groups included Deep Sea Oil Watch in Auckland, No Drill Kaikoura, and the Oil ­Free groups of Auckland, Otago, Otautahi (Christchurch), and Wellington. Coastal residents new to re­sis­tance found stable mooring in Greenpeace’s lead and past experiences. Other established organ­izations included 350 Aotearoa, the Environmental Defence Society, and Forest & Bird. While this chapter focuses on three communities (East Cape, Kaikoura, and Otago), many o­ thers mobilized, including in the towns or regions of Auckland, Christchurch, Napier, Nelson, Northland, Raglan, Taranaki, and Wellington. Given how antithetical offshore drilling was to Kiwi identity and lifestyle, each corporation was met with increasingly stronger and more networked and knowledgeable co­ali­tions.44 New Zealanders mobilized ­because of the “importance of beaches to ‘who we are.’ ”45 Green Party member of Parliament Gareth Hughes told Parliament that p­ eople want “to be able to build a sandcastle with [their] c­ hildren and put out the cray pot with [their] kids—­that is a Kiwi right.”46 Many coastal advocates personalized the connection: “Most of the population ­will live near a coast, so it’s not like an aspirational ­thing [to visit the beach one day]. . . . ​It’s not like you are fighting for somebody ­else’s beach, you are fighting for your beach.” Despite their expressions of such a strong affinity for the coastline, they had for de­cades lacked interest in the shallower O&G activities in Taranaki. For many recently converted antidrilling activists alarmed by third-­wave expansions, Taranaki’s nearshore ­waters had already been sacrificed and its ­people ­were perceived as compliant or complicit participants. “­There are two drilling rigs coming at the moment to do shallow ­water off Taranaki, and no one w ­ ill be protesting on that,” one activist said. “It’s not that they agree with it, it’s just that I think p­ eople accept that t­ here is a fundamental difference” in scale, depth, risk, and local attitude. According to another, “I never thought about campaigning on Taranaki ­because I d­ idn’t see that it had all of ­those hooks for getting ­people involved and for getting ­people to start to think about the switch from dirty energy. It is an industry that has been around for so long, but deep-­sea oil is a brand-­new industry in New Zealand.” Taranaki would become a region of sacrifice for a more sustained national campaign against offshore exploration elsewhere. During New Zealand’s third wave of exploration, O&G activities ­were occurring in frontier ­waters and near frontier communities and coastlines.

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Unlike the ongoing activities in Taranaki, t­ hese expansion plans w ­ ere met by a power­ful wave of re­sis­tance. Across the East Coast of the North Island, Māori threw down the first gauntlet against the Brazilian corporation Petrobras. Their rejection of becoming a sacrificial zone confirmed in the nation’s imagination that rural Māori ­were mobilizing and w ­ ere claiming that the nearby sea was ­under their guardianship. On the South Island, the community of Kaikoura followed, rising up on the back of a new tradition in marine conservation, small-­ town sustainability efforts, coastal and marine tourism, and a delicate balance of strong Māori and Pākehā voices committed to the marine environment. They squared off against U.S.-­based Anadarko and the central government. In the Otago region south of Kaikoura, a more youthful group in the university town of Dunedin confronted a proindustry campaign advocating for offshore natu­ ral gas as a transition fuel. They confronted the behemoth Shell, which was well received in the region, and the lesser-­known Anadarko, which was not. Across ­these sites, Greenpeace buoyed local campaigns.

Māori versus Petrobras The first protest was Māori led, occurring with a series of beach bonfires to protest the permit pro­cess, the lack of community consultations, and the impending arrival of Petrobras.47 When the government failed to address public consent concerns, a second bonfire was or­ga­nized, bringing together the Māori communities Te Whānau ā Apanui and Ngāti Poruo and environmental groups. For Māori, beach bonfires symbolize that the land or coastline is already occupied. They “symbolize that the home fires are still burning ­here, so you have to answer to us: Te ahi kā. . . . ​­Don’t come in like you are raiders and pirates from the Ca­rib­bean. We are the home crowd.” Over time, Greenpeace would nationalize the campaign, but the first act of defiance was owned along the shoreline and at sea by Te Whānau ā Apanui. While ­there ­were conflicting accounts of how diligently the government sought iwi inclusion, ­there was consensus that the pro­cess appeared underhanded, expedited, and in ser­vice of private and national interests rather than public and local ones. It was believed that the government took an initial silence from iwi “as consent, to go ahead with it.” As the time got closer for the arrival of Petrobras’s survey vessel, the Orient Explorer, “the arrogance [of the government] was extraordinary. It was like, ‘We ­don’t give a damn about them.’ ” Equally impor­ tant was the common perception of the government’s inadequate response to Rena, which gave Te Whānau ā Apanui “a good reason to say this is why we d­ on’t want drilling ­here. They ended up having more ­people joining them, and they have more legs to stand on.” Eventually, the community met with Petrobras. According to one recap, “Petrobras had no experience in New Zealand, and took very l­ittle advice on

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how to engage with the community effectively. Perhaps in other places the ‘natives’ a­ ren’t as or­ga­nized or as informed. ­Here was a ­great l­ awyer, a member of the tribe who is incredibly articulate in traditional tribal views as well as engaged in the l­egal aspects of t­ hings, and she just shot the entire pro­cess to bits.”48 Another observer joked, “Petrobras got handed a big lemon. . . . ​The Brazilian government ­didn’t even know what the Treaty of Waitangi was.” If lessons w ­ ere learned, subsequent multinational corporations would study the treaty before arriving. At the height of tensions in 2011, in the practice of coastal p­ eople, Māori and Greenpeace launched a flotilla of boats to interrupt the Orient Explorer. The government responded with the deployment of the navy and air force, including Pukaki, the navy vessel that had been recognized for its ecological and humanitarian work during Rena and the Christchurch earthquake. On this mission, it was employed to hinder protesters and defend the Brazilian corporation. The military boarded the protest vessels and ordered the boats to maintain a distance of two hundred meters from the survey ship. Tensions culminated in the arrest of one protest captain, Elvis Teddy, who tried to block the survey ship with his small fishing boat. During Teddy’s court hearing, protesters brought more than 140,000 signatures demanding Parliament to “abandon its fossil fuels agenda”49 and to invest in a cleaner and greener economic portfolio for greater security and resilience.50 The Māori-­Greenpeace flotilla resonated culturally and historically across the country. Their collaborative campaign had all the hallmarks of a p­ eople proud of and accustomed to life at sea and moving closer t­ oward a shared identity as New Zealanders, an island and coastal p­ eople. The ocean served as an extension of themselves, and as a forum in which to stage a fight. The fight itself was a national display of cross-­ethnic, cross-­settler solidarity against offshore exploration beyond Taranaki. The arrest also provoked a debate over who had jurisdiction in the EEZ. For one observer, “The tribe argued that they ­were exercising their traditional rights with fishing in their ­waters, . . . ​so they had as much right to be t­ here as Petrobras.” In recognition of the public’s growing and collaborative campaign of re­sis­ tance, the state implemented a five-­hundred-­meter exclusion zone around maritime vessels, making it illegal to protest near oil ships, rigs, or platforms. By placing the military in the EEZ in defense of O&G and against residents and citizen-­activists, the state revealed its alliance with incoming multinational corporations.51 Greenpeace interpreted the amendment as the mechanism by which the government was “altering our laws to make access easier for foreign oil companies while cracking down on the right of New Zealanders to peacefully protest at sea.”52 ­A fter only one month in New Zealand w ­ aters, Petrobras departed and released its permit, citing insufficient reserves or poor survey results.

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The Petrobras expulsion campaign demonstrated the potential power of single-­issue collaborations between Māori and Greenpeace. From the perspectives of inside observers, both Māori and predominantly white environmental organizers overcame con­temporary doubt and historical suspicion of each other to align against two greater threats: a proextraction government and the arrival of multinational corporations. According to one participant observer, Māori p­ eople in general are very suspicious about engaging with ­others in regards to m ­ atters that are close to their heart b­ ecause ­there h ­ asn’t been a happy history of relationships between Māori and the early settlers. It was the usual land grabs that you see, the denial of authority, the subjugation of customary rights and traditional practices that happen around the world. . . . ​So ­there is a fairly high level of mistrust. For outsiders coming in, it’s the same: “We are ­going to look ­a fter you. We are ­going to protect you. We are to help you.” Our experiences tell us that that d­ oesn’t quite work out the way it is portrayed. So I guess Greenpeace is no dif­fer­ent to any other NGO [nongovernmental organ­ization] or indeed to any other government organ­ization—­there was a high level of suspicion about them. . . . ​[Nevertheless] t­ here was a lot of goodwill on behalf of the Whānau ā Apanui p­ eople, and ­there was a lot of goodwill on behalf of Greenpeace to kind of get it right, to make the relationship work. We w ­ ere coming together on an issue. ­There was common concern, and while we ­were campaigning together on that issue, the relationship would endure for that purpose. . . . ​A nd so ­there is a ­whole lot of residual goodwill that has been left as a result of that from Greenpeace t­ owards Te Whānau ā Apanui p­ eople and from Te Whānau ā Apanui back to Greenpeace.

Past studies indicate that Māori had responded to the expansion of extractive industries in three ways: “as an economic opportunity”; “as a discussion around Treaty rights; or as an environmental issue requiring strong opposition in order to carry out traditional and enduring relationships with Papatūānuku [­Mother Earth], Tangaroa [God of the Sea] and f­ uture generations.”53 ­These three orientations also mimicked the tensions between Māori and environmental groups: tensions over employment opportunities;54 tensions over Māori strength and in­de­pen­dence through legislative openings, treaty settlements, and mandated seats at the ­table;55 and tensions over who governed the practice of kaitiakitanga.56 Kaitiakitanga was a belief ­adopted by environmental and conservation groups, but it was also one governed and articulated by Māori in­de­ pen­dent of conservation groups. As marine guardians, Māori communities recognized an obligation to marine species and ecosystems. Their claims to practice and determine traditional customs w ­ ere supported by the Resource Management Act, the Department of Conservation, and the Settlement Claims

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Act, which provided Māori the tools to contest cultural and ecological impacts separately from other residents and local councils. Of equal importance to the formation of a Māori–­environmental group alliance was how it woke the nation to the possibilities of prospecting and militarizing the open sea for O&G. For other affected communities, a baton of inspiration and conviction had been passed. “This is new territory for us,” one coastal resident said. “The encounter with Petrobras was the first sort of feeling that ­there was something alien coming to our shores.” Coastal residents ­were also discovering the division between local council control within nearshore ­waters and national control within the EEZ. “We started looking into the permitting regime and realized that central government was issuing permits all over our area without the council or public or iwi being involved,” an activist said. For p­ eople who saw themselves as civic minded and engaged, t­ here was a hint of embarrassment for being caught unawares. “I was r­ eally surprised,” recalled one. “I d­ idn’t have my eye on the game.”

The “Dodgy Bullshit” of Anadarko ­ fter Petrobras departed, Texas-­based Anadarko Petroleum arrived. As in the A previous case, public awareness lagged ­behind the signing of agreements. Years may pass between each step in the pro­cess, from the signing of permits to underwater seismic testing, and from the arrival of an exploratory rig to the establishment of a drilling platform or producing structure. Once extraction begins, oil may be offloaded onto tankers for global destinations or piped to land. In 2013 and 2014, activists and affected communities ­were resisting seismic testing and exploration in an effort to stop extraction before it began. As for Anadarko, it established a Wellington office in 2008; media coverage began in 2010;57 resident-­activists “discovered” its interests around 2012 or 2013; and its survey ships began arriving in 2013 and 2014. In between public awareness and the vessels’ arrival, t­ here was a pregnant pause as activists waited. “You can hear the train coming down the tunnel, but you still c­ an’t see it looming up. It’s still a long way off,” one or­ga­nizer said. “It is not ­going to be easy ­until the drilling rig arrives in New Zealand ­waters and at that point it ­will become big, on the TV screen ­every night. . . . ​But we almost have to wait ­until the drilling rig comes before we can start the national conversation in a big way.” In 2013 and 2014, Anadarko conducted both seismic testing and exploratory drilling in three basins. MV Duke conducted seismic testing in the Pegasus block (near Wellington); and while t­ here is no risk of an oil spill during seismic testing, ­there is concern about its impacts on marine life. Duke was followed by the ultra-­deep exploratory ship Noble Bob Douglas, which was newly built in South ­Korea and registered in Liberia. The Noble explored in two

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basins: the Deepwater Taranaki Basin off Raglan (the southwest of the North Island) and the Canterbury Basin off Otago (the east side of the South Island). At 1,500 meters deep, the latter was the deepest attempt at the time in Aotearoa. Similar to Petrobras, Anadarko was a newcomer without brand-­name recognition, so it became ensnared in a b­ attle of introductions. Antidrilling activists began by labeling Anadarko as the quarter owner of the Gulf of Mexico disaster. W ­ hether Anadarko was partially responsible for the oil disaster was contested, but the association between corporations possessing the technology to explore in deep w ­ aters but not the technology to prevent oil from spewing for more than eighty days was undeniable. Anadarko was portrayed as a 25 ­percent partner, owner, and investor in the Gulf well, and therefore 25 ­percent responsible for the blowout. Anadarko’s regional representatives appeared to deny direct association by repeatedly referring to the com­pany as a “passive investor.” Greenpeace, as a data collator and disseminator, countered that even though Anadarko claimed to be a passive investor, a Louisiana court found it to be “ ‘ jointly and severally liable’ with BP for the Gulf of Mexico blow-­out,” forcing them to pay US$4 billion to BP in an out-­of-­court settlement.58 “They ­were in the decision-­making pro­cess so all of t­ hose decisions to cut corners and to reduce the safety win­dows on the operations has definitely much to do with them,” one activist argued. John Wathen, an Alabama resident critical of the BP oil spill and cleanup efforts, informed New Zealanders, “BP and Anadarko are ­sister companies. . . . ​They are cowboys. . . . ​The best t­ hing I can tell you is fight it u­ ntil you d­ on’t have a breath left in you.”59 At the time of the Gulf disaster, Anadarko held a 25 ­percent interest in block 252, where the Deepwater Horizon was operating. BP had calculated that Anadarko’s responsibility would have been $6.1 billion of the $40 billion that BP had been charged. Consequently, Anadarko paid US$4 billion “to ­settle all of BP’s current and f­ uture claims against Anadarko associated with the Deepwater Horizon event.”60 ­A fter having paid its share to BP, Anadarko was no longer liable. Legally, the corporation may have been correct in stating that it was not responsible for the disaster—­any longer. But technically, the more accurate statement would have been that it was no longer responsible for the disaster ­after having paid a US$4 billion settlement to BP. ­These are the minute technicalities and word games that infuriate ­people who are forced to do their own due diligence in sifting through corporate feigning and self-­promotions and government silence. In New Zealand, $4 billion of a $40 billion settlement was a staggering amount. Stated one activist, “We w ­ ouldn’t be able to find US$40 billion [in New Zealand]. P ­ eople would have to carry the cost, and the economy, and the fishing industry, and the tourism industry.” According to a small-­town resident,

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“Anadarko prob­ably has more money than our ­whole government does. . . . ​So you have two super ­giants [Anadarko and the New Zealand government] and a ­little wee community.” An analyst argued that the country’s maximum penalty of NZ$10 million for a spill was of ­little deterrence—­a “trifling fine”—­ given Anadarko’s previous payment.61 Experts, environmental activists, and concerned citizens sounded dismayed by how uninterested or unconcerned the government seemed to be about the disparities between the risks, fines, and money possessed by a middle-­r ung O&G com­pany relative to the Crown and the country itself. Activists painted an image of a “­little government” as an “easy mark,” unprepared as it was during the Rena spill, but still unaware of or denying how ill prepared it was for a major oil disaster. For coastal residents, Anadarko was deemed too risky; and at a public rally, Green Party member of Parliament Catherine Delahunty shouted questions and answers in warning: DEL AHUN T Y  ​Last night [Anadarko] announced their safety plan that was

signed off with Maritime New Zealand. . . . ​Guess what’s in the safety plan? AUDIENCE [SHOU T S ] ​What? DEL AHUN T Y  ​It’s a secret. [Laughter.] Maritime New Zealand ­won’t tell us, and

the com­pany ­won’t tell us. So do we feel safe? AUDIENCE [SHOU T S ] ​No! DEL AHUN T Y  ​Is this bullshit? AUDIENCE [SHOU T S ] ​Yes! DEL AHUN T Y  ​ . . . ​[The plan] ­will be full of soothing rhe­toric, unscientific,

dubious, and dodgy bullshit that w ­ ill actually keep nobody safe.62

When I heard Delahunty, I knew I was far from Texas and Taranaki. I could only won­der what it would be like for the United States to have a ­viable Green Party or bipartisan understanding and policy support of environmental, marine, and climate justice initiatives. Multiple activist groups challenged Anadarko’s newly built vessel, its track rec­ord, and its experience in local ­waters. Greenpeace referred to the drill ship as “untested” and “straight from a South Korean shipyard.”63 ­Others questioned the vessel’s safety: “Quite frankly we are ­going to be the test bed of this brand-­ new ship. So part of its sea t­ rials is to come and drill h ­ ere before it goes to the Gulf for their own work over t­ here. So that d­ oesn’t instill a lot of confidence.” ­Others felt the same: “That’s g­ reat. You want to test it [­here] to see if it works, to see if it ­doesn’t break. I just get infuriated.” In contrast, the Taranaki Daily News referenced the Noble Bob Douglas as a “cathedral of science” and noted that its crew of 193 workers, including 65 New Zealanders, ­were fed salmon and rack of lamb when the media visited.64 Another

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media report cited an Anadarko spokesperson as saying, “We have never had a serious mishap.”65 The news media in general tilts t­ oward probusiness positions, as t­ hese two examples attest; nonetheless, it still informs a lay audience of a range of events, serves as an outlet for noninstitutional groups, and offers a broad and influential portrait of national issues.66 With Anadarko, introductions mattered. So while proponents highlighted safety and economic potential, opponents emphasized the economic and ecological risks. Consequently, the Noble Bob Douglas and its support and supply ships ­were chased for seventeen days by the Greenpeace-­led “Oil ­Free Seas” flotilla. The media played its part in referencing the conflict as one between David and Goliath, with one source calling it a “game of poker on the high seas.”67 For activists on board and on the shores, the occasion marked a Kiwi-­ esque tradition to take to the sea “in defence of our ocean, ­future generations, our climate and our coastlines.”68 In describing the experience, a crew member recalled, The biggest ­thing is seeing that drill ship. . . . ​It’s massive. . . . ​A nd it is fitted out with antipiracy, antiboarding gear. ­There ­were points when we got ­really close to it, but even one hundred meters away it feels like you could touch it. It’s so big. It is absolutely insane. And just the fact that it’s the stuff you d­ on’t see pouring into the oceans [­because it’s so far offshore]. ­There was one point where they w ­ ere pouring I’m not sure what. Someone thought it might have been cement powder, but I d­ on’t know, and just spewing it out of a massive pipe. And maybe it’s not a huge environmental concern on the scale of t­ hings, but it is just one of t­ hose l­ ittle ­things that u­ nless someone is ­there to see it, it’s not known.

Even though this comment reflects a single observation, ­others have argued that the industry’s standard operating procedures routinely introduce toxic metals into the environment. “A single exploratory well dumps approximately 25,000 pounds of toxic metals into the ocean from drilling ‘muds,’ thick lubricants used to pressure debris out of the well and to cool the path of the drill bit as it rotates.”69 In other words, contamination risk is routine offshore, with almost no public awareness and apparently l­ ittle government oversight. In the end, Anadarko spent approximately NZ$300 million exploring in two basins without finding the volume anticipated, and it eventually relinquished some of its permits. Antidrillers celebrated: “Go environment!” While ­there is a pattern of corporations submitting multiple proposals and following through on t­ hose with the least local re­sis­tance or regulation,70 for oil corporations, the volume, quality, and timing have bearing on decisions. Both Anadarko and Petrobras cited poor survey results or unproven reserves as the reason for their departure. Yet exiting an O&G block in no way means that the same or another com­pany ­will not return if the configuration of volume, tech-

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nology, price, availability, and demand aligns. In practicality, Petrobras’s and Anadarko’s exits ­were only regional victories for “not in my ocean” (NIMO) activists, rather than global victories for “not in planet ocean” (NIPO) activists. ­A fter departing New Zealand’s ­waters, Noble Bob Douglas navigated to the Gulf of Mexico, and both Petrobras and Anadarko have continued exploring and extracting elsewhere.

Greenpeace: An Ideal Type of Re­sis­tance The ability of Greenpeace to or­ga­nize a national campaign and draw media attention cannot be understated. Although ­there ­were other national groups involved, Greenpeace was seasoned in direct confrontations and, at one time or another, had trained, collaborated with, or supported a national network of allies.71 In this case, Greenpeace built the nation’s critical oil literacy by providing a mix of researched understandings of issues, persuasive and tested tactics, and global linkages. New Zealanders ­were gutsy and had embraced a tradition of contesting entities more globally influential than themselves, but they lacked deepwater drilling experience. To complement their grit, Greenpeace provided technical support and engaged in an educational effort of well-­researched brochures, reports, and handouts. Greenpeace assisted with press releases, explained industry practices, or­ga­nized collective efforts, answered questions, and advised first-­time activists and community organizers. One community member new to marine activism described Greenpeace’s support as invaluable: “We have had support from ­these ‘terrorist greenies,’ who the government and the oil companies would like you to think they are ‘terrorist greenies.’ ­People like Greenpeace and also Mike Smith, who was involved with the Whānau ā Apanui up on the east coast. They have been ­really good at just forwarding lit­er­a­ture. . . . ​[For local groups], we just need ­little eight-­by-­five fact sheets that have ­simple messages.” Smith was frequently mentioned as a standalone force in­de­pen­dent of vari­ous organ­izations and geo­graph­i­cal bound­ aries, while Greenpeace described him as a veteran Māori campaigner. For coastal communities, Smith was seen as a steady guide, invaluable resource, and trusted anchor. Creatively and materially, Greenpeace and its allies also sought to blanket the coastline’s visual opportunity spaces with anti-­oil sentiments and attracted well-­known and admired individuals to pop­u­lar­ize their campaigns. For example, the musician Tiki Taane was photographed while holding a “Stop Deep Sea Oil” bumper sticker at an annual ­music awards.72 A year ­earlier, actress Lucy Lawless (who played Xena, the Warrior Princess) and seven Greenpeace activists ­were arrested for entering a restricted area at Port Taranaki and boarding a Shell-­contracted ship to stop it from traveling to Alaskan ­waters.

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At the po­liti­cal level, Greenpeace collected signatures, filed lawsuits, and petitioned government. It also supplied much-­needed scientific and evidence-­ based reports, including an oil flow model that annoyed the state while legitimating advocacy science in the interest of building citizen knowledge. In collaboration with Greenpeace, a scientist modeled a seventy-­six-­day spill, using ten years of wind and w ­ ater current data and drawing on recent major spills, including the one in the Gulf of Mexico and a shallow one in Australia that flowed for seventy-­four days. Greenpeace’s model found that t­ here was a lower risk of oil reaching shore from drilling activity off the east coast of the South Island, but a strong likelihood of oil reaching the shore from drilling off the west coast of the North Island.73 Drilling proponents labeled it “scaremongering.” According to one resident, the government and industry had “all their goons out t­ here slamming that report minutes ­after it was released. Minutes ­after! They had all their ­people out [on the morning news shows, saying,] ‘This is scaremongering. This is the worst-­case scenario.’ No, it’s not! It’s not only worst-­case scenario, it’s a ­whole range. They have 5 ­percent increments all the way to 95 ­percent. It’s showing a ­whole spectrum of scenarios.” The rates estimated by Anadarko’s own spill model exceeded daily spill rates tested by Greenpeace and implied that oil had between a 52 and 66 ­percent chance of reaching the coastline depending on the season.74 The po­liti­cal outcry was prob­ably not about the projections but rather about the fact that the projections had reached a broad audience in a clearly informative manner. Greenpeace made science understandable and conversational—­which threatened elite interests in keeping coastal communities un-­or underinformed on what loomed offshore. For ­those on the sand, po­liti­cal criticism of Greenpeace confirmed a degree of collusion between the state and industry against the public’s right to know. Institutional attempts to withhold information, disrupt knowledge exchanges, or confuse the public undermined demo­cratic pro­cesses and illuminated how the industry was securing preferential treatment in “explaining” offshore activities as it expanded its reach. In terms of strategy, Greenpeace was an ideal type in constructing an environmental prob­lem75 and promoting Aotearoa as a hostile frontier to multinational corporations. ­Whether at sea, on the shoreline, in court, or as close to being inside the meetings as pos­si­ble, Greenpeace and its allies would be t­ here holding industry and the state to account. As an ideal type, Greenpeace discovered and named the environmental crisis of offshore exploration by assembling scientific data. It then presented its claims and moral arguments indirectly through the media in order to command attention and legitimize a position, and directly at public rallies or in meetings with at-­risk communities. Fi­nally, it mobilized support against the po­liti­cal and ­legal systems to contest the prob­ lem in order to effect change. Although t­ here are pitfalls and contradictions,

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environmental reform is often only achieved through mobilized socie­ties and environmental groups pressuring the state or industry.76 Greenpeace and a mobilized citizenry grew from, and for, the islands, coastlines, ocean, and marine life. While each coastal community mobilized from and for distinct social, cultural, and economic configurations, Greenpeace represented a vital, national connection to the many communities newly engaged in coastal activism against O&G.

Kaikoura: Kaitiaki and Whale Watching If the East Cape effort against Petrobras represented rural Māori solidarity and early co­ali­tion building with Greenpeace, then Kaikoura exemplified a small-­ town ecotourism economy and convergence of diverse residents who w ­ ere bound by shared opposition to offshore drilling and the arrival of Anadarko. This community exhibited a delicate and diplomatic balance of strong ethnically and culturally diverse voices linked in re­sis­tance and connected by a shared interest in the traditional, con­temporary, and scientific knowledge of the region’s marine life. Some possessed hundreds of years of coastal experience, while ­others offered newly arrived commitments and passions. In their own ways, each was committed to the region’s marine habitat and wildlife, coastal tourism, or local or global sustainability. They also shared in their opposition to outside, multinational, or po­liti­cal interests speaking for them and the marine environment they knew so well. In recognizing the robust voices of differing origins that r­ ose from within Kaikoura, one resident cautioned, “Our goal is the same. We are just walking dif­f er­ent paths to get to the goal.” Māori met through their Māori friendships, councils, or committees. As one resident explained, “Iwi are often fighting our issues ­today for our ­children’s c­ hildren’s ­children. We are always thinking about ­future generations, just like my ancestors w ­ ere thinking about t­ hings for me.” ­Others ­were led by the group No Drill Kaikoura, which mobilized nature-­based business o­ wners, white and Māori residents, wildlife and ecol­ogy enthusiasts, and long-­established families who recalled living off the coastline’s bounty. ­Others ­were known to each other through the working group Te Korowai o Te Tai o Marokura (Kaikoura Coastal Marine Guardians), a body that met regularly and included commercial and recreational fishers, tourism businesses, conservation groups, Māori, and other interested community members. Kaikoura’s first public act occurred in 2012 when residents learned of the offshore bids in the EEZ while si­mul­ta­neously discovering their own inability to participate in the decision-­making pro­cess. Even though iwi and the town council ­were offered formal meetings with the central government and corporation, three hundred p­ eople in a town of fewer than four thousand protested offshore exploration and their exclusion from the consent pro­cess. A year ­later,

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six hundred locals joined hands during the annual “Hands Across the Sands” rally or­ga­nized globally to protest offshore exploration and locally by No Drill Kaikoura. This campaign may be one of the largest sustained events against offshore O&G drilling. It began in Florida in February 2010—­before the Deepwater Horizon disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, which then propelled this statewide event into an international one with more than six hundred demonstrations occurring in the United States and ten other countries. Kaikoura would mobilize the largest event in New Zealand, and possibly “in the Southern Hemi­sphere,” as suggested by one participant. The residents of Kaikoura also possessed a national reputation for being environmental stewards and economic beneficiaries of marine life protection. “Kaikoura’s magnificent w ­ hales and marine life symbolise 100% Pure New Zealand to ­people the world over,” wrote one resident in a letter to the New Zealand Herald. “­Don’t contaminate our brand any further with this insanity” of offshore drilling.77 More than eight hundred thousand annual visitors substantiated t­ hese claims. They visited the town, named for its crayfish, to photo­graph ­whales, swim with seals and dolphins, take a Māori cultural and historical tour, walk the peninsula, kayak, and fish. ­There was ­little competition among the tour operators, with each one focusing on one activity and encouraging visitors to join the other tours. Of all the communities opposed to offshore exploration, Kaikoura best characterized ­whale conservation for economic and cultural well-­being. In the late 1980s, Kaikoura became a town of unemployment and poverty when railroad activity declined and government jobs left. When the local subtribe of Ngāi Tahu sought to solve t­ hese prob­lems, they identified the potential of w ­ hale watching alongside fishing and farming. In many ways the resident sperm ­whales became the community’s saviors. ­Later, residents would also benefit from the Ngāi Tahu Settlement Claims Act of 1998, which contained cultural redress and affirmed the community’s right to maintain and “express its traditional kaitiaki relationship with the environment.”78 The town’s economic commitment to w ­ hale protection began in 1987 when Whale Watch, a Māori-­owned nonprofit, began providing whale-­watching tours.79 Nearly three de­cades l­ater, it was no longer a small, bootstrap operation. It ran five catamarans and up to five tours daily. It moored the tourism economy, and its history was a point of honor for Māori and the greater community, especially as longtime residents and newcomers benefited in tandem with the success of the whale-­watching enterprise. But in 2013 and 2014, a public position from Whale Watch on offshore exploration was missing, and the omission was seen as undercutting community members who sought a cohesive and united front against drilling. At the time, Whale Watch’s tourism and gift shop offered no merchandise, posters, or other indicators that Anadarko was coming into nearby w ­ aters or that the country was opening up its EEZ for

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offshore exploration. While it may be uncommon for a business or nonprofit to take a public or po­liti­cal position on another industry, it sold protest clothing in the gift shop to “stop whaling,” and an educational video on the whale-­watching trip showed an image of a dolphin caught in an industrial trawling net. In the visual and sensory spaces possessed by Whale Watch, only generic or global trou­bles, such as ­whale hunting and commercial fishing, ­were constructed as problematic. It appeared reticent to take a public position on O&G drilling in nearby ­waters. In 2012, both Whale Watch and Dolphin Encounters (a smaller business also dependent on a healthy ocean) ­were believed to have collected signatures opposing offshore drilling; and even in 2013 a media report indicated that Whale Watch feared the industry’s potential risk to marine life.80 However, ­there was no public display of such re­sis­tance, despite Whale Watch’s possession of several visual and sensory spaces to raise awareness. Given Whale Watch’s status as the largest tourism operator dependent on ­whales, its public silence or perceived absence in the campaign was noticeable. On an antidrilling poster observed in town, someone had scrawled, “Why ­isn’t Whale Watch saying anything?” To the wider community, “Whale Watch is a leader in the w ­ hale watching business. They are particularly weak in standing up for environmental and conservation issues for the coastal area as a w ­ hole.” Kaikoura was also not immune to economic insecurity. For someone who cleaned rooms during the tourist season, an oil disaster would be worse than the winter months when the tourism season was over, temporary summer jobs closed, and ­people w ­ ere “scraping by on bare bones,” as one resident put it. According to another resident, “Our big worry is that the risk of a spill is too big for our community, and it would wipe every­thing out. Even now it’s ­really hard to actually have a full-­time, good paying job in this community. . . . ​­People are r­ eally struggling to make a living and a lot of p­ eople rely on the ocean to supplement their meals.” In a crucial way, this resident contrasted what a visitor observed and what was lived. The former was the “surface landscape” of a beautiful coastal community with snow-­capped mountains in winter.81 The latter was off-­season hardship, a situation that may appeal to the industry or state in promoting oil employment, ­whether in truth or invention. Even though both oil extraction and seasonal tourism are de­pen­dency models, one is much more toxic than the other. “What happens when they do their seismic survey and the ­whales d­ on’t come back in? Every­one ­will pack up and leave ­whale watching, and all that ­will be left to oil,” one resident said. “They ­will expand, and expand, and expand ­until you have no other industry left. They ­will finish what they are ­doing, and they w ­ ill leave you with what’s leftover.” ­A fter one meeting with Anadarko, a journalist reported, “Despite the full-­ scale charm offensive, many Ngāti Nurī ­weren’t convinced that any seismic surveys or exploration drilling would be safe, or that the w ­ hales which have made

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Kaikoura famous as a tourist destination in recent years would be safe. Kaikoura would take all the risk and get none of the benefit, Tā Mark [Solomon, then chair of Te Runanga o Ngāi Tahu] told the men from the ministry. It was a town with an economy based on environmental tourists, and any potential accident or oil spill would spell disaster.”82 Sir Mark Solomon was knighted in 2012 and chaired the South Island Ngāi Tahu iwi. According to one observer, Solomon legitimized the community’s economic concerns: “The fact of him having a knighthood has helped profile the oil stuff b­ ecause he’s quite respected in other circles. And he’s always been seen as a ­really straight-­talking, honest person. I ­don’t think ­people call Mark Solomon crazy, looney, greenie. He does have credibility, so that’s good for the cause.” In 2013, the Ngāi Tahu iwi awarded and hosted Amazon Watch cofounder Atossa Soltani as the Hillary Laureate for her work with Indigenous ­people challenging oil operations in the Amazon. The timing and se­lection signaled an interest in recognizing and learning from t­ hose who have opposed oil drilling in Indigenous territories. Kaikoura exemplified a range of traditions, identities, and cultures developed in association with the marine environment. Even though other coastal towns possessed t­ hese alliances and characteristics to varying degrees, Kaikoura offered a pronounced embodiment of each one that coalesced across personal histories with the local marine environment to oppose offshore drilling.

Embedded Seascapes: “The Ocean Is Our Backyard” Aotearoa—­and Kaikoura in particular—­possessed a cultural embeddedness with the marine environment.83 As conceptualized, embedded seascapes signify a way of life and long-­running affinity with the sea that flows through coastal ­people who embody and embrace a reciprocal relationship with the marine environment. Marine life and habitats are not distal properties or once-­in-­a-­ lifetime visions or experiences. They are integrated within the greater community. According to Janet Stephenson, who posited the concept of “embedded landscapes,” New Zealanders speak of the land in relation to “­family connections, histories, past traditions, stories, events, and long-­term practices like farming or collecting kaimoana.”84 Māori in par­tic­u­lar have “a deeper, more significant meaning of being ‘composed of ’ the ele­ments of that place through generations and centuries of occupation; for the ­people not only passed ‘through’ or over the land, but the land passed ‘through’ and made up the substance of the ­people.”85 I observed how New Zealanders, in extending this terrestrial empathy out to sea, experienced a similar orientation with and through the marine environment in ways that foretold their opposition to offshore O&G activities. Many of Kaikoura’s residents ­were informed, animated, and outraged by threats to the resident ­whale population, but it was Kaikoura’s Māori popula-

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tion who conveyed deep cultural ties with them. “As part of our beliefs through history, when we traveled from A to B on the ocean the ­whale looked ­after us. It was our guardian, so to speak,” one person said. “The seismic testing that they are ­going to do w ­ ill have an impact on the echolocation of our w ­ hales. . . . ​The argument of the government is t­ here’s not science [on the impacts of seismic testing]. Who gives a toss about science? Our ­whales look ­after us; this is ­going to impact on our w ­ hales; and so we need to look ­after them.” In elaborating further, this person described an equally intimate relationship with the underwater environment that connected east coast Māori on both the South and North Islands: “That [underwater] trench is like an umbilical cord that connects us ­here to our ­people on the east coast. And it’s that cord that they want to tamper with. And they c­ an’t see how impor­tant that is to us ­here. So for us, drilling into the umbilical cord that connects us back is hard for us to accept.” The Hikurangi Trench, a geological channel off the east coast of both islands, connects the East Cape (where one Māori community on the North Island fought Petrobras) and Kaikoura (where another Māori community on the South Island fought Anadarko). This channel was described as a life-­giving cord connecting populations to their past, pre­sent, and ­future. Another Kaikoura resident spoke of their marae (communal meeting h ­ ouse and grounds) as symbolic of the significance of w ­ hales to the local community. “In our marae, ­there are ­whales depicted in our carvings ­because w ­ e’ve got that connection to our ocean, to our sea,” one said. “Depicted in our carvings in our marae is that relationship. I ­haven’t talked about that before but I think that ­there’s a ­little feeling, a ­little knot right inside your gut that we prob­ably ­don’t actually say ­because I ­haven’t heard other ­people say that ­either, but that’s what ­we’ve got to lose [this historical and con­temporary relationship].” In explaining what the ocean meant, another likened it to the community’s backyard: “The ocean is our backyard. When you go into someone’s backyard, you ask, ‘Can I come into your backyard?’ You ­don’t just go into someone e­ lse’s backyard, and that’s what this is. The ocean is our backyard.” The resident elaborated further, “The government should have come to us right at the very beginning, and ask, ‘We want to dig a wee garden in your backyard?’ . . . ​We prob­ably would have said, ‘No, go to your own backyard.’ But the sad ­thing is the government ­doesn’t have a backyard ­because all the ocean belongs to the dif­fer­ent communities.” To be clear, the Crown objected to community perceptions of owner­ship over the EEZ. While iwi had an argument for rights in the EEZ, local councils “govern” only the twelve nearshore miles. Yet not all coastal Māori possessed deep associations with or understandings of the sea. Kaikoura’s rich aquatic connections stood in contrast to the understandings of ­others who puzzled over the cultural meaning of the ocean. According to a member of another coastal, Māori community, “The question has been, What are our cultural values up to two hundred miles offshore? That

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has been quite hard for us to answer. ­There is no definite answer.” In contrast, Māori in Kaikoura spoke with certainty about and confidence in their cultural and economic relationships with the underwater environment and resident marine life. Across ethnicities and arrival times, the greater Kaikoura community was immersed within, or growing in their bonds and sense of reciprocity to, the marine environment. While many visitors witnessed beautiful vistas or ­whales breaching (or surface seascapes, an aquatic variation of Janet Stephenson’s surface landscapes), for p­ eople who looked and lived t­ oward the ocean, the ocean informed, gave meaning, and oriented their views of themselves, their place, and their politics across time and generations. Embedded seascapes illustrate how h ­ uman connections to and cultural encounters with marine life and the saltwater environment explained why p­ eople in Kaikoura and the East Cape mobilized for the ocean.

Submersible Knowledge: An Unseen Canyon As way of contributing to the sociology of epistemology, I treat the marine literacy of coastal residents as a submersible knowledge, an expertise that is developed and tested through historical, cultural, ecological, and economic awareness, insight, and practice. Submersible knowledge is advanced through a sophisticated exchange of scientific understanding, h ­ uman inquiry, and experiential knowledge. Yet the public pronouncements or displays of submersible knowledge may only be observed by outsiders during disasters or times of collective action against outside interests or polemic proj­ects when the utility and dispersal of such knowledge may be most critical. Beyond appreciating the marine environment, Kaikoura residents possessed an underwater awareness that was facilitated by the resident ­whale population. The w ­ hales served as a conduit between land dwellers, the ocean, and the underwater Kaikoura Canyon, where the w ­ hales fed. Despite never having seen, touched, or swam near this canyon, they developed their insight through time, fishing, seafaring, scientific study, and con­temporary whale-­watching enterprises, and it was routinely mentioned as the reason for resisting offshore drilling. Residents valued and knew of this canyon as someone in the United States would value the scale and grandeur of the ­Grand Canyon without ever having hiked or peered into it. At most, the underwater canyon is five kilo­meters wide and more than 1,600 meters deep in parts, with a vertical cliff at the continental shelf. It is considered to be the largest in the Southern Hemi­sphere and is known for its proximity to land. Resident guardians deemed that comparable discernment and knowledge of this canyon and the local marine life ­were lacking among outside politicians and oil entities. When offshore exploration was proposed, the Marine Guardians group opposed it—­based in part on what they knew and what they believed

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that the multinational corporations and the national government w ­ ere unlikely to know. Accordingly, the Marine Guardians wrote, Te Korowai does not believe that deep sea oil exploration can be undertaken within the proposed deep ­water zones with a sufficient level of assurance that the marine and coastal environment ­will not be compromised. ­There is both insufficient knowledge and a lack of effective proven means of response technologies to protect the marine environment from oil spills. . . . ​Such a consequence [as the BP Deepwater Horizon] completely contradicts the ethos that has been expressed [by this organ­ization] through the weaving of the cloak, the korowai, created over the last 7 years, based on our vision of caring for the life force [mauri] of our seas for f­ uture generations. The risk of extinguishing this life force is not worth taking. Te Korowai is, at this time, with current technologies, opposed to any exploration in depths greater than can be reached by deep sea divers.86

The korowai (cloak) refers to the group’s ongoing collaborations and weaving of community trust among diverse local interests and marine users. The group, which had been developing plans for a marine sanctuary for some time, identified several fears if offshore activity proceeded. Their concerns resembled many of ­those expressed in interviews, including corporate inexperience in local conditions, the severity of offshore storms, earthquake potential and tectonic activities, and lack of impact and response assessments based on major spill projections. While multinational corporations may be experts in drilling technology, they ­were not perceived to be experts on the local marine environment or disaster prevention. Among the community’s apprehensions, seismic testing was of the first order. At public meetings and in interviews, ­people stated ­there was no scientific evidence to demonstrate that ­there would be no harm from seismic testing in their specific locale with their specific marine life and marine conditions. When the energy minister suggested that wildlife would not be jeopardized, Liz Slooten, a zoologist and marine expert, countered through the news media that the government was “ignoring scientific evidence that shows drowning, migration, and death of marine mammals due to seismic surveying. Dolphins have been found to have drowned within 600 meters of surveyed areas.”87 Slooten argued, “With any breed, ­these ­factors are significant. But for the Maui’s dolphin, they would be a death sentence.”88 New Zealand also failed to require marine mammal assessments. But a study off California found that midfrequency sonar activity altered w ­ hale feeding and migration speed and direction.89 When industry or government agencies stressed that monitors would be on board to identify w ­ hale presence or document changes in be­hav­ior, Slooten called the nonmandatory mea­sure “a feel-­good exercise and

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a PR device. . . . ​­There’s obviously a huge difference between how far the noise reaches and how far observers can [detect] anything.” Clarifying her stance, Slooten stated that seismic activity “certainly s­ houldn’t be happening inside the habitat of an endangered species that only lives in New Zealand.”90 Around this time, it was announced that Whale Watch would have two Māori observers on Anadarko’s seismic ship to watch for ­whales or dolphins within a kilo­meter of its operations—an agreement that one person described to me as “placating” Whale Watch representatives rather than protecting marine life. In a comment on a Northland permit, Slooten countered regulatory assurances by arguing that “observers on the seismic testing ships only see around ten ­percent of the ­whales and dolphins in the area. . . . ​Most of the ­whales that are sensitive to noise w ­ ill be on the run or already in deep trou­ble, before the observers can see them.”91 As momentum built for and against extraction, multiple groups concurred with Kaikoura’s Marine Guardians group that the risks to marine life—­ particularly charismatic megafauna—­were too g­ reat. In private interviews, residents ­were bewildered by the government’s endorsement of O&G without equal consideration of local businesses, the marine life, and adoption of local knowledge. To one, drilling off the coast “seems so unbelievably unreal. . . . ​Wellington is just so out of touch with communities. . . . ​They are just ­going to come in, dig us up, take it away, and go. [The government and Anadarko] ­don’t have a connection to this place. They are not from ­here. They d­ on’t know it. It’s just a bit of ocean and beach to them.” To residents, the marine environment was anything but “a bit of ocean and beach.” According to Ralph Hogan, the spokesperson for No Drill Kaikoura, “Ministerial credibility suffers greatly from thinly veiled attempts to downplay the pos­si­ble catastrophic effects from this activity with buzz words and sound bites rather than making good on promises of providing us detailed assessments.”92 In one of the better quips, Hogan reasoned that by “referring to exploratory drilling as merely ‘fact finding,’ [the environment minister] gives it no more effect than a Google search.”93 For residents, it was their livelihood, sustenance, culture, shared identity, and sense of socioecological well-­being—­all potentially and irreparably threatened if seismic testing and O&G exploration continued. In 2015, the Kaikoura District Council sent “its strongest message to date to the Ministry of Energy and Resources, expressing its opposition to off-­shore oil exploration in its submission on the 2016 block offer.”94 As in previous years, the council expressed concern for marine tourism and seismic impacts. Unlike in previous years, it wanted to wait for the results of a three-­year study by Whale Watch and the New Zealand Whale and Dolphin Trust to better understand the importance of the canyon to sperm w ­ hale activity. Its stance was indicative of how science, local tourism economies, the presence of marine life, and

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community re­sis­tance may thwart extraction, as it did in Belize95—at least for the time being.

Mixing Oil and Tourism: Conceding or Achieving “Paper Parks”? Kaikoura also represented the bind of many coastal communities, marine conservationists, and local tourism operators in advocating for or establishing a marine reserve while unintentionally conceding extractions elsewhere. Given the known impacts of industrial practices at sea, prominent marine biologists sought to protect the marine environment through policies and regulations.96 One early solution was the establishment of marine protected areas (MPAs). However, given that MPAs originated with p­ eople, they often prioritize the interests of ­people.97 Much like ­those on land, some parks are mixed-­use hybrids that ­favor h ­ uman interests and industries (e.g., extraction, fishing, or tourism) or exist adjacent to harmful industrial activities, much like fence-­line communities in which pollution blows over onto neighboring porches. Trading “economic development” in one area for “marine protection” in another ignores the fluidity between marine environments, which are barricaded only in the imagination of p­ eople writing policy. MPAs, reserves, and sanctuaries may also represent a “feel-­good” distraction for p­ eople and politicians if not coupled with strenuous regulation of maritime industries, offshore pollution, and green­house gas emissions both within and beyond such parks. In New Zealand, residents expressed some skepticism on the role of marine reserves. “When you look in the detail, they are not actually restricting activities,” one person said. “They are more or less paper parks. ­There are some areas that are no-­take zones, but they are quite small by comparison with the scale of the reserves. . . . ​They are reserves in name, so it’s a feel-­good t­ hing.” W ­ hether coincidentally or not, at the height of re­sis­tance to offshore extraction, the government announced plans for a new Kaikoura Marine Management area, which could become the country’s largest and deepest marine reserve. About one hundred residents protested the announcement as an intentional duplicity: a marine reserve and O&G exploration. MPAs are promoted as zones of protection but conceal how privileging one coastline, aquatic species, or habitat leads to the sacrifice of another. U ­ nder blue economy directives, offshore O&G “blocks” are cordoned off and the marine life within them is sacrificed for the fossil fuels that lay beneath. While New Zealand’s iconic marine life enriched the country’s affection for the ocean, such sentiments w ­ ere not necessarily matched by po­liti­cal or economic commitments to protect and conserve it to the extent needed. The announcement’s timing was also suspicious, since the Marine Guardians had spent nine years trying to establish some version of a marine park to secure the local economy and ­whale habitat. “Kaikoura is a flourishing town

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purely on the back of ­whale watching, and that ­whole area is part of a ­whale highway, and so the aspiration of Kaikoura, the w ­ hole township, is to have that as a marine reserve.” However, in the new turn ­toward extraction, the reserve was at risk of becoming a “paper park,” vulnerable to being sacrificed itself if resources became scarcer, demand greater, and the economy shakier over time, or if industry practices beyond the park reverberated within the park. Certainly, negotiating a marine park in the absence of O&G extraction would be considered substantially dif­f er­ent from finalizing one in the presence of the industry. In policies and regulations, individual word choices are significant, enabling loopholes for industry. In this case, the w ­ hale sanctuary portion of the new Kaikoura reserve protected “­whales and their habitat by reducing or eliminating the potential impacts of seismic survey activities used in mineral and petroleum exploration and some scientific research.”98 Said slightly differently, the ­whale sanctuary “minimises the risk of seismic surveys causing ­whales to change their be­hav­ior, such as moving away from the area, which provides greater certainty of ­whale locations for tourism operators.”99 Undeniably, to minimize risk is not to prevent it. According to another report, the ­whale sanctuary “prohibits high-­level seismic survey work.”100 Yet prohibiting “high-­level” sonar permits midlevel frequency even though midfrequency studies indicate changed ­whale be­hav­ior.101 Qualifications of “high” or “midlevels” may also vary by interpreter ­unless clearly quantified and in­de­pen­dently regulated and monitored. Given the ambiguities in the pro­cesses and potential impacts, the timing of the reserve announcements could be interpreted as coincidental, a tactical trade-­ off, or a po­liti­cal effort to appease or redirect the formal and informal marine guardians ­toward implementing the reserve rather than challenging exploration. From the government’s perspective, O&G platforms could be normalized or naturalized into the community’s land-­and seascapes; and in the state’s imagination, oil, ­whales, seals, and tourism could coexist. The state’s view was not unpre­ce­dented where O&G operate, and studies indicate that oil and tourism have comingled, especially where corporations fill visual and sensory spaces to promote industry interests by sponsoring m ­ usic festivals, museum exhibits, aquar­iums, sporting events, and other pleas­ur­able activities.102 Taranaki Province demonstrated a conceivable template for this alliance, in which cultural life and second-­tier industries eventually become beholden to O&G. Even a­ fter the BP Deepwater Horizon disaster, operating and abandoned platforms in the Gulf of Mexico ­were re­imagined as “vertical reefs” attractive to recreational fishers and scuba divers and serving as marine habitats and sanctuaries for migrating birds.103 All told, and in the nexus where oil, tourism, and marine reserves meet, the oil product, pro­cess, or industry may dominate. In Kaikoura, the new management area or expanded reserve that was written with O&G in mind exhibited

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an early concession to industry and a reserve dwarfed by O&G blocks. The flow of oil money, a false sense of inclusion in the industry’s world, and the possibility of access to more jobs, funding, or donations may lead to cultural capture and a p­ eople submissive to the larger goals of the industry. If O&G is found in commercial volumes and Kaikoura succeeds in stopping O&G extraction, it would be against the odds and a testament to the community’s commitment to the marine environment during the waning years of fossil fuels. Yet such a success could also mean that another aquatic ecosystem or coastal community of lesser visual or aesthetic appeal is relinquished or demarcated for sacrifice with minimal monitoring.

Otago’s Natu­ral Gas and Divided Alliances The third coastal community studied was the Otago region, including the university town of Dunedin. Unlike the East Cape community, which resisted Petrobras, and Kaikoura, which opposed Anadarko, the Otago region splintered into two camps facing off for and against both Shell and Anadarko. Oil F ­ ree Otago opposed offshore extraction, while the Progas Otago group promoted exploration for natu­ral gas as a “transition fuel.” Up u­ ntil this third wave of expansions, New Zealand produced natu­ral gas for domestic consumption and oil for export, and to suggest that some of the world’s largest multinational corporations would be looking for natu­ral gas at the bottom of the South Pacific negated the industry’s historical preference for oil and oil’s higher value. Since oil and gas often reside together, the lesser fuel has been flared off or burned into the air if the region lacked the infrastructure to capture, store, convert, use, or transport it. Nevertheless, predicting the f­ uture of extraction on past experiences also miscalculates the existing demand and value of natu­ral gas and the potential traction of advancing O&G exploration by presenting natu­ral gas as a transition fuel. For antidrilling activists, the transitional fuel argument was particularly disingenuous given that New Zealand was transitioning to oil, gas, and green­ house gases in regions with no or l­imited extractive history. Antidrillers also contested that natu­ral gas was a “bridge fuel” given its contributions to methane emissions.104 In interviews, o­ thers reasoned that “if you are not using that time to prepare an alternative way of living and consuming, then what’s the point?” For the industry, “transition” indicated an extraction-­to-­depletion model, and then transition, at which point the same corporations would retain control over the energy supply, what­ever the source. Even so, if natu­ral gas ­were found in export volumes, the development of land-­based settlements like Taranaki would be needed, affecting generations and altering coastlines on the South Island for de­cades to come. In addition, the “seeking gas” narrative circumvented public concerns over oil spills. At one meeting, someone recalled that when a “PR person” was asked,

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“Go home Anadarko.” Otago activists inform the Texas-­based com­pany that it is not welcome near their coastline.

“How do you manage to sleep at night knowing that you are involved in something like this?” the answer was, “If it was oil, I would not be ­here. But b­ ecause it’s natu­ral gas, I d­ on’t have any prob­lem with it.” In reflecting further, the attendee continued, “They must be hoping for oil if they are taking the effort to come all the way down h ­ ere.” Residents of Dunedin also believed that the Progas camp attracted members ­because p­ eople wanted to be perceived nationally and internationally as receptive to new opportunities. “We are a city at the end of the world and we feel like we need to say yes to any jobs, and any development is good,” someone recounted. Anyone who rejects “development” is deemed to be “antiprogress, or negative, or the ‘anti-­brigade.’ ” Another resident identified an irrational hostility directed at them for even suggesting alternatives. In Dunedin, the local, working-­ class population appeared alienated from, but conscious of, a more liberal, formally educated, or environmentally leaning population, even though both sides shared in operating within the directives of local and nonlocal economic elites. Often the tensions between the groups w ­ ere personal and in close proximity. So when antidrilling activists or­ga­nized a “Hands Off Our Harbor” action at the local port, at least one pro-­gas supporter posted online criticism of the petroleum-­based raingear and kayaks and petroleum-­fueled vehicles used by the demonstrators. At the nationwide “Banners on the Beach” demonstration, Dunedin’s antidrilling activists w ­ ere met by at least two boats that carried pro-­

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gas banners nearshore and a few pro-­gas families who gathered nearby on the beach. As an antidrilling community advocate observed, “A lot of anger is being directed at us for questioning the sense of what’s being proposed.” Another distinction for this community was how well Shell was received by the public. Petrobras and Anadarko “­aren’t companies that have ever been on the New Zealand radar at all,” one activist said. But they knew Shell, and Shell had a relatively uneventful history with few mis­haps in New Zealand. Shell operated petrol stations in the past and partnered with a national com­pany to form Shell Todd Oil Ser­vices. Shell was recognized as a responsible, seminational corporation with a good reputation. Shell’s dangerous alter ego operated in Nigeria, where the culprit was lax regulations. In Dunedin, Shell or­ga­nized “invite-­only community engagement” meetings, or what residents called “public-­invite meetings.” The invited guests included representatives of the business, university, Māori, and conservation communities, as well as local council members. Several ­people acknowledged that Shell was d­ oing more than Anadarko or the central government in meeting with interested parties. Shell was perceived by some as the type of corporation that was more environmentally sensitive and candid than the government, which appeared to be unable to appreciate the scale, impact, or activity of the industry—­a point discerned during the Rena spill as well. Unlike Anadarko, Shell presented itself as exceeding the country’s environmental impact assessments, which in 2012 w ­ ere non­ex­is­tent requirements. To convey Shell’s transparency and the government’s inadequacy in safeguarding the marine environment, one person described a Q&A session at a public-­invite meeting: Someone asked how [the proportion of profits to government] compares with other countries of the world, and Shell said, “Well it’s actually lower than most other places.” And then they ­were asked about the environmental impact. They made the point that they had been proactive, and they w ­ ere providing an environmental impact report that was equivalent to what they would be required to give in some of the more heavi­ly protective areas of the world, [which was not required in Aotearoa]. Then somebody said, “You are saying to us that New Zealand is a pretty easy r­ ide, and would you say that could be one of the reasons you chose to explore down h ­ ere?” And the answer was yes. Which was amazing. It was very honest. . . . ​Shell would argue that they are meeting t­ hose requirements that would have been made on them in other countries b­ ecause they choose to be a good citizen rather than b­ ecause it’s demanded of them.

Even though this account reveals how corporations throw governments u­ nder the bus while securing industry-­friendly regulations or undercutting stringent standards, this is not what this attendee heard. This attendee heard that Shell

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was a better protector of the natu­ral environment than the state, and one that exceeded the demands and understandings of the state. At the public invite-­only meetings, antidrilling activists ­were sometimes seen as the larger prob­lem. As described by a few p­ eople in slightly modified versions, uninvited protesters stormed one meeting and shouted down Shell’s representatives. The meeting was canceled, alienating some in the community who wanted to hear from Shell. “It became an uncomfortable space to be in,” one said. “They ­weren’t ­there to listen and they ­didn’t want to understand. They had already made up their minds. . . . ​­There ­wasn’t much you could do when a ­whole bunch of p­ eople are just telling you to ‘f off ’ and w ­ on’t let you talk.” According to another, “It was a managed meeting: ­we’ll give you this information, and then ­we’ll take questions. But they just began interrupting. . . . ​We never got answers to any of our questions.” Among t­ hose who ­were supportive of the disruption, one defense was that multinational corporations could absorb public re­sis­tance: “I ­don’t feel like it did [the com­pany] any harm . . . ​, and I think we might as well come out guns blazing.” In terms of obtaining one’s goals, it remained unclear ­whether it was better to resist or negotiate, to be inside or outside the negotiations, or to be at or flipping over the ­table. Studies have found that when environmental groups collaborate with the oil industry, oil proj­ects proceed, environmental demands are diluted, and ties with other environmental groups are severed.105 With a short win­dow of time to consider highly technical issues, to study multiple probabilities, and to formulate a cohesive and united position, the O&G industry held an advantage over communities, which risked short-­or long-­term corrosion and the severing of local ties. Among ­these varied coastal communities, Otago represented the one with the greatest possibility of infrastructural development and employment on shore, and the one with the most internal discord. One is associated with the other, and both represented an ave­nue for divisive industry promotions.

Marine Justice: Whose Oceans? Our Oceans? What tran­spired across t­ hese communities points ­toward an aspirational and motivational master frame of marine justice. As a perspective and movement, marine justice extends community demands for climate, food, and environmental justice through and for the ocean, coastal and marine habitats, and coastal and marine residents.106 Affected residents and environmental groups mobilized for the marine environment as a standalone issue, and as it related to their own sense of security for their livelihoods, cultures, and well-­being. As a campaign, marine activism at or for the sea is not new. In the 1960s, the Australian Save the Reef campaign was successful in constructing the G ­ reat Barrier Reef as a “precious ecosystem” worthy of protection against offshore oil drilling.107 Likewise, Native Hawaiian surfers formed the Save Our Surf cam-

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paign against coastal development and colonial undercurrents to maintain their rights to the surf zone.108 In the 1970s, Greenpeace protested nuclear testing, while Sea Shepherd ­rose up against whaling. In each, ­people mobilized where coastal identities and aquatic spaces coexisted. More recently, o­ thers have called for a “seaweed rebellion,” advocating that “blue is the new green” in terms of saltwater activism and lifestyle changes, given the marine pollution and ecological destruction.109 Deep wells and a canyon of strength existed within the island nation of Aotearoa. Kelp-­bed activists and coastal residents stood up against offshore drilling for the perceived health and well-­being of themselves and marine life and habitats. Some mobilized from an aquatic consciousness, or from an embodiment of or embeddedness with the marine environment. ­Others or­ga­ nized on perceptions that the sea and its marine life w ­ ere cultural trea­sures more valuable than O&G exports. Still o­ thers rallied b­ ecause of traditional or con­ temporary affinities and understandings of the marine environment. From ­these varied attachments, collective calls for marine justice placed communities that possessed indigenous, island, scientific, and con­temporary knowledge and expertise in the local and national decision-­making pro­cesses to guide or govern coastal and maritime practices. As a perspective, marine justice offers an end to hierarchical divisions between land and sea, and an end to oppressions at sea and along coastlines for all species. Marine justice calls for sustainable ­futures for all marine and coastal species, including p­ eople, now and for f­ uture generations. It also demands locally and globally just and equitable treatments, procedures, and legislation for the health, well-­being, protection, and participation of coastal communities and marine ecosystem advocates in ways that account for past, pre­sent, and ­future activities for current and f­ uture generations of coastal and aquatic communities, species, and habitats. Marine justice builds on the “total liberation” ideology held by animal rights and earth-­first activists to end hierarchies, state and capitalism’s vio­lence, and oppression and exploitation of all living creatures, including charismatic and uncharismatic ­humans, more-­than-­humans, and nonhumans, and their requisite social and ecological habitats.110 Marine justice also extends total liberation from the shoreline and through the ocean and broadens a socioecological framework into a socio-­aquatic one to include marine species, aquatic natures, saltwater spaces, and underwater seascapes. As an emergent appeal, marine justice is theoretically grounded in its demonstrable need but tenuous in global practice or achievement. In princi­ple, marine justice puts ­people in their ecological place as dependent on an ecosystem that is not dependent on them; but as a h ­ uman construct, marine justice cannot avoid ­human interference, which tempts dilution. To expand this concept further, marine justice encourages ­human solidarities and global education across each step of global commodity chains from

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extracted “products” to oceanic transport to ­human waste at sea. Moreover, marine literacy is not exclusive to coastal communities or island nations but requires the awareness of landlocked ­others who are connected to and dependent on the sea and coastal areas in diet, consumption, fuel, migration, transportation, and policy. Coastal, saltwater activism without a steady demand for inclusivity and an end of hierarchy may perpetuate the sacrifice of one for the protection and privilege of another, as shown when p­ eople demarcate marine reserves from offshore oil blocks or surrender one coastal community to safeguard another. The se­lection is determined by policy makers with an economic or humancentric agenda, who are left unchecked by disinterested or ambivalent global consumers and pale-­blue campaigners. Likewise, a sense of local possession without an attending sense of global stewardship may become a curse, as when “not on my beach” activists drift ­toward accepting maritime sacrifice zones if their coastal ­waters are protected. Excessive acronyms aside, a global tidal wave of NIPO activists may be forming in response to the perceived dire conditions, extreme extractions, and unrelenting pollution at sea. To overcome limits in cross-­species communications (just swim with me for a bit), marine justice necessitates an advocate at the ­table in policy and decision-­making who speaks for the welfare of the marine life and aquatic ecosystems within and beyond foreshores, nearshores, EEZs, and ­human interests. While recognizing a potentially insurmountable ­human bias, advocates with a shark’s bite and a dolphin’s sense of collective action seem essential to defending the health, well-­being, and sustainability of the marine environment and marine life—­independent of h ­ uman or economic interests and not beholden to marine park concessions in one area for extractive activities in another. Marine justice advocates would take transformative space at the ­table and provide a voice on the indispensability of the ocean; and by adapting the applied, transformative, and evidence-­based knowledge of coastal or seafaring p­ eople, they may improve the outcomes of more socio-­aquatic systems, coastal communities, and marine species. Once confronted by the dominant proextraction paradigm, marine advocates in New Zealand mobilized a national defense of the ocean. In the spirit of a call and response, they shouted, “Whose ocean? Our ocean!” Within a de­cade, the sea winds had changed, and when Jacinda Ardern came to power as leader of the ­Labour Party, she set a new course, declaring a thirty-­year moratorium on new offshore O&G exploration. While current permits would be honored (and t­ here w ­ ere several), no new permits would be granted as the country transitioned to a carbon-­neutral economy. At a minimum, the L ­ abour Party paused the corporate free-­for-­all. In the ­future, multinational corporations would be foolish to underestimate New Zealanders; and their re­sis­tance should be expected to be stronger than their size, modesty, and location would indicate. During this study or within

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a few years of it, corporations began returning some of their permits, citing poor survey results, or scaling back operations, citing a change in business operations. While Petrobras’s actions are not attributed to the campaigns of re­sis­tance, it was one of the first to arrive and one of the first to leave. Anadarko withdrew from two permits but remained a permit holder in other basins. In late 2018, Royal Dutch Shell sold a majority of its in-­country stakes and offshore interests to the Austrian corporation OMV. Statoil, a Norwegian corporation that arrived a­ fter my interviews and had developed exploratory interests in the Northland region, eventually scaled back its commitments as well. At a rally in the capital of Wellington, the advice of a seasoned or­ga­nizer, who tried to prepare activists for a multiyear, multilocation campaign, would prove prescient: “We should never concede that this is a foregone conclusion. . . . ​We should never believe that we are on the margins.”111

7

Mobilizing the ­Middle Ka Nui! “No Mining, No Drilling, No Fracking, Enough!” They just want the oil, and they are hungry, and t­ hey’ll keep looking, and t­ hey’ll keep ­going.

Not only ­were coastal residents of New Zealand confronted by the proposition of offshore exploration, but inland, rural communities ­were also encountering third-­era oil and gas (O&G) expansions through the use of hydraulic fracturing. Even though hydraulic fracturing had been used in Taranaki since 1989,1 many New Zealanders “discovered” the technology in 2011 when its use became pos­si­ble near their communities. The national transition ­toward O&G and use of hydraulic fracturing in par­tic­u­lar even stunned the parliamentary commissioner for the environment, who wrote, “If someone had said eigh­teen months ago, that I would be releasing a report on fracking, I would have looked at them in puzzlement.”2 Time-­stamping the transition, the Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE) reported that around 2008 it had been told that gas was a “sunset industry,” and it indicated that “the word ‘fracking’ was virtually unknown in New Zealand” ­until 2011.3 Tasked with preparing an interim report on hydraulic fracturing in 2012 and a more complete report on O&G expansion plans in 2014, the commission summarized the national transition in four blunt words: “How quickly ­things change.”4 116

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As the epicenter of extraction, Taranaki had been “fracked” seventy-­eight times between 1989 and 2011, including some sites that ­were “fracked” multiple times.5 Each activity was conducted before the PCE had performed a risk assessment specific to hydraulic fracturing. “We had been d­ oing fracking a long time,” according to one Taranaki resident. But u­ ntil a landowner raised the issue, “nobody knew about it. It was done without public knowledge or consent.” Eventually, awareness went “media viral” when Climate Justice Taranaki or­ga­nized a meeting in 2011 about what was happening in Taranaki.6 Beyond Taranaki, some dated a vague understanding of the technology—­but not their own vulnerability to it—to the 2010 U.S. documentary Gasland. As a technology, hydraulic fracturing enabled the industry’s expansion across frontier landscapes and into communities and districts with no O&G history. In 2013 exploration drills began beyond Taranaki in the rural community of Dannevirke; and by 2014, onshore interests extended into two other regions (the east coast of the North Island and parts of the South Island).7 It was during this time of entry, confusion, and early re­sis­tance that I conducted interviews and attended public meetings on fracking. Since ­there are dueling interpretations of this technology, I use the term hydraulic fracturing for the technology and fracking to express a community’s sentiments and opposition to the pro­cess. For ­those in the industry, hydraulic fracturing is simply an updated version of a series of technological steps to access O&G deposits. For affected communities, fracking is an unconventional, extreme, and controversial pro­cess that has imperiled nearby communities, landscapes, and ecosystems, which has led to the rise of a global network of antifracking activists, known collectively as fracktivists. The use of both terms conveys the tensions between the technology (hydraulic fracturing) and the public’s fears (of fracking).8 Rhetorical conversations between first-­fracked communities in Taranaki and the United States and ­those newly vulnerable to fracking beyond Taranaki open this chapter, so as to explain the technology through community experiences. The former are t­ hose who experienced the first de­cade of hydraulic fracturing before they and the wider public understood the under­ground technology and above-­ground impacts. Much of what is known about the burdens to neighboring communities is known ­because t­ hose first witnesses raised alarms and shared their experiences through social and news media, public meetings, ­house­hold videos, and professional documentaries. When fracking proposals ­were being announced beyond Taranaki, residents of speculative regions, or the fracking vulnerable, had access to numerous accounts emanating from the first-­ fracked communities and from citizen and professional scientists for almost ten years.9 The fracking vulnerable also included the landscapes and habitats that reside above geological O&G formations, so in this way, the subsurface mineral estate was being inverted through po­liti­cal and industry speculation

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to the potential detriment of local landscapes and neighborhoods.10 Meta­phor­ ically and quite literally, oil and natu­ral gas ­were being brought to the surface. The second half of this chapter pre­sents three insights into the role of community-­conducted impact assessments and the data-­rich knowledge exchanges between communities in mobilizing a campaign of re­sis­tance. First, hydraulic fracturing as a global technology led to shared experiences with local nuances that facilitated citizen and scientific knowledge exchanges within and between English-­speaking first-­fracked and fracking-­vulnerable communities. Fracking roused middle-­class h ­ ouse­holds and communities, who possessed a sense of privilege and protection given their social and economic securities within New Zealand and as citizens of a middle-­status nation within the Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD). Even though O&G had always been a part of their lives, they found themselves weak and vulnerable relative to the industry’s po­liti­cal influence seemingly for the first time. The second point highlights how Taranaki residents became key in­for­mants and translators of industry practices, mis­haps, and mistruths for frontier communities. As they shared their experiences with vulnerable communities and the nation more broadly, the nation cast a more critical gaze back onto the industry’s regulatory and cultural capture of Taranaki. The third finding shows how the “boomerang effect” of transnational advocacy occurs domestically when previously unaffected citizens and local councils “discover” something untoward about an industry’s workaday practices in traditional provinces of extraction.11 This point contributes an understanding of the repercussions and unintended consequences of an industry expanding beyond its zone of influence and being discovered by a previously indifferent or unaware population that became willing and able to challenge the industry’s encroachment and standard operating procedures. ­W hether national awareness would impede expansion plans over time, improve industry standards, separate politics from O&G, or protect or defend life—­within and beyond Taranaki—­was uncertain. What was clear was how expanding beyond Taranaki brought the industry ­under greater national scrutiny for the first time. For this chapter, the scholarship of phi­los­o­pher Adam Briggle and sociologist Jessica Smartt Gullion, both of whom experienced the rise of hydraulic fracturing and fracking re­sis­tance in Texas, provides critical insights.12 The historical detail and technical explanations are informed by investigative journalists and by my attendance at the annual meetings of the Society of Environmental Journalists in the O&G states of Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Texas.13

Unconventional Technologies, Controversial Impacts If hydraulic fracturing is broadly defined as the practice of breaking rock to release O&G, then the industry has been “fracking” since the first patent in

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1866. The difference between then and now is that con­temporary hydraulic fracturing, which entered into commercial use in the United States in the 1990s, uses highly pressurized and extreme amounts of fresh w ­ ater and chemical combinations to create fissures to release O&G from sedimentary rock formations. Horizontal and directional drilling extended extraction capabilities farther under­ground. The discrepancy between dating use in New Zealand to 1989 and in the United States to the 1990s may be due to definition, consent applications versus implementation, or t­ rials versus commercial production. New Zealand’s trade association, the Petroleum Exploration & Production Association of New Zealand, dates the technological invention to the 1940s, and its first use in Taranaki to 1991, even though the PCE dates first use in Taranaki to 1989.14 At some of the public meetings and conferences that I attended, industry representatives demonstrated how hydrocarbons reside in rock by displaying tennis balls and smaller plastic balls in clear glass jars. The glass jar represents a rock formation, and O&G reside in the gaps between the balls. The degree of tightness was shown through multiple jars (the rock formation) containing smaller and smaller balls (representing smaller spaces). Even old, abandoned, or existing wells may be reworked or overworked to release what had previously been too tight or dense to extract using older technologies. Once fractured, proppant agents, which are commonly called “sand,” are inserted to prop open the fissures. Proppant agents, which vary across companies and under­ground formations, w ­ ere first inserted into a fluid mix of w ­ ater and chemicals in 1948. One difference between then and now, or between conventional and unconventional technologies, concerns the amount of the chemicals used in the fluid mix that is injected under­ground, and the toxic, hazardous, or contaminated ­water that returns to the surface. The options for disposing of the toxic fluid include on-­site surface disposal, under­ground reinjection, and transport to waste centers. In regions unaccustomed to industrial waste, local recycling or waste disposal sites are not equipped to ­handle the volume or toxicity. Like other extractive activities, fracking connects sites of extraction with secondary or facilitator communities and landscapes in a shared disruption due to transportation and waste disposal, such as landfarming. Numerous socioecological impacts have been identified, including health risks, freshwater depletion and pollution, potential toxicity of the fracking fluids and waste, surface and subsurface vibrations and seismic activity, and industrial spread. Other effects include air pollution, heavy truck traffic, industrial noises, gas releases, sickened livestock, and individual and communal stress.15 When combined, ­these impacts represent acute and chronic suffering and multiple and cumulative injuries on and through bodies, communities, and ecosystems. ­People in first-­fracked regions learned of ­these risks only ­after experiencing them. P ­ eople in the frontier communities resisted industry

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advances based on the detrimental impacts documented by ­those first-­affected communities.

Health Risks and ­Water Contamination For p­ eople living near O&G operations or exposure pathways, health risks lie at the heart of their concerns. For them, both the pro­cesses (i.e., chemicals interjected under­ground and heavy metals brought to the surface) and the product (i.e., oil, gas, methane, and waste) are hazardous. When toxins enter the air, ­water, and soil, ­those pollutants may migrate into the body, adding to an individual’s, ­house­hold’s, or community’s chemical body burden.16 As is the case with many environmental justice strug­gles, parents of young ­children ­were some of the first to identify nosebleeds, respiratory difficulties, and skin and neurological prob­lems as associated with proximity to a hydraulic fracturing operation.17 Briggle suggests that fracking should inspire local “not in my bloodstream” campaigns of re­sis­tance,18 while Gullion argues that fracking represents a “community-­level health threat.”19 By the time I began researching fracktivists in New Zealand, they ­were well aware of the firsthand accounts from many of the first-­fracked communities. The ire emerges from the fact that health and illness studies followed industry entry into ­those first-­fracked communities. One review of the environmental and public health research on unconventional natu­ral gas development found that 84 ­percent of the public health papers identified public health risk, 87  ­percent of the air quality papers indicated elevated air pollution, and 69 ­percent of the papers on ­water quality found w ­ ater contamination.20 Studies found an association between unconventional activity and congenital heart defects in newborns,21 as well as preterm births and physician-­recorded high-­ risk pregnancies.22 Without embellishing the risks, and though specific pathways ­were not identified, t­ hese studies capture components of the multistage pro­cess that may include but are not ­limited to the use of diesel equipment to clear and prepare a site and transport w ­ ater and equipment; pro­cesses ranging from drilling to fracking to extracting; the resurfacing of fracking fluids; the use of gas flares and gas and methane vents; and air and groundwater contamination due to releases, leaks, or spills. Th ­ ese proj­ects may affect pregnancy through changes in air quality, changes in ­water quality, maternal stress, community disruptions, and the synergistic effects of all of ­these exposures.23 Beyond the immediate health risks, the rationale for ­these studies was that the industry expanded without in­de­pen­dent assessments or adequate understanding of cumulative and life-­course health impacts. Each well met single-­well regulations (which may have been weak given the novelty of the pro­cess), without adequate regulations or controls on the scale of development and subsequent and potentially exponential risks of exposures and impacts.

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The pro­cess, product, and profit ­were prioritized over ­human and ecological well-­being, a community’s right to know, and in­de­pen­dent impact assessments. Unlike the coastal communities that ­were subjected to the uncertainty and scarcity of impact assessments on offshore exploration, rural communities exposed to hydraulic fracturing had an abundance of scientific and community-­based indicators that something was fundamentally problematic about fracking. Freshwater contamination and depletion are also inseparable from ­human health concerns. During hydraulic fracturing, ­water is injected ­under pressure along with a chemical fluid mix. Contaminated w ­ ater is then brought to the surface with O&G and other under­ground minerals. The vari­ous flows, injections, reinjections, and flowbacks of w ­ ater are called produced, by-­product, contaminated, briny, or wastewater and are too contaminated for drinking or for many wastewater management technologies to clean. “The sheer volume of ­water that comes back out of wells means that contaminated ­water, not oil and gas, is the industry’s largest product,” reasons an investigative journalist.24 Given the production of wastewater and the risk of contaminating a region’s fresh w ­ ater, residents sought—­and often failed to find—­information about the exact chemicals pumped into and out of the ground. Specific chemicals and concentrations vary by com­pany and geological formation and are often protected as proprietary knowledge or trade secrets. At one conference in the United States, a university-­affiliated researcher told an audience of journalists that ­there ­were more chemicals in toothpaste than in fracking fluid chemicals.25 That may be, but by making such comparisons, the industry’s support troops ignored (and hoped journalists and communities did too) the extreme differences in volume, concentration, labels, regulation, right-­to-­know protections, personal control, potential dispersal, and toxicity. In the 2012 documentary Greedy Lying Bastards, old footage shows a tobacco interest comparing the harms of tobacco to ­those of eating excessive amounts of applesauce.26 In New Zealand, a report by the Taranaki Regional Council (TRC) indicated that many of the fracking fluid components ­were “commonly used in homes.”27 A journalist was told by an industry representative that many of the products ­were found in h ­ ouse­hold items such as “ice cream,” or w ­ ere in such low concentrations as to be nontoxic. The same journalist also found a com­pany receiving consent to use the chemicals benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene, and xylene in several wells, despite an industry representative’s denials.28 Another journalist was told, “­There’s a large amount of misinformation about fracking in the blogosphere. It has become a cause-­celebre, a bit like cell-­phone towers and ge­ne­tic engineering in the 90’s and micro­wave cooking and Saturday shopping in the 80’s.”29 Industry strategies to minimize risk perceptions and to speak to adults as ­children ­were well established. So concerned residents conducted their own investigations into the existing ­labor protection laws that indicated hazardous materials ­were being used at vari­ous sites. According to one local sleuth, the

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industry says, “ ‘Oh you can find them in your laundry, and we use a lot of them in ice cream making. It’s all safe. Nothing to worry about.’ . . . ​But then when you hear anecdotal reports from the well workers, they are covered up from head to foot almost like astronauts when they are d­ oing some of this work.” Even though chemical lists had been provided to Taranaki residents, they ­were standardized assessments of what could be used—­not what was used at a par­tic­u­lar well site or landfarm. The inability to easily access and decipher this information was the mobilizing point for many residents and antifracking activists who also believed that local councils lacked the expertise to assess toxicity in the interest of communities or farmlands. According to one resident, “­There’s a level on the risk-­o-­meter, and I think fracking hits the top on it with the aquifers. I have no idea what is happening under­neath me.” With ­limited procedural transparency, directly affected and vulnerable communities tried to obtain information from each other, industry workers, farmers with nearby wells, journalists, scientists, and social media. As it was for coastal communities affected by offshore activities, the difficulty of interpreting the multiple meanings of single words became a resident’s tedium, and the industry’s advantage. “­There are six [wells] in the vicinity of me, but no one has told me the cumulative effects of six wells, fracked eight times over thirty years,” one resident explained. “I d­ on’t think they know.” As a frontier resident observed, “The companies ­haven’t said where the ­water ­will come from if they are ­going to go into production, and where the waste w ­ ill go? Th ­ ese are massive questions that no one has answered.” Power­ful industries have honed a strategy of denial that has resulted in individual angst or retraction from the conflict and the weakening of community cohesion on the issue. In previous environmental disputes, communities strug­ gled to determine ­whether the state or industry intentionally betrayed them, or w ­ hether accidental ­mistakes or misunderstandings had left them unprotected.30 With hydraulic fracturing, t­ here was an indication of institutional betrayal given that communities w ­ ere not told beforehand and in a straightforward manner of the pro­cess, chemical and w ­ ater usages, multifaceted health risks, and long-­term expansion plans.31 In Taranaki, health officials deferred to the regional council, which deferred to the industry, according to community advocates. But beyond Taranaki, at least one public health physician and medical officer “got it.” A ­ fter the public health official spoke at the Hastings Oil & Gas symposium, one attendee told me, “He got it. He said wherever t­ hese industries are [in the United States], the health issues are. So he said he wanted to keep them back from schools and communities. . . . ​If you are g­ oing to have them, you make sure you are ­going to protect your most vulnerable, and the most affected p­ eople who have nothing to do with the industry, and you protect not just your environment, but your

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other industries and your families and your communities.” For this attendee, someone with some authority was fi­nally using reason and common sense. I also attended the all-­day meeting, and at one point the physician warned, “No evidence of effect does not mean evidence of no effect.” But more tellingly, two arms of the O&G promotional team, Venture Taranaki and the Petroleum Exploration & Production Association of New Zealand, spoke e­ arlier in the day. The public health expert spoke at a time when half the audience had already left and o­ thers w ­ ere fidgety. I recalled being physically and mentally exhausted ­after sitting and listening all day. I was also taking fewer and less detailed notes, ­until I realized this expert was offering the audience the most impor­tant, scientific-­based, and worrisome information of the conference. It was not promotional or anecdotal; it was scientifically rigorous and alarming. Once I perked up, I wondered w ­ hether the local government’s decision to prioritize industry promotions and relegate its own public health expert to the last slot in a long day of speakers demonstrated the local government’s deference to the industry or its unintentional betrayal of public interest. As symposium organizers, the government both provided and minimized the public health data by granting the industry priority in the speakers’ lineup. While I am not stating definitively that hydraulic fracturing or O&G extraction increases the risk of illness, birth defects, or cancer, a range of reports indicates that residents should use common sense to opt for prevention to eliminate any risk rather than prescription a­ fter injury. The safest route would be to stop exploration and extraction. In the absence of a ban, decision makers ­were conceding to some degree of risk disproportionately borne by t­ hose closest to the pro­cess, by-­product, or product.

Industry-­Induced Seismic Activity Earthquakes ­were also not hy­po­thet­i­cal concerns. While they should be called industry-­induced earthquakes, they w ­ ere more commonly called human-­made, induced, or triggered seismicity; seismic activity; or earthquakes, and they w ­ ere publicly clarified only a­ fter communities experienced them. Industry-­induced seismic activity occurred when fresh ­water was forced under­ground to break rock; when oil, gas, and produced wastewater w ­ ere extracted; or when contaminated wastewater was reinjected under­ground. Current research indicates that hydraulic fracturing, long-­term wastewater injection or reinjection, or “enhanced oil recovery,” such as flooding an under­ground area to extend or prolong production, may cause industry-­induced earthquakes.32 Most of the identified cases in the United States w ­ ere believed to be due to wastewater reinjection. While ­these pro­cesses do not cause industry-­induced earthquakes in all locations, they do in some; and a deployment of multiple pro­cesses dispersed across a single area may produce even greater under­ground stress.33

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The argument in the United States was that it was safer to reinject the wastewater nearby (risking seismic activity in some areas) rather than relocate the potentially toxic wastewater by truck or pipeline and risk a spill or contamination elsewhere. Research at the time was also testing w ­ hether it was the rate or volume of fluid reinjection that was the cause, with the suggestion that by slowing down the flow, seismic activity may be avoided. In typical fashion, industry solutions emphasize industry-­determined adjustments rather than external regulation or a cessation of activity. The quantifiable rise of earthquakes was staggering. The central United States, which had experienced 858 earthquakes, or an annual average of 24 at a magnitude of three or greater, between 1973 and 2008, experienced 1,570 earthquakes, or an annual average of 193, between 2009 and April 2015—­with 688 earthquakes occurring in 2014 alone.34 In an act of transparency, the government of Oklahoma developed an online map to allow visitors to compare earthquake size and location with wastewater well locations, by year beginning in 2010, and by de­cade for previous periods. When I explored the map in October 2015, one seven-­day win­dow had more and larger earthquake activity than the ten-­year period between 1980 and 1989. In a move to reduce triggers, Oklahoma reduced the volume of reinjection fluids and temporarily closed disposal wells near the state’s O&G transport and storage hub to protect its pipelines and facilities. Eventually the industry acknowledged that wastewater should be cleaned and recycled rather than reinjected, but it appeared not to have been a concern when high-­ pressurized hydraulic fracturing began in the 1990s—­before communities identified and became vocal about felt earthquakes due to the industry’s activities. Like illness, industry-­induced seismic activity was experienced ­after hydraulic fracturing and associated w ­ ater injection and wastewater reinjection began. As with the risk of illness, communities w ­ ere not forewarned about the risk of such seismic activity, even though the risk—­given the science—­was credible and could have been modeled for nearby residents and local officials. The first earthquake due to under­ground injection of chemical fluids in the United States was documented in 1962, and the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) first documented earthquake risk due to the reinjection of drilling w ­ ater in 2012.35 Neglecting ­these connections raised the question, Why was it that the public had to feel and reveal ­these risks, rather than the industry or industry scientists? Part of the explanation is regulatory and cultural capture, to be sure, but also how public-­and industry-­funded scientists and researchers in O&G regions become industry supporters through employment or funding opportunities. When oil prices or activities are down in O&G states, ­there are fewer funds in the research pipeline and fewer employment opportunities for new gradu­ates. It is also likely that research questions on acquisition and production generate more research funds than questions on minimizing negative impact or eliciting public engagement on O&G decision-­making.

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At an Oklahoma conference, someone claimed that scientists ­were stumbling around in the dark trying to figure out the questions to ask regarding the cause of industry-­induced earthquakes. It was never suggested that they stop activity u­ ntil it was determined. I have also witnessed acts of diversion in which industry support troops waste l­ imited Q&A time repeatedly pointing out that when narrowly defined “fracking” does not cause earthquakes. In this case, the caveat was that injection or reinjection of ­water used or produced in an extraction pro­cess produced earthquake risk in some areas. Offering no assurances for neighboring communities in the United States, one panelist suggested more studies need to be done on earthquake activity in areas without O&G facilities—­ which I interpreted as a public ser­vice to industry and use of public funds to draw attention away from industry-­associated earthquake risk.36 Aotearoa rises along the Ring of Fire, a volcanic and earthquake-­prone range that loops the Pacific Ocean. Pockets of it spit, boil, and blow sulfuric smells, opening the earth up to ­human inspection, much like Yellowstone National Park. It is also where the Canterbury and Christchurch earthquakes of 2010 and 2011 ­were fresh in ­people’s memory. The Christchurch earthquake killed 185 ­people and injured thousands, and the city remained a construction site during this study. Adding oil extraction to the volatile landscape and alongside displays of corporate or po­liti­cal malfeasance, some began to question the prevalent laissez-­faire attitude. The Christchurch earthquake “was ­really at the forefront of ­people’s minds,” one resident recalled. “With what’s happened with Christchurch, we are supersensitive about [fracking and earthquakes],” another emphasized. One fracktivist found sufficient answers in the U.S. experience and scientific reports: “The USGS is saying, ‘Yes, yes, they do cause earthquakes. They have caused earthquakes.’ You know it’s not just some internet blogger junkie guy saying it is. No, it’s USGS.” The report by the PCE cautioned decision makers “to avoid locating wells, particularly ­those used for the reinjection of wastewater, in the vicinity of major faults. Putting aside the potential for triggering earthquakes, ­there is another more compelling reason for drilling carefully in seismically active areas. Natu­ ral earthquakes can damage wells, potentially allowing contaminants to leak into aquifers, and possibly lead to well blowouts and fires.”37 During this expansionary period, the industry was bumping up against frontier communities with a history of seismic activity or awareness of the country’s under­g round volatility, and po­liti­cal and industry assurances ­were not meeting resident safety standards.

Industrial Spread Another fear was the spread of the industry’s ground-­level footprint. In contrast to routine visual and sensory promotions of O&G, industrial spread

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became an adversarial counternarrative seen and felt by residents through increased truck traffic, truck fumes, diesel generators, noise and light pollution, and ground vibrations. Th ­ ese experiences w ­ ere more than just nuisances. Yards, vistas, and roadways became worksites, forcing closed win­dows and indoor activities on pleasant days. In Taranaki, the gas flares ­were described as the “bowels of Mordor.”38 Photo­graphs taken in Taranaki by residents and professional photog­raphers documented truck traffic on narrow rural roads. One community was told to expect up to eight small vehicles per day and three heavy vehicles during certain periods, but the district council counted an average of sixty vehicles and up to sixteen heavy trucks daily.39 Even within Taranaki, the industry’s expansions w ­ ere interrupting traditional perceptions of benevolent cohabitation. Though some studies indicate that communities that grow with the industry are more likely to accept the industry’s risks and rewards,40 third-­wave expansions using hydraulic fracturing ­were deemed too aggressive and intolerable by some Taranaki residents. “We grew up with it, in its beginning, infancy stages and now it’s becoming much more extensive and it is actually quite dif­fer­ent to live alongside,” one resident said. The companies “­were originally out in the hills where they just annoyed a few p­ eople. . . . ​But they used every­thing out ­there so they are coming more and more and more down ­towards the towns. . . . ​The trou­ble is ­they’ve got all the easy oil. What’s left is the stuff that’s beside ­people’s ­houses, beside the schools.” Industrial spread began in bits and pieces. Th ­ ere was one consented road or well h ­ ere, and then another ­there, and they kept multiplying. The individual parts ­were tolerable, but the expanding labyrinth was unfathomable. “Some farmers are very happy to take the money. They are all users of fossil fuels in a big way,” another resident said. “But it’s about the scale. . . . ​Next to the school is dif­fer­ent from in a corner [on a big field].” The equilibrium between black and white gold and between industry and residents was being toppled. And though they could not prove the health risks, Taranaki residents could prove the extent of the industry’s expanse. They then took their stories and images across the country and to t­ hose who would be next in line. “The reaction from ­those [outside Taranaki] when they see what we are living with is horror, absolute horror, and they just do not want it. They ­can’t understand how it ­will fit in their community.” In the frontiers, one person asked, “How could you legitimately have ecotourism next to an oil well?” Residents vulnerable to hydraulic fracturing “could see all ­these ­things happening, and they could see it clearer than the p­ eople in Taranaki who had lived beside it for most of their lives.” At the Hastings O&G symposium, which was or­ga­nized for vulnerable frontier communities to hear from industry representatives, affected residents,

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and government experts, Sarah Roberts described life on a ­family farm in Taranaki. “We have Cheal B [the name of a well site] four hundred meters north of our home. We have Cheal A, up to sixteen wells of production, on our immediate western boundary. And Cheal E recently consented for up to twelve well production facilities on the adjacent property on our eastern boundary. And all of this in 2011. [Then] our ­family and I w ­ ere asked for written approval for a further eigh­teen wells at Cheal A and B, next to our h ­ ouse and small dairy farm. . . . ​At that point we had never heard of fracking.”41 From the audience, someone warned: “Once they come, they flood.” Another case of the small town of Tikorangi and a single well illustrates how a community’s reasonable arguments w ­ ere disregarded by council and industry interests. The community had already conceded dozens of wells before attempting to block a single well. Nevertheless, the community lost. In a publicly available letter written to the district council, one resident presented an account of community collaboration and the council’s disregard of their single request: The Tikorangi community came to you in good faith. The letter signed by 80 adults, 75 of whom live in the immediate block around the Kowhai C [well] site, represented a rare expression of una­nim­i­ty in the district in opposing that site. But you shelved that letter. Greymouth Petroleum has not even both­ered to acknowledge receipt of it. In good faith, we have spent countless hours working to find paths through the development. A ­ fter all, we ­were only opposing one site. We could work with the other 12 well sites (now numbering 95 or so potential gas wells consented or in the pro­cess of being consented in Tikorangi with a further pos­si­ble 17 that I know of—­there may be more). ­There was always the sticking point of Kowhai C but your staff assured us it was “on hold.” Your website still shows it as “paused.” And all the while, as we sat around the ­table with your staff and put in a g­ reat deal of work ­behind the scenes, t­ hose very same staff ­were working with Greymouth to repeatedly massage their application for Kowhai C to the point where it is now ready to be signed off. But they ­didn’t tell us that. The first we knew about it was when work started on the site last Tuesday.42

According to a news report, the community believed this one well would “bring dangerous levels of traffic and industrial noise to the centre of their community,” including unacceptable proximity to the school, sports fields, and kindergarten.43 “The ­future of the oil and gas industry in Taranaki does not depend on Kowhai C g­ oing ahead. But the f­ uture of Tikorangi as a longstanding rural community depends on Kowhai C not g­ oing ahead,” a resident told the council at a public meeting.44 The PCE assessment concurred with public sentiment: “­Because councils are judging the impacts of single wells to be ‘minor,’ none of the applications

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for resource consents associated with drilling for oil and gas are being publicly notified. Understandably, some perceive this as ‘regulatory capture,’ that is, seeing councils as acting in the benefit of the industry, rather than the public interest.” The commission explained that “much of the concern was not about fracking per se, but about the spread of the industry that the technique can enable.”45 Before landowners, residents, and councils understood the distinctions between conventional and unconventional drilling and the industry’s intended expansion plans, some consented and signed access or drilling agreements—­ whether they w ­ ere in the United States or Taranaki. Most likely, they i­ magined some revenue flows for themselves as landowners. However, they failed to recognize beforehand (and ­were never told) how intrusive and exploitive the game had become. Beyond Taranaki, community advocates ­were trying to block first entry out of knowledge and fear of t­ hese physical, communal, and psychological impacts documented in Taranaki and in other first-­fracked regions.

“Negotiating” Alone In addition to the expansive list of injuries and injustices in Aotearoa and the United States, another shared trait was how alone and abandoned land-­and homeowners felt. Even though public officials could have assisted them in meeting with multinational corporations to understand the technological pro­ cesses and breadth of short-­and long-­term impacts, they chose not to in regions already co-­opted by O&G or could not in the frontiers b­ ecause of their own ­limited understandings. Farmers in the United States experienced “a dev­il’s bargain” in which they received gas-­enriched incomes for increased dependencies, environmental risk, and procedural injustices in understanding, negotiating, and enforcing agreements.46 In the United States, it was found that corporate actors possessed a “meta-­power” that enabled them to shape public interactions and individual negotiations “­toward development and away from au­then­tic participation by community members.”47 In New Zealand, the industry’s “meta-­power” was shown in the order of speakers at the Hastings symposium, as well as in the fact that landowners ­were forced to negotiate alone and without pertinent understandings of the industry’s risks and intents. Like o­ thers, New Zealanders discovered the O&G industry shortly before they grasped their own subordination to it. Despite obvious disparities, government staff or an in­de­pen­dent ombudsperson was not involved in what was constructed as a negotiation between two private entities (an individual landowner and a corporation). From the first contact through negotiations, ­there was no neutral ombudsperson assisting homeowners or neighboring communities. Already burdened by time constraints and ­limited technological understanding, they ­were compelled to seek assistance from online commentaries or reports. “You find you are isolated,” one resident said. “You think that ­there’d be somebody who would have your back as an individual, you know, that would

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be looking out for you. But you find they ­don’t r­ eally care about one ­family or one farm.” Another resident concurred: small, rural communities “are more vulnerable ­because they have less capacity. They ­don’t have a university or government departments with that sort of expertise who can help the community understand and ask the right questions, and put in place the right mechanisms to ensure the community is protected.” For rural Māori, “the tribes have been largely left to Google, and to try and find their own information as best as they can with l­ imited resources. So they often get a bit of truth and run with it and that ends up not being applicable, and then the w ­ hole case can be dismissed as fringe, ill-­informed extremists when actually ­there is a w ­ hole lot of legitimate concerns. B ­ ecause the time frame is so tight and the pressure is on, it is not a good pro­cess [for communities].” It was a good pro­cess, however, for the industry, which pushed access before frontier communities and councils ­were or­ga­ nized and sufficiently informed. At the Hastings symposium, Donald James, a Dannevirke farmer and spokesperson for Tararua Lock the Gate, instructed attendees on how his community experienced industry contact. In paraphrasing him, James said, I d­ on’t have any ideological push to be against oil. When approached by a com­pany two years ago, I ­didn’t know I could say no. I signed a nondisclosure clause. An absentee landowner also signed on. Locals w ­ ere opposed to the absentee agreement, but council determined we w ­ ere unaffected. One w ­ oman said no, and was subjected to harassment, dozens of phone calls a day.48 ­Others identified similar tactics to pressure residents into compliance or silence.49 In one interview, a Taranaki landowner described receiving a “trespass notice” on their own land and being harassed by neighbors who may have been encouraged by or aligned with the corporation or industry-­friendly councilors. According to a community or­ga­nizer, the industry also used the “ele­ment of surprise” to manipulate rural residents: The ele­ment of surprise includes quite subtle but power­f ul intimidation. They just walk up, knock at your door, you d­ on’t know anything. [They say,] “Central government has permitted your area for oil and gas exploration, and we are ­here to do some seismic testing on your land. W ­ e’re ­going to give you $1,000 for that. . . . ​­We’ll be in and out. You ­won’t know ­we’re ­here. We just need you to sign h ­ ere for our access.” Now to the old lady, or whoever, she has no idea that she has the right to say no. . . . ​They have no idea what they are saying yes to. They have no idea what oil and gas exploration involves.

Interpretations of negotiating prowess also pitted residents against each other. When a Taranaki resident received double-­glazed win­dows for soundproofing, or fencing, or a trip out of town when drilling was loudest, it was a

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display of their negotiating abilities. For o­ thers, it was interpreted as a middle-­ class version of a colonial, trinket-­and-­bead mentality: “Once you let them in, the bastards ­don’t stop, and now [­those who consented] are all crying foul. . . . ​ But they w ­ ere offered double-­glazing, and they accepted it. . . . ​And then they cry, ‘Wowsa me,’ ” when the industry kept expanding. The industry’s one-­by-­ one, divide-­and-­conquer practices w ­ ere effective in splintering communities. New and old tensions within affected communities also bubbled to the surface once the industry’s negotiators left and the equipment arrived. Frontier councils, which w ­ ere also negotiating the pro­cesses and impacts for the first time, w ­ ere also not provided adequate guidance.50 Decisions and agreements w ­ ere expected and councils ­were legally obligated not to delay unduly the pro­cessing of consents. In Gisborne, the council staff recognized that they ­were unprepared and underqualified to set regional standards. As indicated in one report, “Council staff have no significant experience with the pro­cessing of resource consents for more complex mining operations, and the controversial practice of hydrological fracturing (fracking).”51 Meanwhile corporations had entire teams displaying “expertise” and negotiating for access with minimal central government oversight. As in other cases, communities, landowners, and councils w ­ ere often negotiating alone on the margins of a proj­ect or national initiative, not the a­ ctual ac­cep­tance or rejection of it.52

Tikanga: Customary Values and Beliefs To ­these wide-­ranging impacts, Māori brought tikanga, an approach that recognizes their customary values and beliefs to defend their historic and current land claims. Many who w ­ ere willing to meet with me w ­ ere also patient in explaining some of the détentes between Māori and Māori, Māori and the Crown, and Māori and local council or non-­Māori community, as well as the significant long-­running structural hurdles that still needed to be addressed or should have been addressed beforehand. Like other New Zealanders, some Māori accepted and some rejected industry expansions. Unlike o­ thers, Māori w ­ ere still grappling with the repercussions of past constraints and seizing con­temporary opportunities when the weight of hydraulic fracturing was imposed on them. In trying to explain the burden, one person said, Th ­ ere’s an iwi (tribe) that has experienced 150 years of colonialization, which has meant they ­haven’t had the opportunity or space to or­ga­nize themselves effectively. They have inherited Western structures so that they can be a l­ egal entity and engage with the pro­cess, but that d­ oesn’t necessarily reflect their hereditary roles. And then some are more traditional leaders who have a God-­g iven mandate to be leaders; and ­others are more demo­cratic and believe we all got a right and should be encouraging participation. All of t­ hose t­ hings

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are trying to work themselves out, as well as trying to then engage with the external council, or Crown, or industry, and then try and make good decisions that are g­ oing to have long-­lasting impacts ­either way. It is very complex.

As a legislative tool to influence council decisions, iwi have the right to submit nonbinding management plans to the council that should be taken into consideration. But with l­imited time to prepare and too few personnel dedicated to studying industry impacts, iwi—­like other residents—­were pressed to consider multiple short-­term and generational implications and respond accordingly. When one iwi chair signed a memo of understanding with an oil com­ pany, outsiders expressed irritation at the single-­handed decision and the l­ imited accountability that leader had to tribal members and the wider community. In another example, one O&G operator negotiated with one Māori community, whose historic claims w ­ ere contested by another Māori community that may have made the consultations “both invalid and immoral.”53 In multiple ways, hydraulic fracturing strode through Māori history, into con­temporary quandaries, and with potentially long-­lasting impacts on their ­futures. While the impacts on Māori communities w ­ ere recognized as distinct from ­others, historical and con­temporary remedies w ­ ere less than clear and not achieved across all communities.

PCE Recommendations: Regulation ­A fter investigating the industry’s operations in Taranaki and beyond New Zealand, the PCE suggested higher standards, better regulations, government in­de­pen­dence from industry, and controls over industry spread. It also advised that what had been acceptable for Taranaki in the past or what was operational ­today may not be good for other parts of the country. Current government oversights w ­ ere determined to be too fragmented, too “light-­handed,” and undeserving of a “social license.”54 If oversight was “understandable and transparent, and regulation is seen to be adequate,” the PCE reasoned, the industry may receive a social license to operate.55 The report was perceived and rejected by many fracktivists as permitting the industry to operate with “better” regulation. Given the regulatory capture in Taranaki, they doubted ­whether regulation was ever pos­si­ble or adequate enough to safeguard communities and local ecosystems. According to one fracktivist, an emphasis on regulations “is like saying anything in an ideal world can be done safely. ­Really? . . . ​You can regulate and monitor all sorts of ­things to try and make them safe, but at the end of the day is it ­really what you want? That ­doesn’t even answer the question about what happens to your dairy industry b­ ecause they are drilling in the m ­ iddle of your agricultural land. What happens to your tourism ­because ­you’ve got derricks everywhere, trucks everywhere, waste everywhere? What happens to the health

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Fracktivists join a “TPPA No Way” march in downtown Wellington against the Trans-­Pacific Partnership Agreement.

of the community b­ ecause of the fracking fluid, the dumping of stuff in the w ­ ater?” Some community advocates blamed the Green Party and ­others for putting too much import on the PCE report before it was written. Accordingly, one said, “The wording was around ‘we want a moratorium u­ ntil the PCE report can prove its safe.’ And that was the biggest ­mistake in the ­whole campaign, ­because we had just got this big national debate [on fracking], like it was starting to become an issue. . . . ​But then the m ­ istake was basically giving all the power to the report.” For fracktivists, the report was seen as weakening their efforts to broaden the re­sis­tance. For vulnerable communities that needed basic information that had been scientifically vetted, the PCE offered just enough doubt for landowners. As one resident observed, “It is full of every­thing we need to just raise a question mark, to legitimize our concerns. It is not our words, it’s hers [PCE commissioner Jan Wright], and this is a government report. So when I hear p­ eople speaking ill about it, you know, ‘Why d­ idn’t she put in a moratorium? She should have done this or that,’ well [for us] she’s done a lot.” For antidrilling activists who wanted a ban, the PCE report had failed them. For community organizers who needed sound scientific evidence, the report legitimized their concerns without necessarily answering their questions. For

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the industry, the PCE’s emphasis on increased regulation was an overreach. Given the risks, ac­cep­tance with greater oversight favored industry and courted threats of some kind, for someone. The ­whole pro­cess from exploration to waste disposal was a “ticking time bomb,” according to one Taranaki resident. “Look, you ­won’t die from the noise, and you prob­ably ­won’t die from being run over by a truck. You can prob­ably manage all of ­those, but the t­ hing that bothers me prob­ably the most is the stuff that they use. . . . ​A ll of [­those chemicals and the waste by-­product] r­ eally bothers me b­ ecause that kind of stuff is r­ eally a ticking time bomb.” According to a national activist, “You cannot do this kind of activity and think ­there is no fallout from it.”

Rousing the ­Middle Despite a lifetime of O&G consumption, middle-­class communities beyond Taranaki discovered the pro­cess of extraction only when the industry began exploring near them. This assessment is not critical of the newly vulnerable in New Zealand or the United States, but to locate their newfound curiosity as occurring when the industry began to stretch into their neighborhoods. Even industry-­tolerant regions such as Taranaki and Texas began to question the use of hydraulic fracturing. In Texas, fracking caused the ­middle class to self-­ identify as “accidental” or “reluctant” activists, even as they found “themselves impotent in the shadow” of the industry.56 Research in Ohio found environmental degradation and a sense of disempowerment in “unexpected places,” or among residents previously privileged by their social and economic securities.57 As third-­era encroachments reached into middle-­class ­house­holds and communities, residents spoke of witnessing themselves slip from modestly protected bodies and neighborhoods to increasingly precarious ones. For the first time, they sensed a powerlessness relative to the industry and a subordination that had been known by many “marginalized” ­people burdened by routine environmental injustices. Longtime environmental justice activists recognized the late arrival of the comfortable ­middle class, even as they conceded how the ­middle class could muster and broaden fracktivist networks. “They would not be involved in the issue if it d­ idn’t affect them,” one activist told me. Many first-­time community advocates recognized their delay yet found resolve in their fresh convictions. “It could be quite easy for me to turn my back on the issue. Put it in the too-­hard basket. Just forget about it, and just enjoy the benefits, and I think that’s what a lot of ­people do,” one Taranaki resident said. “But I also feel a sense of stewardship and a sense of community.” For ­others, t­ here was no alternative but action: “I have to be part of it in some way. Maybe not to stop it, but maybe we could influence a ­little bit of this issue ­here and t­ here. . . . ​We ­can’t just sit and let it happen and pretend we d­ on’t know.” Expressing a similar insight, another explained, “We ­haven’t ever been this

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po­liti­cally involved. . . . ​If you take the lid off Pandora’s box, you ­can’t put it back on. I took the lid off it, and thought, ‘Ah, this i­ sn’t good.’ ” Middle-­class discovery and exchanges emerged across three stages that have received ­little attention in the study of hydraulic fracturing.58 First, frontier or vulnerable communities sought the scientific studies and resident knowledge of first-­fracked communities within and beyond Aotearoa. In ­doing so, they participated in the global flow of knowledge across English-­speaking middle-­ class networks and resources. They ­were neither poor nor posh; they resided in stable economies and established democracies; and they connected through informal, digital-­age networks. As the “global m ­ iddle” in an increasingly globalized world, they shared more in common with each other than with the ever more marginalized poor or the disproportionately wealthy and influential in their home countries. In the second stage, Taranaki residents became national experts, in­for­mants, and translators for frontier communities on the industry’s disproportionate power and disconcerting practices. With intent and their own experiential knowledge, residents who opposed fracking or the industry’s expansions sought to inform the nation on the troubling yet normalized practices and policies in the O&G province. Through personal accounts, they demonstrated how the industry in general and fracking in par­tic­u­lar bred community-­altering grievances, not minor incon­ve­niences. In the next step, a boomerang effect of support and scrutiny emerged in which the frontier communities and councils redirected their understanding and empathy back to the residents of Taranaki seemingly for the first time. In addition, a national interrogation of the commonplace but increasingly controversial practices in Taranaki occurred. Unlike the transnational boomerang effect, in which northern-­led transnational co­ali­tions took the message of residents in low-­income nations to international bodies or boardrooms with the intent of ­those messages bouncing back and pressuring national po­liti­cal leaders in the Global South,59 in New Zealand the boomerang was domestic, powered by a broad discovery of the prob­lems of the O&G industry and a newfound sense of solidarity and defiant alignment with the affected in Taranaki. Overall, fracking connected middle-­class ­house­holds in higher-­income nations that reached across borders for information and shared in the same emotionally spent and sleepless nights of o­ thers. When North Americans yelled “Enough!” and held “Hands Across the Land” in protest against fracking and oil pipelines, Australians campaigned to “Lock the Gate” to their farms, and New Zealanders roared “Ka Nui!”—­shouting a collective “Enough already!”60

“Their Truth”: A Global Flow of Citizen Knowledge Despite the geo­graph­i­cal breadth and diversity of affected communities, the global flow of knowledge among an English-­speaking network of middle-­status

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residents was facilitated by certain commonalities, including the technological pro­cesses used. While t­ here ­were dif­f er­ent combinations and geologies, the pro­cesses, scale, and cumulative effects of drilling, fracturing, ­water use, chemical combinations, and waste production w ­ ere reasoned to represent semistandardized dangers with local nuances.61 To understand the pro­cesses and impacts when industry or the state was less than forthcoming, fracking opponents sought information where they could find it. While first-­fracked communities bore the brunt of uninformed and unconsented disruptions, their candid and publicly accessible accounts served frontier communities in understanding the risks and applying global experiences to local landscapes. New Zealanders referenced earthquakes in Oklahoma, re­sis­tance in ­England, w ­ ater contamination in Pennsylvania and New York, farmers locking their gates in Australia, and their own officials on study tours or at informational meetings in western Canada or the United States. The PCE referenced well failures in Alberta, Pennsylvania, Wyoming, and New Zealand as indicative of a prob­lem.62 It also identified how regulators in the United States and Australia played catch-up to the industry, forewarning that New Zealand “may find itself in the same position”—­responding ­after prob­lems had occurred—­unless it inferred from global experience to “get ahead of the game.”63 Comparisons with the proverbial Texas and Australia exemplified the ­imagined or realized ills or rewards of extractive economies. From the re­sis­ tance, one concerned citizen warned, “Do we on the East Coast want to look like a mini-­Texas? I think not!!”64 Not surprisingly, a promotional view described the east coast as “the Texas of the South—­literally leaking oil and gas.”65 A district council split the difference by recognizing the “considerable optimism in the industry around the potential,” while also identifying the international bans on hydraulic fracturing.66 Given Australia’s proximity, the country represented illusions of economic prosperity contrasted with an excavated island spilling toxins and contamination. “The government often compares us to Australia and says, ‘Look at Australia. They are already rich ­because they sell all of their resources. That’s what ­we’ll do too. ­We’ll be rich like Australia,’ ” one activist offered. In a similar tone, another emphasized, “The government tells us very simply that New Zealand needs to grow up, and that we need to be prepared to sacrifice some t­ hings for economic gain.” In explaining what Aotearoa had to lose if it emulated Australia’s “success,” the same activist clarified that since “New Zealand is so small, if you start digging holes, it ­will be in parks or mountains or oceans. We ­don’t have the landmass, the big areas. Australia has holes, but it’s a big country. Putting big holes in New Zealand is a self-­destructive impulse.” Photo­graphs of the United States ­were equally incongruent with New Zealanders’ perceptions of themselves. At the Hastings symposium, aerial images of the industry’s pockmarks in the United States elicited an audible gasp from

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the audience. One activist described such images as disturbingly “ugly”: “I was surprised to see how close together all ­these drill sites ­were and how t­ here is a road up to e­ very one. . . . ​It looks so ugly. Now if you w ­ ere living in that landscape, you’d get quite emotional about it, as they are in the South of E ­ ngland at the moment. And I could just see that scenario unfolding in part of New Zealand where p­ eople have gone to live ­because they ­really love it ­there or where ­there are long generations of farming families.” In clarifying why global insights ­were informative, another activist said, “If they had seen the fracking fields of Pennsylvania, and seen well heads ­every fifty yards, in e­ very direction, for hundreds of miles, t­ hey’d be r­ eally concerned.” In recognizing the importance of first-­fracked in­for­mants, another or­ga­nizer cited Pennsylvania as a case for which vulnerable communities ­were grateful: “­We’re learning from the mess over ­there, and that’s sad, knowing that ­we’re lucky.” For some, the need to know had become all too consuming, as one claimed: “I know what’s happening in Australia. I know what’s happening in Canada. I know what’s happening in the U.S.” Someone ­else specifically identified Drew Hutton, an activist with the Lock the Gate campaign in Australia who gave talks in Aotearoa on the Australian experience: “We know their story and their truth.”67 While the significance of local citizen science and popu­lar knowledge in communities affected by industrial toxins has been well documented,68 this study indicates a globalization of citizen and expert knowledge among middle-­ status, first-­fracked, and fracking vulnerable communities, enabled by online communication and online exchanges of images and videos. New Zealanders extrapolated nonlocal ­hazards onto local conditions and deduced potential impacts from a range of documented occurrences, or residential “truths.” Once residents chronicled their local experiences online, they became global in­for­ mants, inspirations, and allies who w ­ ere perceived as more reliable than governments or industry promoters.69 In short, vulnerable residents and councils learned of the risks of fracking from affected ­people who reported local prob­ lems, investigative journalists and activists who recorded them, and scientists who studied them. In conversations, p­ eople frequently referenced specific national and international sources, including New Zealand’s Campbell Live tele­vi­sion program, the Australian ABC Network special Gas Rush (aired in 2011), and the U.S. documentaries Gasland (produced in 2010) and Bidder 70 (produced in 2012). In the United States, Gasland was to the public’s understanding of fracking what Al Gore’s Incon­ve­nient Truth was to its understanding of climate change. Gasland was a “game-­changer”;70 the “single identifiable source responsible for elevating fracking to a broad level of public awareness and concern”;71 a mobilizing force in local antifracking campaigns; and impetus for increased media coverage and online searches.72

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In New Zealand, Gasland was considered a linchpin in sending the controversy “media viral, as p­ eople . . . ​connected the dots and demanded to know more about this perceived new threat.”73 It was only a­ fter public furor arose over hydraulic fracturing that the PCE investigated it and that the TRC “told oil companies that in ­future they would need approval to frack.”74 In other words, the state appeared to discover something unconventional about hydraulic fracturing only a­ fter public concern and media attention demonstrated multiple and novel risks as informed by their own civic-­minded investigations, which eventually led to greater oversight. For communities and activists, Gasland was instrumental in raising awareness and facilitating conversations. “­People have watched the Gasland film, and they are just horrified, but it is all new to them. It is not something we have experienced. It is one of t­ hose t­ hings that you d­ on’t know u­ ntil it is too late,” one fracktivist said. Another person who was new to community advocacy and hydraulic fracturing explained, “I saw the film Gasland, and that was the first that I personally found out about fracking. And I thought, ‘That’s terrible, but it’s a North American t­ hing.’ And then, I somehow made the connection of realizing that that might be coming ­here. And then it was sort of like this light bulb, ‘What! That’s just outrageous. That ­can’t happen.’ ” Another emphasized that Gasland reached the public before industry lobbyists arrived promoting employment. They realized that having “industry lobbying out of the equation ­really allows p­ eople to see the truth of the environmental dangers.” Amateur videos found online also lent “a h ­ uman face” to the social and psychological grievances of residing near fracking.75 Any doubts on the quality of some online information was outweighed by the perceived risks: “I know enough that I’m concerned that ­there are risks. I’m convinced of that,” said one resident. “And should the risks pan out, the impacts are so ­great that it’s just not worth it.” In my interviews, one person identified how a small, rural community strug­ gled to distinguish between factual and erroneous information found online. Repeating inaccurate information found online became an embarrassment and liability for them, and was aggravated by government investigations or announcements that w ­ ere less than certain, trustworthy, or forthcoming. Underscoring how disadvantaged rural communities w ­ ere in acquiring information and receiving assistance in developing critical community-­centered questions, one disgruntled resident argued that the government should provide the public and landowners reliable information based on “good science and evidence around t­ hese issues,” so that they w ­ ere not forced to use the internet as a primary source for answers. ­These types of complaints led to the PCE reports, which advised stricter regulations rather than a national ban. Professional and amateur documentaries and news reports in the United States and Australia offered visceral accounts of affected p­ eople who experienced

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­ ouse­hold ­water taps or farmland ­water bores catching fire, ponds bubbling h from under­ground gas leaks, and industrial-­scale equipment and traffic appearing near homes or across pastures. New Zealanders identified ­these reports as accurate justifications for their fears, as equivalent to incidents in Taranaki, and as vehicles of crucial information when government or industry appeared to withhold, disregard, or downplay evidence and stonewall community-­centered questions or concerns. Community-­driven experiential knowledge collected at the point of pollution or injury begot a second life when middle-­rung ­house­holds and communities of OECD nations utilized and inferred from one another’s circumstances to understand their own localized risk. With multiple data sources in hand, frontier communities a­ dopted the interpretations of first-­fracked communities, and in d­ oing so confirmed how citizen-­led, data-­rich campaigns of re­sis­tance ­matter beyond the original point of conflict.76 In the absence of their voices and visuals, which also inspired scientific studies and media reports, frontier communities would not have known the risks or challenged the industry’s infringements as vigorously as they did. Increasingly networked and informed residents and councils in the frontiers forced the PCE’s investigation and slowed the industry’s pro­gress. As a shared technology, hydraulic fracturing spurred the advocacy of affected middle-­class residents of wealthier, demo­cratic nations to question the status quo of the dominant pro-­oil paradigm.

From Taranaki with Intent The second step in mobilizing the ­middle emphasizes the role of Taranaki residents who formed a substantial, awareness-­raising bloc as national experts. Unlike international sources that ­were not purposely directing their ire at the strug­gles in Aotearoa, Taranaki’s activists intentionally sought to educate frontier communities on the risks of negotiation, regulatory and cultural capture, and industrial spread. Much like Texas and Australia, Taranaki symbolized contradictory visions of pain and prosperity depending on the narrator. Some perceived Taranaki as staged by industry and po­liti­cal interests to be “this kind of glory town, or glory region that we should be aspiring to.” It was portrayed as if “every­thing is hunky dory in Taranaki and therefore it can be hunky dory in Hawkes Bay and hunky dory everywhere ­else.” Affected Taranaki residents interpreted such endorsements as misleading or blatantly wrong and became whistle­blowers who intentionally sought to show “what can go wrong.” Disillusioned, residents sought to educate ­others on the risks of industry operations. “A group of us always knew we could not save Taranaki, but one of our goals was that [the industry] would not get out of Taranaki looking unblemished. It ­couldn’t be sold somewhere ­else as this rock star,” one activist said. “­There are some shiny bits to it, but they are not as shiny as you think they are. And if you think they can come into your community and you only get the shiny bit, sorry,

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y­ ou’re wrong.” Importantly, Taranaki activists believed that frontier councils and communities ­were “not beholden—­yet. Not like ­here. They are still wanting all of the information,” which Taranaki residents w ­ ere able to provide. In interviews and public meetings, residents advised that communities should get in­de­pen­dent baseline health data, identify and protect “no-go” areas, conduct or acquire in­de­pen­dent peer-­reviewed studies, grant only short-­term five-­year consents, require annual reviews, and be aware that with increased production, t­ here is an increase in ­every other step of the pro­cess. “You are never ­going to stop them, but prohibit it in some areas,” one advised, and involve the public “­because they are your watchdogs.” While every­one’s efforts ­were well received in the frontier communities, Sarah Roberts, who spoke at two events that I attended, elicited special recognition from many of ­those interviewed. One frontier activist asked that I recognize Roberts for her work beyond Taranaki: “I hope t­ here’s special mention somewhere of Sarah Roberts. . . . ​Such integrity, commitment to truth, commitment to fairness, and she ­doesn’t speak ill; she ­really stays to fact. . . . ​Her efforts have been the backbone of the rest of us.” Roberts was a rock for emerging rural fracktivists, as much as Mike Smith was an anchor for coastal groups opposed to offshore drilling. If first-­fracked communities in Taranaki ­were unprepared for or uninformed on how unconventional the pro­cesses and impacts had become, newly vulnerable communities had become conversant in asking questions and making demands on the industry or state. With intent, the small re­sis­tance camp in the O&G province took its experiences on the road, and in ­doing so, national criticism grew more exacting.

Problematizing Taranaki When activists pulled back the curtain on their own lives, the disturbing workaday practices in Taranaki became apparent nationwide. Indeed, the industry’s expansion triggered a national inspection of the day-­to-­day, year-­to-­year, decade-­to-­decade operations in Taranaki. Consequently, the nation’s introspection and broad realization of standard operating procedures in Taranaki proved unsettling, eliciting a deeper examination of local politics and industry practices where the O&G industry had resided for de­cades. An emergent criticism of industry operations in Taranaki spread from the O&G province to inform the frontiers. Once ­there, it strengthened before pivoting with national observers to censure the standard procedures in the traditional zone of extraction. Many New Zealanders who had never considered anything untoward about O&G activities in Taranaki redirected their attention ­toward the workaday practices, industry-­council alliances, and regulatory and cultural capture in the O&G province that had long been accepted or tolerated by residents, and l­ ittle known beyond the province.

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While specific knowledge exchanges ­were presented e­ arlier in this chapter, it is worth noting that many of ­those within Taranaki’s small activist circle only became privately and publicly conflicted when hydraulic fracturing expanded near them. Though ­there w ­ ere past conflicts over the practice of landfarming and Māori land claims, ­there was l­ ittle indication of sustained re­sis­tance across multiple communities within Taranaki. Furthermore, New Zealanders beyond Taranaki only appeared curious about the industry’s threats and the leniency ­under which it had been operating when it began surveying and proposing to use hydraulic fracturing in their regions. “We have always known about the Maui gas plant off Taranaki. I just d­ idn’t realize t­ here w ­ ere so many up ­there, and on the land as well,” one activist admitted. “It was quite a surprise.” For another, who participated in a “toxic tour” of Taranaki, the industry’s dominance was overwhelming: “You can see in Taranaki the oil industry owns the place. . . . ​Once you start digging into it, it’s horrifying, all the bad practices.” Once discovered, the scale and status quo of operations appalled outsiders. “I was just shocked and c­ ouldn’t believe the corruption in the Taranaki Regional Council,” one told me. “Blatant, in my opinion, corruption that continues to go on.” Another worried about industry’s potential influence over local politics in their own region. “If the industry establishes ­here, it ­won’t be long before they have ­people standing for election, and that’s where the rules get made. It is one of the criticisms of Taranaki. You need p­ eople who have experience of the industry to be in the regulatory space ­because they understand the technical aspects of it, but you have to protect or keep your conflicts of interests clear and separate.” For someone e­ lse who likewise had never paid attention, hydraulic fracturing brought Taranaki’s po­liti­cal pro­cesses to their front door: “I know t­ here’s documented breaches of consent. Th ­ ere’s documented lack of monitoring. Th ­ ere’s missing monitoring reports. Th ­ ere’s some real questionable conflicts of interests with the councilors, and oil and gas, and landfarming. I know this, and I can prove that. I can show you where to go to look.” Even the PCE sounded alarmed. Although its reports ­were cautiously worded and studiously diplomatic, the tone at times conveyed disbelief. For example, the PCE wrote, “In Taranaki, remarkably, a resource consent is not needed to drill for oil and gas.” It specified that “the overall lack of systematic monitoring programmes that require baseline sampling and ongoing testing for the lifetime of the well (and beyond)—­particularly for indicators of ecological health—is disappointing.”77 Likewise, a council con­sul­tant expressed shock at what was passing as a com­pany’s consent applications: “­A fter repeatedly asking for information of widely considered acceptable professional standards, I won­der ­whether it is ignorance or arrogance, on part of the con­sul­tant in failing to meet such. . . . ​­Mistakes of past applications are repeated again and again.”78 Journalists also began reporting inconsistencies. In a review of the

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TRC, one reporter found executive summaries indicating a high level of per­ for­mance and compliance, while a more thorough read of the report indicated several breaches, including “unauthorized discharges,” “ ‘ lost’ fluids,” and hydrocarbon concentrations that exceeded guidelines.79 For background, the TRC was the sole shareholder of the port of Taranaki, whose largest client was the O&G industry, which meant that port revenues to the council fluctuated with industry activity. When I spoke to Taranaki residents, one reasoned that “the TRC has sold their soul to the industry. They have the port, and the income which is mainly oil and gas. So I ­don’t think they are out t­ here looking for in­de­pen­dent studies” on the negative impacts of extraction. Instead, the council had a vested interest in facilitating port activity. For the island nation at the bottom of the world, the ports—­like the one to which Rena was rushing when it ran aground—­appeared to be protected entities. So if black and white gold “built” Taranaki, the ports moored the island nation to global markets. As a ­whole, residents within and beyond Taranaki unearthed O&G’s burdens only when the industry expanded through the use of hydraulic fracturing. For ­those in Taranaki, the groundswell of external support was a welcome relief: “It is no longer a Taranaki issue. . . . ​I think the two [Taranaki and the frontiers] are growing and potentially helping each other.” The per­sis­tent patterns of neglect and questionable alliances in Taranaki had fi­nally been problematized.

Enabling a Sacrifice For anyone who thought the prob­lems of O&G occurred only in backwater hotspots of conflict and pollution, hydraulic fracturing upended such misconceptions. Newly affected middle-­status communities in relatively wealthy OECD nations ­were alarmed to witness their own limits and the herculean efforts required to raise concerns about O&G activities in demo­cratic socie­ ties. When hydraulic fracturing expanded the industry’s reach, frontier councils and vulnerable residents sought guidance from first-­fracked communities within and well beyond Aotearoa. With a wealth of firsthand knowledge, affected residents became interpreters of industry practices for the growing resistance—­whether unknowingly from accounts placed and then gathered online, or purposefully from the antifracking bloc in Taranaki. Their knowledge was corroborated by scientific reports, media accounts, and documentaries easily shared online. Subsequently, a national spotlight was cast on the chronic prob­lems in Taranaki, which previously had been unknown or unexamined by the broad population. This boomerang of criticism against the industry’s operations and support for affected communities in Taranaki was unique to community research on hydraulic fracturing.

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One of the biggest hurdles to the opposition was that expansion had been greenlit by central government; and one of the opposition’s greatest worries was that the health impacts ­were essentially unknown. No one appeared to be tasked with assessing the immediate and generational health risks to frontline communities of one well, let alone a vast web of them. Another impediment was the much larger national campaign that mobilized against offshore exploration, rather than supporting unequivocally the local and regional efforts against onshore fracking in rural communities. Fragmented zones of privilege and sacrifice ­were real possibilities both within and between nations. While certain lands or communities with commercial or aesthetic appeal may be protection worthy, t­ hose in Taranaki could face a doubling-­down of burdens. To generalize ­these observations, public re­sis­tance ­matters. It broadens civic and po­liti­cal awareness; generates improved standards, monitoring, oversight, and regulations; leads to increased community involvement; discourages corporate interests in contested or prohibitive locations; and in some cases achieves bans or moratoria.80 In this case, the city council of Christchurch banned fracking based on concerns over the region’s ­water supply and earthquake risk.81 Even though the 2012 vote was largely symbolic since it is the regional council that grants access, other councils or districts began debating a moratorium. Then, communities and fracktivists ­were given a mini-­reprieve when corporate interest waned. A news article on the industry’s shift concluded, “Oil and gas was the place to be in 2014 and 2015 . . . ​but in 2016, the price of oil fell” to below US$50/ barrel, making places such as New Zealand unviable or uncompetitive.82 The decline in global interest is prob­ably only a temporary one. Fossil fuels remain under­ground like a savings account or “ticking time bomb” pending global demand, price, technology, or lenient legislation. Some could argue that grassroots activists succeeded in slowing fracking outside Taranaki long enough to discourage industry interests. In the words of one resident, “This is only the beginning. They are ­going to be next to you. They are ­going to come at some point.”

8

Tainting a Clean, Green Image We are a l­ ittle country at the bottom of nowhere with very few resources, and we market ourselves as this pure, clean, green country. I think once upon a time we ­were ­really striving for that, but we are ­really a murky gray ­because we should be so much better.

Long before New Zealand began transitioning t­ oward oil and gas (O&G) extraction, it had promoted itself to itself and to an international audience as a pure, clean, green haven. The “clean, green” narrative developed during New Zealand’s effective antinuclear campaign in the 1970s and 1980s and was reinforced in subsequent de­cades with the “100% Pure” nature-­based tourism promotion. ­These slogans and sentiments ­were so successful and desirable that export businesses utilized them to market products overseas,1 and the public sought to live up to them. Younger generations in par­tic­u­lar had grown up with the identity and so w ­ ere especially confounded by the state’s transitions t­ oward O&G extraction. The indisputable paradox of a socially constructed clean, green image and a shift ­toward large-­scale O&G activities provoked a national reckoning on economic and cultural directions, activated a youth-­led mission to achieve higher ecological standards, and incited ­others to attack the “greenies” for holding back 143

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the economy. Many of the p­ eople interviewed had been living, aspiring, or laboring t­ oward more sustainable businesses, policies, and lifestyles, so much so that the transition ­toward O&G represented an ideological upheaval and crisis of identity. In speaking for many, one antidrilling activist said, “The government is up against quite a strong cultural undercurrent where we have an idealistic vision of ourselves as being a country that is a bit ahead of the rest of the world in the clean, green department, and we would actually like to deliver on that.” Environmental advocates saw the country as sitting on the edge of achieving international recognition for a low-­carbon, ecologically sustainable economy, while Māori sought deeper reciprocal relationships with each other and nature through the ongoing or renewed practice of kaitiakitanga—­until being pulled backward by the po­liti­cal drive to extract. For residents who w ­ ere coming to terms with the nation’s existing ecological damage and neglect, O&G extraction was an unfathomable burden imposed on the environment and the nation’s global distinctiveness. This national dichotomy further contextualizes the tensions between the pro-­and antidrilling camps, and it is examined through six focal points: (1) the marketing of “pure” landscapes and products; (2) the development of a “clean, green” consciousness; (3) the discovery of the mirage; (4) the silencing of environmental concerns by antigreenie postures; (5) the public shaming of “hypocritical” activists; and (6) the overall feeling among environmental stewards of being “­under siege.” Each is illustrated through the voices or activities of industry support troops and the co­ali­tions of re­sis­tance. Furthering t­ hese insights, a third path—­Aotearoa justice—is identified as a New Zealand approach with global applications. Grounded in their comments and concerns, Aotearoa justice enfolds kaitiakitanga, or generational and environmental guardianship, with the global aspirations for climate, environmental, food, marine, and sociohistorical justice. As a national model and global ethos, it seeks a ­union of multigenerational aspirations and practices to sustain the well-­being of multiple cultures and traditions, as well as social and natu­ral habitats for current and ­f uture generations. Prac­ti­tion­ers seek to lead other nations and socie­ties by example. Aotearoa justice embraces a stewardship of and relationship with natu­ral ecosystems and nonhuman species so as to enact and ensure practices and policies from the individual to the institutional that preserve the well-­being of cultures, all living beings, and their social and natu­ ral ecosystems. Beyond promoting the survival of all, it advocates for requisite spaces and opportunities for all to thrive. Ideally, the practice supersedes state and national borders, and centers flourishing lives over inanimate materials and cap­i­tal­ist arguments. Aotearoa justice is proposed through the eyes of an outsider who witnessed the advances and connections of ­people in a place and time who ­were forging ideas for a better ­f uture for their island communities and

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neighbors—­inclusive of nature, ecosystems, and nonhuman life—­and despite the novel and entrenched obstacles outlined in previous chapters. A ­future in O&G extraction (and to a lesser extent continued O&G consumption) was the antithesis to a portion of the country’s residents, who demanded national policies that secured clean, green practices and that facilitated clean, green lifestyles.

Pure Products, Green Jobs Over time, the clean, green image served as a master frame and iconic symbol for environmental activists2 and was utilized by small businesses as a principal marque for the export market. During the O&G activity spurt, the “green” groups ­were in lockstep with each other, calling on national leaders to transition to something cleaner, greener, and purer and touting the intuitive disconnect between growing an oil economy and maintaining a pure, clean, green marketing strategy. Pure Advantage, a nonprofit that promoted sustainable businesses, reminded the nation, “We simply c­ an’t afford to let our reputation, and consequently our exporters, suffer ­because of a lack of environmental leadership, nor should we miss the opportunity that the global shift to green growth represents for a country like New Zealand.”3 As one of the staunchest opponents of O&G, Greenpeace stated in brochures, in press releases, and at rallies how the country’s economy would suffer if extraction proceeded. Greenpeace estimated that 50  ­percent of the country’s jobs and 70 ­percent of its exports relied on the “clean, green” branding,4 and advocated for “a clean, innovative, uniquely Kiwi f­ uture rather than trying to follow ­others down the path of drilling and mining for dirty fuels.”5 The country’s geothermal engineers and technologies ­were recognized as “uniquely Kiwi” contributions for a global, renewable energy transition. When speaking at an antidrilling and antimining rally, Greenpeace campaigner Steve Abel furthered the group’s green economy arguments when stating, “Instead of investing $46 million annually as they currently are in subsidizing the foreign, offshore oil industry, they should be spending that $46 million on the local, clean, sustainable, f­ uture innovations that we can develop right ­here, and provide jobs right ­here.”6 Likewise, Forest & Bird rationalized, “A hasty rush to find fossil fuels in pristine areas runs the very real risk of killing the goose—­New Zealand’s natu­ral environment—­that lays our golden eggs—­tourism and primary production.”7 In speaking to Parliament ­after the Rena oil spill, Gareth Hughes of the Green Party claimed, “New Zealand’s f­ uture, New Zealand’s jobs, and New Zealand’s prosperity are g­ oing to come from clean energy, and it is clean energy where more net international capital investment is g­ oing. It is clean energy that China, Eu­rope, and Amer­i­ca are calling out for.”8 Likewise, Ralph Hogan, in representing the

Young activists demand a clean, green energy ­f uture at a rally against offshore exploration on St. Clair Beach, near Dunedin.

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coastal-­roots group No Drill Kaikoura, reasoned that “clean, green energy is not a pipe dream. Our very economic and ecological survival depends on it.”9 The point is that across multiple platforms, many stood solidly ­behind the goal of realizing a clean, green economy. The economic dilemma was that even though the aspiration and expectation had been seeded, they had yet to be firmly established before third-­era extraction plans took root. The bind was that O&G was rushing in before sustainable green jobs ­were available or incentivized, and before deep ecological norms and practices ­were ­adopted. A few with dairy or farming interests also utilized the “100% Pure” mantra to resist the toxic associations of black and white gold. As stated at a town hall, “The 100% Pure tourism and international branding of New Zealand which brings billions of dollars to New Zealand could easily be destroyed in a de­cade for a few barrels of oil and gas.”10 In reference to landfarming in par­tic­u­lar, an Organic New Zealand spokesperson wrote, “Dumping fracking waste on farms is compromising the 100% pure NZ brand and it must stop.”11 As a countermovement, the state sought to redirect national and international expectations and minimize previously successful claims. Concerning tourism campaigns where the “100% Pure” slogan was first marketed to visitors and locals alike, a doublespeak emerged in which the prodrilling prime minister John Key, who was also head of the Ministry of Tourism, said the “100% Pure” marketing campaign was never a real­ity or a reflection of the natu­ ral environment and should “be taken with a bit of a pinch of salt.” In sync, the general man­ag­er of the tourism marketing agency claimed that international visitors understood that the motto was “not an environmental promise.”12 The hitch was that many citizens had embraced the narrative and possessed a deep desire for and ecological consciousness of the espoused pure, clean, green environment. Exporters had also incorporated the campaign into their niche marketing. Again, New Zealanders w ­ ere poised between two directives: their cultural idealizations and the government’s revisions. “The 100 per cent t­ hing is clearly not to be taken literally,” wrote a newspaper columnist. “And yet neither has the slogan been plucked from the sky—­the reason it works, and it does, is ­because it reflects the broad perception of New Zealand, ­here and abroad, as environmental custodian.”13

Generational Pride, Ecocultural Consciousness Given the decades-­long construction of this impression, a generation or two had been raised in its ­bubble. ­Whether they learned it in school or through cultural osmosis, they believed the clean, green vision to be relatively true, and a symbol of national pride and distinction. “It’s like the pride of coming from New Zealand,” one resident told me. “You always go overseas and you come back to New Zealand, and it’s like, ‘Oh gosh, it’s so unpolluted h ­ ere. We are so lucky.’

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Every­one knows that’s not true, but it’s still a source of national pride. It’s relatively true, right?” Another antidrilling activist concluded that even if ­there is some hy­poc­risy between thought and deed, the “overall psyche” of being environmental guardians “is still t­ here and still m ­ atters.” According to another, the government “underestimates the sense in which it has caught on, and particularly among young New Zealanders who want to believe in something about their country. . . . ​[This image] has been big through all of their secondary school and university years. . . . ​It is part of the cultural consciousness of young ­people. . . . ​Why ­don’t we just get on with living up to it?” Antidrilling or climate action activists ­were not the only ones linking place attachment to this power­f ul, pos­si­ble narrative. In the New Zealand Geographic, Kennedy Warne captured the pulse of the nation when writing, “Increasingly, New Zealanders’ sense of self, place and country is bound up with the health of the natu­ral environment. This is the story we tell ourselves and the world: that our greenness—­and blueness—is more than a brand, it is a taonga, our common trea­sure.”14 Before the transition t­ oward O&G, business writer Rod Oram ­adopted a similar perspective: “We could become the first country to earn a First World sustainable living from our natu­ral environment.”15 Likewise, then–­prime minister Helen Clark, in a prepared speech in 2007, stated, “We pride ourselves on our clean and green environment. Our challenge now is to work harder on the substance ­behind that slogan.”16 Before the government had committed to O&G expansions, it had actively cultivated clean, green values and environmental stewardship through Enviroschools and Envirohubs that ­were implemented in vari­ous towns and cities and funded by the Environment Ministry—­until funding was cut. Th ­ ese environmental centers ­were formed with established, community-­based environmental groups, and the mission of each reflected what they and the town itself had been ­doing for some time. Some served as a network; o­ thers focused on schools and education; and o­ thers worked on recycling, composting, edible gardens, or the insulation of homes. The community of Nelson developed a post-­ oil transition network, offered a carbon reduction scheme, promoted local food production and composting, and educated schools and businesses on energy efficiency and waste reduction. A crowdfunding website was established to buy solar panels for schools, and sustainability was merged into the curriculum. In contrast, the one in Taranaki appeared to emphasize ­house­hold responsibilities while ignoring the O&G industry’s ecological and climate impacts. Even though sustainable practices predated the schools and hubs by many generations for Māori, the nation raised a generation or two whose education and ideals ­were in some way aligned with the well-­being of nature and themselves—­before the swing ­toward expanding O&G extraction.

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Realism or a “Green Mirage”? In actuality, Aotearoa was more polluted than would be expected given its small population, environmental education campaigns, and purity pronouncements. According to Oram, national decisions even before the announcement of O&G expansion plans had been ecologically reckless: “Our environmental rec­ord shows we are far from being the clean, green country we claim we are. We use energy inefficiently, ­water profligately and land carelessly.”17 A person just needs to look below the surface. New Zealand is visibly “green,” with green rolling hills, green sheep pastures, grass-­fed ­cattle, and rainy, wet forests. But its waterways ­were polluted and its landfarming practices ­were alarming. In the economics of environmental imagery, New Zealand watched itself slip in international rankings as its polluted real­ity caught up with its self-­ promotions. In the Global Green Economy Index, Aotearoa dropped from the number one spot in 2011 to sixth the following year.18 In the Yale Environmental Index on environmental public health and ecosystem vitality, New Zealand dropped from number one in 2006 to f­ ourteenth in 2012.19 The personal, economic, and national ideals ­were unraveling in public view, and O&G expansions ­were exacerbating the tensions between extraction and a desired global virtue. The ­actual scale of O&G exploration and less than stringent regulations w ­ ere souring a fabricated harmony between black and white gold, including scares over a contaminated dairy truck and growing awareness of landfarming. Consequently, “the Chinese are waking up, and the Chinese ambassador h ­ ere has actually come out and said that New Zealand’s on a warning to lift their game,” according to one activist. “So ­we’ve got [Prime Minister] John Key over ­there ­doing his meet and greet with Chinese officials trying to smooth the oily w ­ aters of the dairy industry, if you like.” Across the interviews conducted, events attended, and reports read, one pronounced sentiment was that many New Zealanders saw their clean, green goals as pos­si­ble, not radical, and that they wanted to be active partners in achieving them. Stopping O&G expansion was a starting point, followed by the uncomfortable conversation about the agricultural industry and climate change. In any given interview, ­people portrayed the nation as relatively clean and green, while listing particularly polluted areas, including rivers and streams, or polluting industries such as agriculture and O&G. From the perspective of one observer, “It’s in every­one’s mind-­set that this is a clean place, and a safe place. And to a large extent you could argue that that’s true. Th ­ ere are a few toxic prob­lems and hot spots and some systemic issues, . . . ​but on the ­whole, especially from an ocean’s point of view, it’s not like Eu­rope or somewhere. ­There is no nuclear power; ­there is no sort of major smelters. It’s pretty clean.” Written reports and scientific studies w ­ ere grimmer than public perceptions. In somber tones, a media assessment of the report Environment Aotearoa 2015

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found “that the amount of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere has increased; diversity and conservation status of some native species have decline; w ­ ater quality in rivers that run through intensively used land has worsened; and more than three quarters of soils ­under dairy farming are now badly affected by compaction.”20 To t­hese critiques and in an opinion article titled “The D ­ ying Myth of a Clean, Green Aotearoa,” Mike Joy, a professor of ecol­ogy, added, “Nearly half of our lakes and around 90 per cent of our lowland rivers are classed as polluted. . . . ​Surely it is time to admit, even if just to ourselves, that far from being 100 per cent pure, natu­ral, clean, or even green, the real truth is we are an environmental/biodiversity catastrophe.” In a string of online replies, one Canterbury resident asserted, “New Zealand i­ sn’t 100% pure, it’s 100% toxic.”21 Other researchers argued that the country’s image of purity was an “overinflated” form of “greenwash.”22 In interviews, residents and activists offered equally alarming condemnations of the country’s environmental standards: “You ­will see ‘No swimming’ signs, ‘Keep your dogs away’ signs. It’s stunning. It’s not how we sell ourselves to the world.” Another agreed: “Yeah, it’s nice to look at. Just d­ on’t drink it.” Back and forth; real­ity and desire; illusion and potential. For a middle-­aged participant, the younger generation’s belief in a clean, green nation was perplexing (even though this participant was and had been fighting for some version of it for de­cades): “Seventy-­five ­percent of the rivers in our country are undrinkable or not swimmable. And that’s just happened within the last thirty-­odd years. So it’s ironic t­ hese kids grew up in a time when it w ­ asn’t [clean or green]. It’s a myth now. It’s a marketing slogan. It’s not real. But it used to be, and unfortunately, I’m old enough to remember when it was.” International comparisons ­were frequently on the tip of a Kiwi’s tongue. From one perspective, “New Zealand is like Canada: it has a good reputation ­until you go ­there. [Laughing.] I spent a lot of time in Canada, OK. It is just like the U.S. with a slightly dif­fer­ent culture and worse environmental standards.” (I should have asked which state they visited.) From the perspective of ­others, Canada earned high marks in terms of regulation.23 “The Alberta guidelines are far stricter in terms of the sampling regimen,” one person told me. “It’s hundreds of times more samples than what’s being done ­here.” Given Canada’s tar sands reputation,24 this New Zealander’s appreciation was mystifying. But such perceptions represented a global outlook of finding best and worst practices and emulating and even advancing the best ones. International comparisons also ran both ways, and outsiders had begun documenting the nation’s deceptions. A headline in the Economist read, “It’s Not Easy Seeming Green: A Backlash to New Zealand’s Vow of Purity.”25 Before the 2009 Copenhagen climate talks, a Guardian columnist scathingly wrote, “My prize for the most shameless two fin­gers to the global community goes to

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New Zealand, a country that sells itself round the world as ‘clean and green.’ . . . ​ Its emissions started high and went higher. . . . ​It’s a green mirage.”26 New arrivals spoke to me as one visitor to another about their own disappointment when finding the country not as pristine as anticipated. The partner of an O&G engineer working on a three-­year work contract indicated that the standards and rules at work w ­ ere so unexpectedly low that the engineer brought their disbelief into conversations at home. In this instance, the Eu­ro­ pean c­ ouple surmised that the lax standards would eventually “catch up” to the country. According to numerous accounts, the country’s promotion only steepened the fall once the degree of pollution was exposed. Many residents expressed personal and professional anguish about the disjuncture between what could be and what was. “We have become cynical and far more po­liti­cal, but no more po­liti­cal than a person should be,” one person told me. Another admitted their lifelong gullibility: “My understanding was very naïve. One, I believed that in Taranaki the gas had been pretty much exploited, which was obviously wrong. And my other naïve understanding was that New Zealand was a green utopia or at least a lot better [than it is]. . . . ​A nd then I read the government’s plan for offshore oil exploration, and they basically cut up New Zealand like a beast and give it to the highest bidder . . . ​and I just went, ‘Oh no!’ ” In other words, welcome to the disillusionment; and welcome to the re­sis­tance.

Greenies Silenced by Association In another paradoxical turn, a nation that marketed a clean, green economy and fostered an ecological consciousness was openly adverse to its prac­ti­tion­ ers, especially ­those who had become even more vocal given the spread of O&G activities. Some residents resisted the green wave or actively opposed the “greenies.” If Greenpeace and the Green Party ­were institutional leaders rejecting extractive industries or advocating changes in one’s ­house­hold practices, then it was to them that so many vitriolic hostilities w ­ ere directed. Yet the caustic rancor hit every­one ­else more sharply. Any citizen who spoke for their community from an ecological standpoint became a “greenie” by association. Yet private individuals, especially t­ hose in small towns, lacked the institutional protections of professional membership, lacked residence in larger cities, and lacked the hard shells and comfort with confrontation possessed by professional groups. As a global force, Greenpeace prob­ably viewed (and even courted) attacks as indicative of its successful watchdog stature. However, overt criticism silenced individual citizens and community guardians. When small-­town residents spoke publicly, they fretted over their jobs, social networks, neighbors, and ­children.

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Examples of personal attacks in the media include an opinion writer’s reference to the “greenies” as “the ­g reat unwashed, rent-­a-­mob and ­those with nothing better to do or ­those who seek to raise their individual profiles.”27 In a letter to the editor, another writer suggested “the professional hippies never let the facts spoil a good story” and concluded that the good life “is paid for by our exports—­the stuff that the hippies love to hate.”28 At a wharf gathering to welcome a Greenpeace-­led flotilla, an older man muttered loudly to anyone passing by, “What i­ diots! Th ­ ey’re i­ diots!” He was loud enough that it was clear he wanted p­ eople along the walkway to hear him as he railed about “them against oil!” In explaining how easy it was to undermine anti-­oil sentiment in Taranaki, a resident described a protest outside a corporate office. During the rally, “a Tag Oil guy came out and just said, ‘Oh, the protesters have their facts wrong.’ And one statement like that from oil and gas w ­ ill satisfy the farmers.” When an invite-­only meeting was disrupted by antidrilling activists in Dunedin, the activists ­were interpreted as worse than the oil com­pany. According to one attendee, “It did quite a lot of damage to the reputation of the anti-­oil and -­gas movement b­ ecause the ­people who disrupted that meeting ­were pretty awful in their be­hav­ior and did very l­ ittle to help mainstream [residents] appreciate their perspectives.” From another’s view, green-­minded activism made the industry seem a likeable, cool-­headed victim of local extremists: “In our situation it was the environmentalists or p­ eople with concerns who w ­ ere seen to come on strong. So it was an effective strategy from the industry in playing it down, and letting the greenies jump up and down, and the community waiting to see, and sometimes siding with industry, [which was] painted as the victims in the malicious smear campaign.” In another region, someone ­else experienced a similar reception: “We came out quite hard—­myself and maybe one or two ­others—to start with and we ­were quickly painted as radical extremists who ­were uninformed.” In t­ hese cases, pro-­O&G residents criticized citizen-­environmentalists. When taken together with corporate, po­liti­cal, and occasional media commentary pejorative of community or environmental advocates, they represent a cultural posse and emergent cultural capture by industry that hinders civic participation and voice in community and ecological decisions. As research elsewhere indicates, the discursive strategy of elite actors who “vilify and stigmatize environmental activists” may be a­ dopted by non-­elites who impede small-­town environmentalism,29 as was the case in several communities in Aotearoa. When asked about the stigma, one person said that the sentiment was “a ­really engrained ­thing” in small towns, even adding, “Some of my friends mock me for being green.” A more seasoned environmentalist explained the per­sis­ tence as “an old attitude which is a sort of pioneer attitude: ­you’ve got some

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land, you dig up some coal and gold.” From the perspective of a more moderate, community-­centered observer, ­people “just want to be able to buy their milk and not be worried about why the ­bottle is not recyclable anymore. . . . ​ That’s where clean greenies can be annoying. Th ­ ere’s a lot of ‘­don’ts’ and ‘no’s’ ” demanded by greenies. Unlike institutional greens, who are privileged in assessing, strategizing, and selecting among many national and global campaigns, directly affected residents experience fewer protections, more risks, and more uncertainties. Studies of community re­sis­tance to hydraulic fracturing on three continents found that residents who opposed fracking interpreted activist as a “dirty word” and an unwelcomed social marker, preferring instead to be identified as “regular citizens.”30 Likewise, New Zealanders represented themselves as parents or neighbors who lived and worked locally. At one public talk, Sarah Roberts, a nationally well-­known fracktivist, described herself this way: “I’m a ­mother. I’m a wife. I’m a grand­mother, a school teacher, and I’m head of a department in a secondary school. . . . ​I am described as an environmental campaigner. I believe I’m better described as advocating on behalf of my community.” Often I refer to them as residents, citizens, citizen-­activists, resident-­activists, community advocates, or ­people who publicly opposed some aspect of O&G. By U.S. benchmarks, many New Zealanders w ­ ere “green.” The homes, hostels, or h ­ otels where I stayed recycled and several had composting and small gardens. So when I asked about the antagonistic connotations, many acknowledged the incongruity. “You find a lot of ­people who are green, but boy you call someone an environmentalist or greenie, brrrrrrrr, ooohhhhh”—­the reception is chilling, one told me. “It’s a negative t­ hing to be green.” According to a small-­ town environmentalist, “It’s a w ­ hole image, and yet ­don’t label me a green. . . . ​ That’s why I’ve got to be very careful about not necessarily associating with Greenpeace or the Green Party.” This person also cautioned that if someone was vegetarian or bought organic foods at the local co-op, it would be a grave ­mistake to assume that they also opposed O&G exploration. “­Don’t even try to judge a person’s view on this subject.” Being “green” in clean, green New Zealand—­especially in small towns—­ was as brave as being “red” in the 1920s or 1950s or speaking for the environment in an oil-­or a coal-­producing region in the United States.31 The antigreen sentiment meant ­people who w ­ ere working to improve environmental standards tiptoed around the issue—­neither too radical nor too negative—or chose not to display their green side in small towns.

Hypocrite ­Drivers Resident-­ecologists w ­ ere tasked with resisting (without being “radical”), being community minded (without sounding like “greenies”), mobilizing (without

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driving cars), and embodying a national clean, green image (without questioning the po­liti­cal economy of O&G). Contributing to the quandary, their lifestyle and consumption habits w ­ ere used to undermine their environmental credentials, authenticity, and legitimacy. A ­ fter one public rally, an activist heard comments such as, “I bet they came in a car. They are wearing shoes of plastic.” ­A fter a dif­f er­ent demonstration, two antigreen writers emphasized a perceived duplicity. In letters to the editor, one asked, “How did [the protesters] get t­ here? Bikes, walking, or are they all magicians?”32 Another wrote, “Good to see the eco-­protestors are using outboard motors powered by oil derived fuels and that they are attached to rubber boats also made from products derived from oil. . . . ​ Hypocrites.”33 ­These lines of attack w ­ ere so common that many resident-­activists had crafted their own refrain. One flipped the question: “Why d­ on’t we have alternatives? What happened to electric cars?” Another spoke at length about oil: “­Because I drive a car and use petrol does not mean that I must be completely in ­favor of ­every method for acquiring that. I ­don’t agree that we should go into countries and kill p­ eople to take their oil. And I d­ on’t agree that we should go out ­here and risk killing all the marine mammals and our town and possibly all of New Zealand, in a sense, killing its economy for our need to have it.” Oil ­Free Otago wrote, “We drive cars ­because of the way society is or­ga­nized. The government is spending $14 billion on ‘roads of national significance’ and $0.4 billion on public transport in the next ten years.”34 ­Others carried a sense of guilt. Even while recognizing systemic actions and inactions, they acknowledged feeling “hurt” when accused of hy­poc­risy: “­There is a truth in that. E ­ very one of us who is currently living in the society that we are in is a hypocrite in some way b­ ecause our society relies on oil.” At the microlevel, the bullied identified the rationale of the accuser. In contrast, Bill McKibben, environmental author and founder of 350​.­org, an international climate action organ­ization, offered sage advice. A ­ fter being surveilled, recorded, and labeled a hypocrite for driving a car and holding plastic bags, he wrote, “Changing the system, not perfecting our own lives, is the point. ‘Hy­poc­risy’ is the price of admission in this ­battle.”35 But for all of ­those in small towns, the label stung deeply.

“Feeling a Bit ­under Siege” Citizen-­environmentalists w ­ ere also overwhelmed by the number of socioecological threats.36 Beyond O&G exploration and landfarming, p­ eople complained about the chemical runoff from agriculture, the use of chemicals for pest control in national parks, and seabed, coal, and gold mining. The Trans-­ Pacific Partnership Agreement was protest-­worthy at the time; and the South Island brown teal dis­appeared or became all but extinct, while cats prowled

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without bells or much public concern. During one interview, a cat deposited a dead bird at the open door of a devoted environmentalist’s home. Before arriving, I had ­imagined all of New Zealand to be ecologically healthier than the best of the United States (kudos to its promotions). My personal torment included seeing pāua or abalone shells converted into ashtrays, observing cigarette butts being dropped in the cities, and being vibrated in rental cars by timber-­bearing trucks rushing down rural roads to port. Since I had never lived near the “productive forestry” industry, I found logging bewildering. In an area denuded of trees and hectic with log-­bearing trucks, one road sign attempted to reassure ­drivers that a young forest would return. It read, “We are removing trees to make room for more.” ­After traveling around the North Island for several months, my notebook was filling up with jottings on how disturbing the clear-­ cut patches, stump carcasses, and log roads ­were becoming. Death was a motif in some regions, and the logs appeared to be moaning from the roadways, overwhelmed by the volume of withdrawal. All of this was occurring while I was trying to be a cleaner, greener, and better-­behaved version of myself. Concurrently, I was participating in the prob­lem by ignoring the carbon emitted by my flight to Aotearoa, by consuming as many kiwis as I could despite the chemicals heavy-­ handedly used to spur growth, by dining on seafood from unknown sources with unknown workplace conditions, and by touring an open-­pit gold mine—to name just a few modern-­day and pleas­ur­able offenses. Hypocrite. Aotearoa was puzzling in its contradictions, as attested to in other chapters. ­There w ­ ere times when it seemed as if the nation was excavating itself or as if I would be edged off the road by a timber truck. And then in the next breath or just around the bend, I was walking along what looked like an untouched coastline or hiking trail, immersed in a strange landscape, sitting on the edge of a boiling lake or beach, or quietly watching penguins waddle to shore. Once in Coromandel, I rented a car and put fuel in its tank just to see a tree. Down a gravel road, I traveled to see, but was forbidden to touch, the threatened Kauri. When I first disembarked in Aotearoa, my hiking boots w ­ ere considered one of the more threatening ­things about me. At customs, my boots ­were singled out, unpacked, and scanned for invasive biohazards. Once permitted into the country, I learned on four occasions—at an environmental conference, at two parks, and before boarding a ferry—­how to scrape and spray my boots for disease-­carrying fungi. Once I fi­nally saw the Kauri tree, I learned that it would take seven adults holding outstretched arms to encircle it, that one of its branches was considered a tree of its own, and that ­people, especially disease-­ carrying ones, ­were its greatest threat. Standing in a wet forest, this Kauri had its own viewing platform and wooden boardwalk, suggestive of a con­temporary madness in how p­ eople walk on some trees to revere ­others. Stepping out of the forest, and months ­later on an east-­to-­west-­bound train from Christchurch, I encountered a young man who spoke excitedly about

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finding extractive work on the west coast of the South Island and panning for gold on the weekends. It was on that exquisite, open-­air train r­ ide through the Southern Alps that I chose not to ask about environmental impacts. The plea­ sure of the trip, generational and international decorum, and knowledge of how economic desires are cultivated by false promises deflected my questions and concerns. Given all of ­these ecological trou­bles, a professional environmentalist identified O&G as the final nail in a series of prob­lems: “Oil exploration and the technology that is encouraging further oil exploration . . . ​is just the nail, the final straw that ­will kill us.” For a citizen-­activist, offshore activity was one threat too many ­a fter so much local effort: “We ­really care, and ­we’ve been working de­cades, longer than de­cades, to make our town a place that is environmentally sustainable, and then something can happen just off our shores and r­ eally mess with every­thing.” The failure to start difficult conversations on energy, the environment, and climate change—in preference for the indulgent sensations that nature provides or for the employment that the po­liti­cal economy trumpets—­permitted a culture of antigreen sentiment and submission to dominant extractive narratives. Yet despite the public suppression of deep ecological attitudes and practices, New Zealand’s activist communities persisted and advanced a critical oil perspective.

Aotearoa Justice Deeper than the economic promotions of purity and the cultural slogan of being clean and green or “tidy Kiwis,” New Zealanders possessed the idea of kaitiakitanga. Kaitiakitanga is a generational practice of balanced guardianship and care of the h ­ uman and nonhuman world for current and ­future generations, and for the ongoing kinship and equity between ­people, natures, and other sentient beings. Even though explanatory efforts in En­glish fail to fully convey Māori meaning, many individuals, academics, politicians, and environmental groups strove to develop an understanding in En­glish so as to implement it in practice and policy. For Māori, “Kaitiakitanga is an inherent obligation we have to our tūpuna [ancestors] and to our mokopuna [descendants]; an obligation to safeguard and care for the environment for ­future generations. It is a link between the past and the f­ uture, the old and the new, between the taonga [trea­sure] of the natu­ ral environment and tangata whenua [­people of the land, or Māori].”37 Ata Brett Stephenson further clarifies this relationship by writing, “In general we Indigenous p­ eoples have environmental management practices that are less wasteful and more biodiverse than the paradigm that leads to crop monoculturalism and overfishing. . . . ​We do not have a par­tic­u­lar sense of owner­ship to land and resources—we are part of ­those resources, and we identify with the land

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through whenua [umbilical attachment]. It is not a s­ imple t­ hing to destroy the resources with which we are connected.”38 Elaborating further, Stephenson emphasizes, “What is often misunderstood or ignored by modern socie­ties generally, but commonly acknowledged by Indigenous p­ eoples, is the degree of reciprocity that underpins the relationship.”39 To clarify intergenerational responsibilities, one person explained, “We take our guardianship seriously, ­because w ­ e’ve been ­here [for so long] and we intend to stay h ­ ere, so therefore we think of intergenerational legacies for us and our ­children ­a fter us. We take the value of kaitiakitanga, or guardianship—­ something you hold in trust for ­future generations—­very, very seriously.” In advocating for “sustainable seas,” the Environmental Defence Society found solutions in kaitiakitanga as governed by both legislation and sociocultural contexts.40 It identified how one marine management steering committee recognized that kaitiakitanga is a guardianship without distinctions between ­people and the land and marine environment; and that it is practiced through “a set of inalienable responsibilities, duties and obligations,” which connect and extend to one’s ancestors, oneself, the natu­ral environment, and taonga.41 The steering group clarified that ­there is “no distinction between moana (sea) and whenua (land).”42 Kaitiakitanga was also expressed in po­liti­cal policy and party affiliation. Priorities of the small Māori-­led Mana Party, which formed ­after some members split from the Māori Party, included economic, social, and environmental justice; a ban on fracking; and the cancellation of deep-­sea oil exploration and drilling. The Mana Party expressed its worldview and policy proposals as one of kaitiakitanga: “MANA believes that the health and happiness of the ­people of Aotearoa is inextricably linked to the wellbeing of Papatūānuku [Earth ­Mother]. Māori practices of Kaitiakitanga have a key role to play in moving to adopting environmental, economic and social practices that are consistent with this view. Successive governments have failed to recognise that Papatūānuku has ­limited resources that need to be used respectfully. Economic growth has been put ahead of the environment, resulting in lands, air, coastal areas and waterways becoming degraded.”43 In addition, this guardianship was recognized in a government report that acknowledged that “Maori, as Treaty partners, wish to have their long-­standing guardianship/kaitiakitanga over New Zealand’s natu­ral resources recognized through a greater role in regional and national management and decision-­making pro­cesses.”44 However, a “greater role” may mean no role at all, or a modest, co-­opted one that endorses state power and national economic decisions. Certainly, Māori and Pākehā, Indigenous and Eu­ro­pean, first settlers and second colonizers, and ­humans in general have been caretakers and exploiters of themselves, each other, and the social and natu­ral environment. They have preserved and abused through trial and error, prescience or ignorance, and need

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or greed. Similarly, many socie­ties chronicle their histories to pre­sent themselves in the light in which they want to be seen ­today, and to acknowledge half-­truths so as to authenticate current constructions. Many p­ eople and socie­ties strug­ gle with recognizing the ills of their past or current practices. So simply stating and remembering that the colonial period was more than devastating and that all Indigenous ­people are still recovering and rebuilding from it are actions that remain fraught with guilt, blame, anger, and denial. As for the environment, it is and has been second to ­human socie­ties, whoever or wherever they are. And yet the essence of viewing ancestral, living, and ­future kinships and all living beings or life-­forms as connected to Earth M ­ other (Papatūānuku), Sky ­Father (Ranginui), and God of the Sea (Tangaroa) remains distinct to Māori and other Indigenous populations. Antidrilling activists ­were asking the nation as a w ­ hole to adopt the practice of kaitiakitanga as a worldview in order to reject starting down a fossil fuel pathway. Māori knew I knew nothing, so they tried to assist me in understanding kaitiakitanga, while hinting that many New Zealanders w ­ ere still trying to understand and embrace the concept a­ fter past displacements or cultural misgivings. By way of example, one Māori explained an interaction with an older person of Eu­ro­pean heritage who, through repeated contact and communication, softened their personal assessment of local Māori arguments. A ­ fter a series of community meetings to identify and solve local prob­lems, the older person exclaimed to the younger Māori person, “Ah, ­you’re just a conservationist. I ­didn’t realize you are a greenie conservationist.” While not self-­identifying as a “greenie conservationist,” the person speaking with me accepted the label as a starting point. “I think t­ here are some p­ eople in the community who can see we are just wanting a clean environment.” While it was not this s­ imple for Māori, they wanted o­ thers to begin to understand how interwoven “conservation” was in their h ­ ouse­holds and across their long-­running relationships and place attachments. Accordingly, they explained to me (and their neighbors), We are coming from a dif­fer­ent connection to the land and the environment, and so that’s quite difficult for non-­Māori p­ eople to understand. . . . ​You ­don’t realize u­ ntil you are an adult that the way you are brought up is often around looking ­a fter the environment. So my dad only fished for a feed for ­today. He ­wasn’t into wasting or stocking up too much food ­because he was thinking about what is ­going to be ­there tomorrow. So it is quite hard to explain what that relationship with the land or the environment is [when every­one ­else hunts or fishes to excess or quotas or for their freezers or as a hobby].

Since all of New Zealand was new to me, I began to merge the cultural ideal and yearning to be clean and green with Māori practices of kaitiakitanga. Aotearoa justice represents this ­union for a cross-­cultural worldview for h ­ umans to

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live with the natu­ral and aquatic environments. While o­ thers have linked Māori perspectives with environmental justice,45 my observations highlight a national and cultural philosophy that has waxed and waned over time on the sense and proportion of guardianship, justice, obligation, relations, reciprocity, and fairness to all life-­forms, and for ­those who came before, who are pre­sent ­today, and who ­will follow. ­These two orientations actually dovetailed for the environment when Māori won recognition of the Te Urewera forested area, Whanganui River, and Mount Taranaki as living entities with ­legal rights.46 In 2017 the Whanganui iwi negotiated a historic bill that officially recognized the Whanganui River as a body of w ­ ater with the l­egal status, rights, and protections of personhood.47 By acknowledging the bonds between a p­ eople and a river system, this decision encapsulated Māori l­egal power and kaitiakitanga. However, it was not clear how this newfound status would inform f­ uture extractive activities or the protection of other river systems. A year l­ater, New Zealand would act to phase out single-­use plastic bags. Both actions exemplify how the country’s con­ temporary socioecological consciousness was informed by and operating in tandem with Māori instruction on kaitiakitanga. To varying degrees, the antidrilling camp identified that a thriving and sustainable cross-­generational, socioecological, human-­nature relationship was more impor­tant than short-­term economic gains for a few, and that defending the country’s cultural trea­sures should eclipse the excavation of its natu­ral resources for temporary profits. In answer to the question, Which way Aotearoa? actions t­ oward building and sustaining connections among and for living beings became one wide and inclusive pathway. In the hearts, minds, and stories of many New Zealanders, the bottom of the world was the place to be to design, produce, and practice sustainable and just policies on energy and the environment for healthy ­human, nonhuman, and more-­than-­human communities and ecologies. In trying to explain the incongruity of O&G extraction and the country’s clean, green efforts, one resident said, “We have the opportunity to ­really be one of the greenest countries in the world.” Another clarified the nation’s shared goal and potential through kaitiakitanga: “We, mankind, we take, take, take. And it is sort of like we are drilling into M ­ other Earth, and drawing out her essence and she’s g­ oing to fight back eventually. Culturally, it is gifts and gains, give and take. You ­don’t always take and take, ­you’ve got to give back.”

9

Reviving Climate Activism Climate change demands that the entire world moves away from our dependence on fossil fuels, so why would we be investing in expanding an industry that we know has to cease to exist if we are to survive?1

For young climate activists in New Zealand, the transition ­toward oil and gas (O&G) exploration was inexplicable, inexcusable, and terrifying. For them, climate change was the only fight, and the elephant in the room when ­others resisted individual O&G proj­ects or quarreled over the clean, green image. Yet as a standalone issue, climate change had become “tired,” “depressing,” and “dead,” according to many activists who identified the climate movement as becoming dormant a­ fter an early groundswell around the 2009 Copenhagen climate talks. “We’ve been wasting our time in trying to convince politicians to address global warming,” one activist declared ­a fter criticizing the slow-­ moving global talks. “What we should be d­ oing is g­ oing for the oil and gas and coal companies and just saying it: t­ hese ­people are destroying and killing civilization.” The industry’s expansion plans reinvigorated the climate movement, which was further augmented by the antidrilling and pro-­coastline contingents and their grievances. Even so, climate change remained an emotional and intellectual rollercoaster that many activists believed was best left unmentioned in 2013 and 2014. In one way, the industry’s proposals served as a po­liti­cal oppor160

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tunity and national stimulant for climate activists to gather public opposition to O&G exploration. Yet on the other side, and ­after years of manipulated skepticism, public disinterest, and po­liti­cal inaction, climate change as a point of discussion was plagued with tension. Like the clean, green image, t­ here w ­ ere generational distinctions. The proposition of becoming a major O&G exporter occurred ­after the nation had raised a globally engaged and climate-­aware generation whose members had attended domestic and international meetings on climate change. Then, they had watched as their mobilization efforts dissolved or drifted into nonexistence or w ­ ere denied by older skeptics. Even as the fast-­tracking of O&G proposals rekindled their languishing crusade, they strug­gled with overcoming past public rejection and confusion, and the scale of the industry’s advancements. Their newfound footing and revised front lines revolved around opposing the country’s O&G proposals while they ­were mobilizing surreptitiously against green­house gas emissions for the planet. In my attempts to understand the nexus of O&G activity and climate action, I observed several interlocking patterns or contradictory capacities. Their scope includes (1) a nation’s potential to contribute to global green­house gas emissions while reducing domestic emissions; (2) a generation’s charged sentiments of growing up informed and then discovering po­liti­cal paralysis; (3) the spectrum of a yearning for, fear of, and re­sis­tance to community-­wide climate conversations; (4) the bind of a tangible oil spill and the ambiguities of climate change; (5) the strug­gle to demonstrate and prioritize local climate impacts over exotic, distal ones; and (6) the range of intergenerational worry from youths’ anger to older residents’ guilt. Climate activists battled for the hearts and minds of a nation, while confronting a scientifically complex issue during a period of po­liti­ cal commitments to O&G. And throughout this period, the thorny issue of global climate justice, in all of its vast interpretations and underachieved aspirations, remained elusive, a theoretical turn rather than an applied practice, talking point, or accomplishment. In brief, promoting O&G exploration in a frontier nation with a history of youth activism was like throwing starter fluid on what had become a dimming flame. It ignited or reignited climate activism a­ fter years of futile efforts. For many activists, rejecting extraction was a demonstrable means to reduce green­ house gases (GHGs) without discussing or debating the climate crisis with their neighbors. In their anti-­O&G campaigns, they spoke publicly of the beaches and coastlines as the front lines of the re­sis­tance, which ­were secretly their front lines against global climate change. They agonized over their national emissions, expressed a sense of futility in previous climate campaigns, and suggested gratitude for the O&G proposals that re-­energized a lagging movement. The global enormity of the dominant oil paradigm and the oil-­carbon grid bore down on young Kiwi activists. Three institutional fronts—­global carbon

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lock-­ins, global climate irresponsibility, and nationalism—­were particularly vexing. Petroleum is central to the world’s interlocking systems that make “the world go round.”2 The carbon lock-in system includes every­thing from grids for electric power and ­house­hold goods, to the transport of such goods and their users, to information technologies. Each is connected to a global production, consumption, and waste chain, and each is preconditioned on the o­ thers.3 Concerning the second and third institutional fronts, states and civil society have been tasked with overcoming “or­ga­nized irresponsibility” in terms of climate accountability and compensation, while nationalism undermines the visionary direction for global change.4 In terms of global emissions, New Zealand was a droplet contributing only 0.2 ­percent.5 But many of ­those interviewed expressed a deep desire to own their emissions and lead globally despite being a “small drop.” “We think New Zealand should be d­ oing more, and can be d­ oing more, . . . ​and collectively show goodwill in tackling the prob­lem,” one argued. According to another, the government claims “that New Zealand is too small to make a difference. We have to follow the big boys, and not do anything u­ ntil they are d­ oing ­things” in terms of shifting to an economy in­de­pen­dent of fossil fuels. From the perspective of another, “The biggest negative reaction is, ‘Well, you know, we are such a small drop, what can we do? What does it m ­ atter what happens off the coast h ­ ere? China is still burning coal left, right, and center. The U.S. is still burning coal.’ ” Activists argued that the island nation at the bottom of the world could lead by example—as they had done during their antinuclear campaigns. They stood in contrast to the Norwegian community analyzed by Kari Norgaard whose denial of their own carbon contributions enabled them to ignore their oil investments, lifestyle lock-­ins, and global privileges, and to stand ­behind a “­little nation” narrative of a history of suffering.6 While t­ here are differences between the two studies in terms of time (about a de­cade) and population (residents versus activists),7 the Norwegian case advanced an understanding of socially or­ga­nized paralysis that guided my analy­sis of the public atmosphere in which New Zealand activists ­were remobilizing and trying to own their GHG emissions. New Zealand’s activists w ­ ere up against a similar public or community mind-­set as the Norwegian community; however, in this case, the frontier O&G proposals linked activists and community residents in ways the issue of climate change alone had failed to do.

Inverse Accounting The rise of climate awareness began ­under L ­ abour Party prime minister Helen Clark (1999–2008), who appointed a climate change minister within the Ministry for the Environment and had proposed becoming the world’s first carbon-­neutral nation—­despite the early O&G block offers made during

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Clark’s tenure.8 Clark was followed by John Key (2008–2016) of the National Party, who launched an eight-­step Petroleum Action Plan to commit the country to oil extraction for export. If this revised trajectory was unclear, the minister of energy and resources reinforced the government’s position by writing, “For the foreseeable f­ uture, fossil fuels w ­ ill continue to be an impor­tant part of the global energy mix. . . . ​We cannot just turn off the tap in our journey to a lower carbon economy.”9 Yet t­ here was po­liti­cal dissension. When writing the 2014 O&G report, the Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE) warned against using it as an endorsement to produce more GHG emissions. In it, the commissioner wrote, “I would not want this report to be interpreted as my giving a big tick to the expansion of the oil and gas industry in New Zealand, b­ ecause the biggest issue is not a local environmental effect, but the global effect of climate change.”10 In summarizing the po­liti­cal drive t­ oward extraction for export, one activist told me, both major parties “intend for New Zealand to be a net exporter of fossil fuels in 2030. . . . ​Honestly if e­ very country thinks that way we are actually driving ourselves off a cliff.” Before this shift, international observers (and New Zealanders themselves) had ­imagined the country in league with Costa Rica, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Iceland, and Sweden in making “significant strides ­towards carbon neutrality and lower carbon growth.”11 Before the transition, it was reasoned that without vested fossil fuel interests to “sow uncertainty,” the media in New Zealand and Finland presented scientific consensus on climate change, unlike the media in the United States, which presented climate change as “controversial and theoretical.”12 Around the same time, New Zealand ratified the Kyoto Protocol with a sixty-­one-­to-­fi fty-­six vote and proposed a carbon tax in 2002 (which was rejected by a strong farming lobby). It also passed the Climate Change Amendment Act in 2006 to facilitate carbon sequestration for landowners through forest sinks; and in 2008 it became the first nation to pass the Emissions Trading Scheme (ETS), with a sixty-­three-­to-­fi fty-­seven vote.13 An impor­tant component of removing GHGs was through reforestation, or replanting previously forested areas, and afforestation, or converting nonforested land into forest. Afforestation in New Zealand was described as “periodically letting ­water out of a tub but leaving the tap r­ unning.”14 At one time, Aotearoa was excelling in renewables and positive climate attention. “We are already 75 ­percent renewables,” one activist told me. “Our geothermal, wind power, hydro, and solar. We are lucky.” Then, New Zealand withdrew from the Kyoto Protocol, and the ETS stalled. A hint of what could be called carbon regulatory capture appeared in 2011, when Mobil Oil wrote to the government as mandated by the ETS, suggesting that “the Government should be careful not to impose too g­ reat a cost on the New Zealand economy by advancing too quickly ahead of other countries.”15 It recommended aligning Aotearoa’s emissions standards with Australia’s lower expectations. As explained

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to me, the ETS was like “a ­great big V8 engine. It could ­really change the economy, but nobody is willing to let the clutch out, so it kind of just sits ­there turning over: brmmm, brmmm, brmmm. Not making any difference to anything.” (When one thinks of oil-­dominant narratives, it is worth speculating on ­whether solar or wind energy ­will eventually permeate our universal and conversational meta­phors as V8 engines still do t­ oday.) For climate activists, “it is crucial that we keep the fossil fuels in the ground,” rather than engaging in “elaborate” trading and ledger schemes.16 Another activist asked, “Why are we investing in sunset industries or allowing sunset industries to take over our country when we are already engaged in sunrise activities? It just d­ oesn’t make sense.” Even though Aotearoa used less fossil fuel and more renewable energy, it had high GHG emissions per capita ­because of its export-­oriented agricultural industry. An international focus on energy emissions in the industrialized nations had also given the country a small reprieve since its emissions ­were from agriculture—­which ­were not targeted for reductions ­because industrialized agriculture was seen (quaintly) as producing food. In a parallel world of international accounting schemes, New Zealand could actually become a carbon feeder, feeding the world fossil fuels while reducing its own domestic footprint. On the consumption side, where emissions ­were counted, New Zealand was situated to increase its own renewable energy and reduce its fossil fuel de­pen­dency while positioning itself to supply the world petroleum. With GHG emissions, the one who supplies the product is not as liable in the accounting schemes, which emphasize consumption, even though production sites emit carbon dioxide and methane through leaks, venting, or flaring. ­These parallels ­were recognized by Kennedy Warne, cofounder and editor of New Zealand Geographic, who wrote, “­Under the Resource Management Act, councils must take into consideration the effects of climate change . . . ​but not the likely contribution to climate change of a proposal. Furthermore, councils are instructed to consider climate change if the proposal has a positive impact on lowering carbon emissions (such as a renewable energy proj­ect), but not if it has a negative impact.”17 According to a climate activist, “We are so focused on the national, and what it means for the national outcome, that we are prepared not to worry about what it means for the rest of the world that we just negotiated in caveats and loopholes and clauses” for the country’s own economic interest in agriculture and forestry. The caveats maintained a treadmill of GHG emissions in agriculture;18 and in energy, the treadmill was on the verge of distributing even more global emissions. The protected status of farming stalled climate action. Expressing a widely held sentiment, one activist said that “picking on agriculture is definitely a scary ­battle ­because usurping farmers in New Zealand is a dangerous road.” Accord-

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ing to another, “groups like Greenpeace have tried, but it’s a lot murkier if you stop and talk to ­people about how we ­shouldn’t actually be ­doing as much dairy farming.” It was, however, a ­battle worth fighting since industrial farming represented a “double whammy,” according to one activist. The double whammy occurred when forests and low-­intensity farming ­were converted into high-­ intensity dairying: “You lose your carbon sinks and you add in the emissions from ­those new animals.” Nevertheless, no one wanted to express their concerns publicly. They knew how climate skepticism infiltrated rural mailboxes and disrupted scientific studies. As one resident advised, “You just need to read the rural news or farming magazines that come to e­ very rural box. . . . ​They still write about climate change not happening.” Unlike climate activists in the United States, who faced the or­ga­nized fossil fuel industry’s attempts to sow uncertainty, New Zealand’s climate activists faced off against the power­ful farming lobby—­and for a long time had lost. More pointedly, skeptics impeded the collection and understanding of scientific data, including the work of the National Institute of W ­ ater and Atmospheric Research (NIWA). When NIWA found that seven recording stations indicated “a warming trend of 0.91°C” between 1909 and 2008, deniers attacked NIWA and the science as “shonky.”19 NIWA was forced to respond to “more than 80 parliamentary questions” over eigh­teen months, disrupting its other climate-­ related work.20 In addition, the New Zealand Climate Science Education Trust, whose trustees w ­ ere members of a denial group with an equally dubious title, filed a lawsuit against NIWA for using “unscientific” methods. Eventually the judge found for NIWA, but four years w ­ ere lost in disputing the attacks while the media covered both sides.21 ­People opposed to hydraulic fracturing and offshore drilling could only wish that the nation’s po­liti­cal or judicial apparatus pursued the industry’s claims of l­ ittle risk and “best practices” with the same vigor. While climate activists ­were unable or unwilling to address the country’s “white gold,” the potential for po­liti­cal transcendence waned further with the country’s new O&G commitments. It was a time when “economic opportunities causing emissions [had] overwhelmed opportunities to reduce emissions” in both New Zealand and Canada.22 “The early years of global warming ­discussion in the late 1980s constituted the high ­water mark of (1) po­liti­cal convergence with mitigation and (2) po­liti­cal transcendence of partisanship concerning it. Thereafter, t­ here has been divergence and retrenching b­ ehind opportunities of the fossil-­fuel economy.”23 In a nation that possessed potentially large amounts of O&G, po­liti­cal leaders signaled their priorities by proposing to cut climate change research funding by NZ$10 million, while ­promoting climate research that “would be more closely aligned with current Government policy—in par­tic­u­lar the Business Growth Agenda, the Primary Growth Partnership and the Sustainable Farming Fund.”24

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At the time, many nations that ­were transitioning to renewable energy lacked O&G reserves of their own or the technology to extract them. New Zealand had always possessed O&G, but corporations had lacked the technology or interest to extract it. Technology paired with price, demand, or profit incentives had generated third-­era explorations in places such as New Zealand. For Aotearoa’s transgressions, the international group Climate Action Network awarded it the “fossil of the day” award at the 2012 United Nations Climate Change Conference in Doha, Qatar. “For a country whose emissions are similar in scale to the Canadian tar sands, New Zealand has demonstrated exceptional blindness to scientific and po­liti­cal realities,” the network explained. “While New Zealand may have helped drown the talks for another year, New Zealand’s small and vulnerable Pacific neighbours should take heart that they have not been forgotten—­New Zealand intends to drown them too.”25 ­A fter eight years, including many years spent in re­sis­tance, Aotearoa tracked back ­toward the intention of carbon neutrality when Jacinda Ardern became prime minister in 2017. During her campaign, Ardern referred to climate change as her “generation’s nuclear-­free moment.”26 In late 2019, Parliament, led by the ­Labour Party, passed with unan­i­mous support the Zero Carbon Act, to work t­ oward net-­zero carbon emissions by 2050.

“The Failure of the World” Data collected three years before Ardern’s ascent revealed that young activists interpreted a national reversal ­toward O&G as a generational affront. Before the switch, t­ here ­were many government initiatives, educational efforts, and national and international events and organ­izations that invited t­ hose ­under thirty-­five to the t­ able of knowledge, dialogue, and action. According to the itemized accounts they shared with me, global alignments occurred with Rising Tide (which began in the Netherlands in 2000), Camps for Climate Action (which began in the United Kingdom in 2006 and disbanded in 2011), and 350 .­org and Power Shift (both of which began in the United States in 2007). ­Those interviewed attended, or­ga­nized, or participated in at least one and sometimes several events or groups. The national groups included 350 Aotearoa (formed in 2008), Rising Tide Auckland (2009), Climate Justice Taranaki (2010), and Generation Zero of New Zealand (2011). The gatherings included the Climate Camp near Wellington (2009), the New Zealand Youth Del­e­ga­ tion to the U.N. climate summits (2009, 2010), the Power Shift convergence in Auckland (2012), and the Global Power Shift convergence in Turkey (2013). ­There was also the 350 Schools Campaign of 2009. In short, ­there w ­ ere approximately five years of tremendous activity and education, especially in the run up to the 2009 U.N. climate summit in Copenhagen, before young activists

A protest vessel prepares to lead an antidrilling flotilla from Queens Wharf in Wellington. On one sail is a handwritten message from a climate activist connecting the ­people devastated by Typhoon Haiyan to the re­sis­tance against offshore oil exploration in New Zealand. It reads, “In solidarity with the ­people of the Philippines and all ­ others suffering from climate change.”

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realized that the O&G industry had been building its own network within New Zealand. As recognized by social scientists and youth activists, the U.N. Climate Change Conferences, or Conference of the Parties, had become frustrating affairs for grassroots, coastal-­roots, flaxroots, and youth groups that desired action and justice but ­were sobered by their exclusion.27 For one attendee, their disappointment led to greater attention at home: “­Going to the climate negotiations was si­mul­ta­neously empowering but also a disheartening experience. . . . ​ What’s lacking is the demo­cratic mandate at home and with all the countries that are taking part. We came away with a desire to get more of that happening in New Zealand.” According to another, “­A fter Copenhagen, civil society and even the green groups woke up to the fact that that’s not where we should be putting all of our energy.” Overall, many activists felt that change is “not ­going to come from within that sphere, it’s g­ oing to have to come from outside of it.” Despite feeling dejected, they learned more and became more critical than some politicians prob­ably expected or preferred. When told by a government official that the global summits w ­ ere grinding on b­ ecause no one wanted to “pay for it,” one youth delegate took the analy­sis one step further: “The big issue is that ­there ­isn’t a youth voice at the t­ able. And collectively, [the leaders] are unable to decide how to split the bill. They are actually making a decision to pass the bill onto the next generation. So that ­really rang home for me. The pro­ cess is flawed in that re­spect, and so young ­people who want to have their voice heard have to ratchet the pressure up outside that pro­cess.” Long before Greta Thunberg took the mic and became a ­house­hold name, the words of Aotearoa’s climate activists ­were a precursor to the youth-­led ire and global movement. From them, one can hear the impetus for the many demonstrations and lawsuits that culminated in the 2019 global climate strikes and secondary school walkouts. In terms of a timeline, New Zealand’s youth activists had been educated and invited to participate, and then through their engagement they learned that their inclusion was a tempered version of their own goals and ideals. Recalling the early wave of climate activism, one said that the 2010 Cancun conference “radicalized” them. “It was a pretty horrific ­thing to witness in Mexico. . . . ​Just seeing the total ineptness of the U.N. . . . ​Just seeing in person the failure of the world.” In continuing to describe how they ­were let down by dispassionate world leaders, they explained, “Being in a room with p­ eople who are very much about their jobs, and they just want to go home, and they d­ on’t want to be t­ here. . . . ​A nd just how the market mechanisms are the only solutions on the ­table. . . . ​A nd then ­going outside, you have the caravans of Indigenous ­people that have traveled from all around. ­People that come from communities that ­were directly affected, and just seeing that in person it was very overwhelming and quite earth-­shattering.”

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“The failure of the world” was this climate generation’s call to action. One young scholar-­activist identified this generation as “hopeful, practical, strategic, and muscular—­and not naïve. . . . ​We want history to write us as the ones who got to work.”28 By getting to work, they ­were shaming ­those before them who had made a ­career of dithering. Back in New Zealand, the national 2009 Climate Camp was another transformative—­yet unsustainable—­assembly. The politics of an attendee changed just by learning about “climate justice and dif­fer­ent ways of working, nonhierarchical ways of working.” Yet despite the on-­site momentum, “every­ one went back home and d­ idn’t connect with each other.” Likewise, t­ hose at the Auckland Power Shift event ­were unable to maintain their enthusiasm. Somewhat awed by the turnout, one observer, who was older than most, said, “­There ­were over one thousand p­ eople, lots of energetic young p­ eople, and it ­really did give us some encouragement. . . . ​What would be g­ reat to come out of that is a national climate movement led by young ­people, which is hard to dispute and positive. . . . ​At the time it felt good.” So while scientific evidence was mounting and pressure was building against the status quo, youth groups ­were fizzling out b­ ecause of perceived failures of Copenhagen, peer disinterest, a countermovement to sow doubt, and an inability to stay connected—­despite this generation’s ease with and increasing use of social media. In interviews, youth articulations ranged from inspiration to disillusionment to suspension. During the lull, Generation Zero and 350 Aotearoa tried to uphold climate attention for a waning audience. At a Generation Zero, or GenZero, tour in 2013, one of the speakers told an older audience, “We have to make it so that a government that is stuck in the past is unelectable.” According to another speaker, “The choice to me looks pretty ­simple: Do we do nothing and allow our government to keep us stuck in the past depending on coal, oil, and gas, or do we start stepping up and demand that our government help us build a clean energy f­ uture?”29 While passionate, t­ hese accounts ­were not representative. According to their own admissions, activists found young adults within their social circles to be knowledgeable but disinterested. “It’s still that glaze-­over topic. . . . ​I d­ on’t think the word puts ­people off in the way it was maybe a few years ago, but I think trying to have a conversation on the science is still like talking about science anything. It’s very uninteresting to most ­people.” For many, it is far more rewarding to learn what is socially and culturally popu­lar than to take the time required to become conversant in climate change—­even for a knowledgeable, online generation.30 Still, this generation knew climate change to be real. As one said, “I ­don’t remember specifically becoming aware of it, which may mean that I’ve known about it since being quite young.” I followed up by asking what it meant to

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watch elected leaders go against what young ­people had been taught and had “always known,” and the response was eye-­opening. They explained, One of the main reactions that I’ve had over the last c­ ouple of months is just being furious at particularly older white men who seem to be able to tell us that we are just being silly, and young, and why are we worrying about this, when it is not their ­f utures. That gives me the anger and confidence to fight with them on this, like, “You ­don’t even have a say in this. It’s not your ­f uture, it’s ours.” It is something that we have learned about forever, and it is like common sense, and then for t­ hose ­people who still feel like they can debate a l­ ittle bit or it is too far in the ­f uture for them to care. It is like if someone suddenly told you, you d­ idn’t need to eat vegetables, ­because ­really that was something that was just [fabricated]. Or suddenly someone is telling you, you d­ on’t need to worry about brushing your teeth, you silly ­thing.

In 2019, the U.S.-­based Climate Real­ity Youth Working Group for ­those twenty-­five and younger prepared guidelines for how older allies should behave, including recognizing their preconceived biases against young ­people and their use of derogatory labels such as “cute” or “adorable,” which ­were interpreted as disempowering. The early comments of New Zealand’s young activists w ­ ere prescient, an indicator of who would, and why they would, seek to own climate action efforts. Young activists knew anthropogenic climate change to be a brute fact. So they w ­ ere flummoxed by the inaction of ­those with po­liti­cal power. In trying to convey the generational divide, one young writer complained that referencing “a ‘changing planet’ rather than a ‘planet gone to fuck’ ” was one of “the quiet euphemisms of my elders.”31 On this issue, the gloves w ­ ere off. For sustained inspiration, many p­ eople, regardless of age, referenced Bill McKibben, an older white man and principal or­ga­nizer of 350​.­org, which was referred to as “350-­dot-­org” before becoming known as simply “350.” The organ­ ization is a global grassroots effort to educate, mobilize, and reduce CO2 emissions to 350 parts per million. In one popu­lar book, McKibben argues that we are living on the new planet Eaarth, as Earth as we knew it is no longer. He describes the dire realities of climate change, so “that we might choose instead to try to manage our descent. That we might aim for a relatively graceful decline.”32 In New Zealand, his 2009 and 2013 speaking tours struck many with force, “not only in the way that he conducts himself and his dedication to the causation, but to ­doing it in a way that is right and fair and incredibly intelligent,” one attendee recalled. “I c­ an’t think of someone who has been more inspiring as a science communicator than Bill McKibben.” But even before McKibben’s global campaign, many flaxroots leaders and environmental groups in Aotearoa had warned of climate change. In 1989, the

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Royal Forest and Bird Protection Society recognized “the green­house effect” as a global and “Kiwi Crisis.”33 Sage advice in a cartoon format included driving less, conserving energy, reusing, reducing, and writing and lobbying government. In other words, climate awareness had been brought to civil society, the po­liti­cal sector, and private markets through multiple platforms and presenters, but a climate or Kiwi crisis had just seemed so far away. Despite de­cades of O&G operations in Taranaki, the arrival of multinational corporations brought climate change to the fore—­once again.

Re-­energizing the Front Lines Climate activists agreed that the movement was on a respirator ­after the perceived failures of Copenhagen and before O&G expansion activities. As one activist recalled, “When the oil permits ­were granted off [our coast], a bunch of us who had been together on climate change got together, and ­were like, this is our front line now.” According to another, “It just feels more purposeful than a lot of the stuff that we used to do.” From the perspective of another, “We are not ­going to wait around for the government. . . . ​We are trying to empower ­people to say, ‘We’ve got heaps of power right now. Get out t­ here.’ ” In reflecting on why the vari­ous campaigns strug­gled ­after 2009, one suggested, “It was not oil focused at all. Oil w ­ asn’t on our radar.” When asked specifically about the long history of O&G extraction in Taranaki, a climate activist said that they ­were “only in a very vague way” aware of such activity. “Taranaki could be a w ­ hole other country.” According to another, frontier expansions served as a “provocateur” and “catalyst” for current climate conversations. Another emphasized, “It’s a new form of the climate movement, like protecting your own frontlines. . . . ​The climate movement is the biggest it’s been since before Copenhagen.” Some activists described a period of “abeyance,” in which a movement declines in the eyes of the public but continues to educate, strengthen bridges, and secure material or ideological advancements on the ground ­until po­liti­cal necessity demands or po­liti­cal opportunity enables a nationally vocal and vis­i­ble resurgence.34 The opportunity was O&G expanding into the frontier communities, and now residents and activists could “do something” by blocking exploration and extraction. “A lot of the discussion around climate change was quite tired at that moment [before O&G expansions]. ­People always hear about climate change,” one suggested. “It’s only in the last year or so that I felt that we are not just wasting time. I mean it was useful b­ ecause we w ­ ere talking about climate change, and making p­ eople aware about it, but p­ eople w ­ ere like, ‘Well, this is all well and good, but what can I do?’ And we ­were like ‘Uh, renewables?’ ” Re­sis­tance to offshore oil rigs (and hydraulic fracturing, to a lesser extent) bridged the chasm between the public’s reluctance to engage in something as

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daunting or abstract as the climate crisis and the tangible presence and known risks of extraction. “Rather than campaigning on ‘let’s stop climate change,’ which is hard for p­ eople—it is hard for me to get my head around how we do that—[stopping] deep-­sea oil is an obvious way that we can mitigate that,” said one climate activist. For ­others, targeting O&G compensated for their inability to overcome the GHG emissions of dairy farming: deep-­sea oil “is quite a campaignable topic, ­because it is black and white. . . . ​­People can see it [a rig or platform], and they can see that if it i­ sn’t built then the risk can be averted. But dairy and agriculture, which is ­really where all of our emissions come from and ­really where ideally we should be d­ oing a lot of changes, is r­ eally hard to campaign on. . . . ​Deep-­sea oil is easier.” O&G expansions served as a po­liti­cal opportunity and national stimulant for climate activists to oppose exploration and covertly reduce GHG for the planet.

“Bubbling Away Under­neath” Notwithstanding the rejuvenated enthusiasm, climate activists faced many hurdles, including the fact that climate change had become “the elephant in the room” that many p­ eople had grown accustomed to ignoring. On the verge of a growth spurt, it just sat t­ here at the vari­ous disaster, policy, energy, public, and activist meetings. The other elephant corpus was hidden under­g round: the unknown and unclaimed fossil fuels that Carbon Tracker had labeled “unburnable carbon.” In interviews, activists sounded as if the known crisis (climate change, known GHG emissions, and quantifiable GHG projections) was somewhat manageable. The one they feared—­and that they believed too few recognized—­was the unknown and uncalculated hydrocarbon body that politicians and corporations w ­ ere hunting for so as to excavate. Climate change was an energy and social justice puzzler. “We ­don’t need to find new resources,” one person told me. Companies w ­ ere exploring for oil that “we cannot burn if we are to avoid catastrophic climate change and ensure a ­future that is liveable for our child and grandchildren,” wrote Greenpeace.35 “We already know of [reserves] three to five times as much as we can safely burn before reaching the two-­degree limit,” warned a community advocate. “So anything that you are ­going out and looking for now is only ­going to accelerate that.” Despite such dire warnings among climate activists, “climate change has become what I would call a sleeper issue,” one informed me. “It has gone off the boil.” Likewise, another activist identified an indifference or lack of urgency from the general public: “Climate change is at the root of what we are talking about, and yet nobody wants to talk about it. Or it’s not seen as helpful to talk about it to gain over public support. . . . ​When you actively talk about climate

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change, you just get shut off. Or you get: ­don’t talk to me. Or you get: ­don’t preach at me. Or you get: d­ on’t ask me to change my lifestyle. Or you get: New Zealanders are clean and green.” I conducted interviews when climate activists ­were strategizing on how to pre­sent climate change in the context of O&G expansions and when older residents ­were learning for the first time the meaning of climate change. The former understood the science and the language and intent of climate justice but ­were struggling to achieve national action, while the latter labored to understand specifics and engage in climate conversations. Knowing their own social and generational milieu, younger activists deliberated on how far to push climate change as the issue. When I asked one person ­whether they spoke to the community about climate change, they replied that they did not want “to sound like a bunch of ‘greenies,’ ” before reminding me that “­people ­don’t like ‘greenies.’ ” As understood in the contexts of O&G and climate change, the label of “greenie” in “clean, green” New Zealand was one to be avoided, especially in small towns. But younger climate activists w ­ ere no longer willing to wait. They had waited, and the O&G industry had insinuated itself into national politics. Given the re­sis­tance, some community-­based organizers had developed a range of strategies to act on climate change—­without saying the words or talking about “climate change.” One campaigner advised, “You just want to have climate change bubbling away under­neath r­ eally, rather than shouting it from the rooftops.” Explaining the public’s reticence, they clarified, “It’s just ­really depressing. And actually I ­don’t want to read all of the latest articles about how fucked up the world is ­going to be if we d­ on’t do anything. So I can understand why ­people do that. I do it myself.” ­Others ­adopted alternative words for climate change. “We’ve chosen to use the ‘low-­carbon economy’ language,” one said. “We just want to focus on solutions rather than just naming or renaming the prob­lem.” O ­ thers used the phrases “renewable energy” and “low-­carbon technologies.” As the member of a community group that worked with low-­income h ­ ouse­holds said, “We use the words ‘sustainable,’ or ‘environmentally friendly,’ or ‘eco.’ We use the terms that ­people relate to quickly and easily.” In elaborating further, they referenced the dilemma of being a “greenie” in New Zealand: “You ­can’t just sound like a greenie, like you should do this ­because of climate change, ­because ­people ­don’t want to hear that. But if you say you should do this to save money and it’s more sustainable for yourself and the environment, then t­ hey’ll get it.” When I followed up, they said that ­people wanted to enjoy life and not to feel harassed by “greenies” or harnessed by environmental or climatic worry: “It’s more about what you can do and enjoy your life than saying, ‘Oh my god, this horrible t­hing is happening. What do we do?’ ­Because then ­people ­will stick their head in the sand and not want to do anything. ­They’ll feel hopeless. . . . ​

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You have to put your message out ­there that the environmental movement is a good one and fun one, and we are all g­ oing to go step by step, in ways that are easy, and affordable, and comfortable—­than doom and gloom.” A less patient or­ga­nizer sounded annoyed at both the public’s reserve and the government’s boldness in ignoring the climate science: [The science] gets increasingly clearer as the years roll by that we need to get off this stuff. It has been a ­great ­ride, and we all grew up with it of course, and we ­didn’t realize the dark side, but the dark side is becoming ever more prevalent and without a concerted effort we are ­going to take ourselves across the brink of runaway climate change where it ­won’t m ­ atter what we do. . . . ​But getting all this into an understandable form for a general public and moving them into a position where enough p­ eople are sufficiently concerned to actually force governments in demo­cratic countries, in so-­called demo­cratic countries, to actually deal with the prob­lem is our biggest challenge.

As community-­centered advocates and educators guided the public step by step without explic­itly explaining climate change or using the words “climate change,” some activists fumed about the degree of public dawdling and po­liti­ cal stalling. To the activist community, it appeared that every­one ­else chose not to know or wanted to walk away slowly and painlessly from their high-­carbon attachments, or what has been described as a population’s structurally nested ambivalence.36 Past experience may have lent credence to the argument to slow the conversation. Between 1999 and 2008, regional authorities in the Bay of Plenty had identified the need to initiate a “managed retreat,” including the prevention of further coastal development and the construction of rock wall defenses.37 The community was invited to participate in deliberations, and their views w ­ ere split between SOBs (save our beaches) and DOBs (defend our beaches, or summer beach homes). The latter advocated for no development restrictions and dune planting for defense; and even though Māori identified cultural values and heritage concerns, it was believed that they ­were not given the same attention as the DOBs. Eventually the district council de­cided to build a publicly funded seawall. A researcher concluded that “while the policy of managed retreat is popu­lar with planning professionals and councils, it is highly controversial” with local residents.38 Someone interviewed made a similar observation, contending that conservationists and informed residents ­were at times roadblocks to raising awareness and acting on climate change: “Even p­ eople from t­ hose green groups [that do conservation work] are a bit helpless on the fossil fuel debate and climate change. They think it’s too big, or it’s too hard b­ ecause they are already so busy trying to trap that last possum on the reserve. To me that’s a ­little bit sad b­ ecause we

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are ­going to need every­one who has a ­little bit of a green mind and love for nature and for justice too to come together to be part of this.” Other activists debated ­whether to c­ ouple or decouple climate change and O&G in the narrative they w ­ ere building. To say no to exploration sounded negative to a lay audience, one or­ga­nizer said, but to express a desire to solve climate change—or what­ever climate change was being called at that time—­ sounded positive. In this way, they resembled ­others from wealthier nations who emphasized hopeful, positive messages to mediate fear and inspire action on climate change.39 ­Others thought that speaking openly and critically about O&G exploration was one way to act implicitly on climate change. A ­ fter describing their “focus on oil,” one activist added, “Beneath that of course is our motivation, which is about climate change. . . . ​But we are not saying that, and I think that’s so we ­don’t have to get into that ‘is it or ­isn’t it happening’ debate.” Another person suggested that the Green Party had ­adopted a similar path of least re­sis­tance: “The Greens have gone the same way in that talking about climate change ­isn’t good for their polling b­ ecause p­ eople at home d­ on’t want to hear about it. . . . ​ Their branding, or what they are focusing on, ­isn’t linking climate change and oil.” The “no talk” public management strategy was a­ dopted for a time when the Obama administration acted to reduce GHG emissions without engaging in public discussions on climate change.40 Without informed and informative conversations, the United States then elected someone ­else who said climate change was a hoax. Climate change was the issue—­the elephant in the room like racism, xenophobia, misogyny, extreme poverty, structural ecological vio­lence, reparations, or growing in­equality—­that no one knew how to talk about but that every­one urgently wanted or needed to talk about. Climate change “sits over the top of all of the oil and gas debate and has a moral imperative for action that is power­ ful and cogent and necessary,” one activist said. But it was an uphill ­battle, and they too had spent time planning how to discuss it so as to avoid a backlash. While activists sought to wage a domestic war against the oil industrial or carbon complex,41 they did so without publicly declaring that they w ­ ere actually at war for the planet.

Bind of a Spill In contrast to the demobilizing effect of climate change, oil spills spurred impassioned conversations. Given the experience or knowledge of Rena and Deepwater Horizon, disasters at sea w ­ ere acknowledged by many as risks not worth taking. So many activists and community leaders chose to focus on what the public preferred discussing—­the possibility of a spill—­over the long-­simmering real­ity of climate change. Even if discussing oil spills stymied climate conversations, the

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unspoken ulterior motive of resisting offshore activities was to act on climate change. “Terrible to say,” one activist told me, “but I suspect if ­there’s no threat to the beaches, if ­there’s no threat to the seas, if it’s just about climate change, I ­don’t suspect you would get the New Zealand call out.” According to another, “Climate change is this kind of abstract t­ hing. Whereas deep-­sea oil on your beach is not abstract at all. . . . ​You ­don’t want climate change ­because that’s ­going to ­really fuck your beaches as well”—­but the connection was more difficult to demonstrate to a lay audience, and especially one that supported extractive activities or large-­scale farming elsewhere. Activists recognized that they ­were reluctantly leaning on the risk of a spill despite the greater threat of climate change. One reasoned, “It is easier to campaign on deep-­sea oil ­because we ­don’t have to debate climate change, which polarizes ­people.” According to the observations of another, “Obviously it was ­really easy to grab onto that [Deepwater Horizon] spill. It was so horrific. So it obviously and horrifically grabs you, and then over time it kind of brings us back to the climate t­ hing. While a spill would be horrific, it’s not as likely. Climate change is 100 ­percent.” Environmental and climate groups expressed a desperation to discuss global climate change in­de­pen­dent of O&G exploration, while conceding to the more evocative connections p­ eople made with the risk of a spill. The discourse around “protect our beaches, our Kiwi beaches,” one activist said, “is all very appealing to the ­middle class that go. So ­there’s a tension with a lot of us. We want to get t­ hose ­people on our side, but we want the discourse to be about climate change.” From an outsider’s perspective, the vast reach of the oil industry’s efforts to build a platform of skepticism was paying off in Taranaki and in the frontier communities.42 The tendrils and life span of the old campaigns against public understanding and po­liti­cal action ­were vis­i­ble and audible in places where the topic remained fraught with confusion or doubt among an older population, and frustration or indifference among a younger population. Both confusion and frustration diminished opportunities for dialogue and concerted action. ­Others noted that government and industry scientists could not or would not deny climate change, so to compel climate discussions silenced industry promotions of “lessons learned” and “best practices” in preventing oil spills. In describing an exchange with a corporate scientist who was explaining offshore exploration, one resident recounted, “And then I said, ‘What about climate change?’ And he was like, ‘Yeah, that’s true, climate change.’ ” From that encounter, this citizen-­activist reasoned that “moving the discussion away from oil spills r­ eally takes away the leg that a lot of the industry is standing on.” Nevertheless, if the conversation was between the risk of an oil spill or the risk of climate change, both the industry and the public appeared to prefer the more

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mollifying conversation on oil spill prevention plans, rather than debating the global ­causes and consequences of climate change.

Strug­gle to Localize Impacts In addition, climate conversations w ­ ere hindered by the perceived absence of observable or felt impacts in New Zealand. At the time of t­ hese interviews, climate change was a vague, global phenomenon with l­ imited national traction, and therefore open to knowledge disputes.43 The general consensus was that the country was spared relative to ­others. It was suggested that some farming and forestry areas could become drier, but “not like Australia.” Flooding, flash floods, landslips, and road closures w ­ ere expected, and Māori could experience disproportionate health impacts in the distant ­future. Their assessments ­were early incubations of understanding national climate impacts; and relative to o­ thers, Aotearoa was interpreted as “blessed,” “lucky,” or “fortunate,” and the nation’s relative wealth was inferred to provide some protection. It was “hard to campaign solely on climate change ­because we are wealthy enough that we are not on the front lines,” suggested one activist. Many strained to identify observable impacts. “We are so blessed with so much fresh ­water. We are not like Australia, or some other places. We ­haven’t had a Hurricane Sandy yet. So we are g­ oing to be one of the last to take it seriously, and we are wealthy and enabled to protect ourselves from ­those impacts. . . . ​It is just not taken seriously ­because the impacts ­aren’t felt.” Another resident reasoned that “if you would pick one point on the earth that was, in direct terms at least, pretty well placed to cope with the changes or pretty low down the list in terms of immediate, direct impact, that would be h ­ ere.” Advancing a similar narrative, another claimed the country was “very fortunate” to have a small population, a broad latitudinal and altitudinal spread, and “good soil.” The public possessed “a very low-­level anxiety or concern,” one or­ga­nizer added. “We are pretty insulated from the worst effects of climate change, b­ ecause we are in the m ­ iddle of an ocean, which ameliorates effects.” Their comments mirrored t­ hose found in a study of Queenstown residents who displayed an “optimistic bias” by reasoning that o­ thers would experience greater hardship.44 Yet at least one person told me that in farming communities, the “long dry summers are bringing it to ­people’s minds.” Adaptation, preparation, mitigation, managed retreat, and action require exchanges of scientific knowledge and community-­based knowledge, or what McKibben refers to as “fresh knowledge with older wisdom.”45 In New Zealand the bridge between community and scientific understandings was still being cultivated as a relatable and easily understood image. Many Māori I met spoke of their historic, cultural, or socioecological knowledge, but few connected this knowledge to the novelty of climate change. One representative

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recognized that the community was hearing more about climate change but that other local concerns ­were more demanding. In general, “most of our concerns are far more basic than global climate change. They are health and well-­ being, a­ ctual physical and m ­ ental health, and education. . . . ​And ­these are r­ eally big-­picture t­ hings that are quite hard to think about, and even have time to think about.” One report noted that the world’s poor and indigenous, including Māori, “­will suffer the most” and that “increased flooding and erosion could expose urupa (burial grounds) and affect waihi tapu (sacred places).”46 Likewise, renegotiations of land rights and resource access may complicate Māori settlement agreements, as was becoming increasingly apparent in the United States, where “treaty-­g uaranteed rights to hunt, fish, and gather may be rendered meaningless by ­these changes, or may require adaptation by transferring harvesting rights to new species.”47 I conducted interviews and attended public meetings when many residents possessed a vague understanding of climate change, and national or regional impact reports ­were relatively unknown among the wider public. Despite the l­ imited popu­lar knowledge, t­ here w ­ ere several climate experts who ­were engaged in resisting O&G exploration and speaking about climate change. For example, one Māori leader identified impacts in certain rural or coastal communities: From about 2000 onwards, we noticed that the weather r­ eally started changing. And we ­were getting ­these torrential downpours, and increase in storm surge, just more cyclonic events, ­because we are [now] on the edge of the tropics as the planet is heating up. . . . ​So most of our villages tend to be in quite vulnerable places for storm surge, sea level rise, and flash flood events. So as a result, t­ hese floods ­were coming through and we w ­ ere told by the authorities, “Oh look, this is just a once in a one-­hundred-­year event, you d­ on’t have anything to worry about.” And then less than one hundred days l­ ater, we get another one. Our town got wiped out, and a lot of ­people’s ­houses got wiped out, and our traditional meeting ­houses, we lost quite a few of them, and it just became more and more apparent that the effects of climate change w ­ ere not way off in the distance.

Even though many climate and antidrilling activists and community advocates identified the nation as one of the least affected, this leader had already witnessed some of the vulnerabilities of coastal communities. But the media reports of bushfires in Australia and sea level rise in the South Pacific continued to overshadow domestic impacts. When I was ­there, I observed regional examples that could have disrupted notions of national good fortune but ­were not conveyed in interviews or at public meetings. The Bay of Plenty, where the Rena wreck had occurred, was one

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site of community disputes over seawalls and coastal development. The other site was the Franz Josef Glacier, one of the country’s two rainforest glaciers that ­were receding. As a tourist, I traveled to the glacier to learn what locals, who ­were far removed from the O&G frontiers and campaigns of re­sis­tance, thought about climate change. On a shut­tle to the glacier, the group passed a waterfall that served as the first cautionary tale. Without prompting, the driver told us that the back story of the attractive scene was that “the global temperature has gone up one degree,” so the receding glacier was producing more waterfalls. “Most glaciers are up in the high zone,” the driver continued, “but they are all retreating.” This brief bit of information made clear the gravity and solemnity of the issue, while problematizing global tourism and employment. The park featured a photographic timeline, the second cautionary tale, of a shrinking glacier. ­There are only three glaciers in the world in the rainforest. Two are in New Zealand (Franz and Fox) and one is in Argentina. Like other glaciers, this one was on its way to becoming a memorial site. At a kiwi center in a nearby town, climate change was presented as a blameless, global phenomenon of ups and downs, and an informational board featured the statement that “climate change ­will shrink the size of New Zealand’s glaciers, . . . ​­until the next global cooling.”48 To clarify, the board continued, “We c­ an’t stop the chain of events, but we can work to understand what is likely to happen, where and how fast. . . . ​­Will tourists still come to the West Coast if its glaciers dis­ appear?” The takeaway was that civilization existed within a blameless cycle of global warming and cooling without causation, so observation—­rather than action—­was sufficient recourse.49 With activists struggling to identify domestic impacts, t­ here existed l­ittle public association of fossil fuel expansion plans with domestic climate-­related risks. The climate groups had yet to mobilize educational climate-­impact tours across the country like the informative toxic tour of the O&G industry and affected communities in Taranaki. Such tours are beginning elsewhere, and in Southeast Florida, a climate solutions group organizes annual “king tide” tours to coincide with the highest of the high tides and to provide an opportunity for the public to walk through predictably flooded streets and meet with local politicians, city man­ag­ers, and scientists.50 Back in Aotearoa, the PCE, which directed the reports on hydraulic fracturing (2012) and O&G (2014), sought to strengthen public understanding of evidence-­based projected impacts with a 2015 report that identified coastal floods, coastal erosion, and groundwater prob­lems.51 The report warned of sea level rise, particularly for the low-­lying towns of Dunedin, Napier, and Christchurch (each of which had a campaign against O&G extraction). Two years ­after this report, the Royal Society of New Zealand published a health report that identified direct effects, such as heat waves and flooding, and indirect ones, including increased food costs.52

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During the early po­liti­cal promotions for O&G exploration, climate activists strug­g led to identify national climate effects for an uninterested public. Years afterward, activists and scientists appeared to ramp up efforts to educate and magnify the need for community awareness, preparedness, and action.

Intergenerational Worry Three generations have been born since the mid-1960s—­Generation X, Generation Y (millennials), and Generation Z (iGen)—­and many of them have expressed deep frustration at t­ hose who chose to ignore what the millennials and Gen Zers have always at least partially known: anthropogenic climate change is real, and it is primarily caused by fossil fuels and industrial agriculture. Each generation and then some, including young, middle-­aged, and older activists, worried about their roles as global consumers and slow-­to-­know or slow-­to-­act citizens. Even though the risk of a spill animated and propelled many of them, climate change surfaced as a disquieting intergenerational phenomenon that permeated public meetings and private exchanges. A generational distance lay in their private reflections. Older activists shared with me rhetorical questions about what they had done as a generation and what o­ thers ­will experience a­ fter they are gone. Younger activists worried about their pre­ sent and f­ uture. While community-­based activists used positive, hopeful messages when interacting with residents outside their activist circles, they expressed a range of personal emotions, including anger among the young and guilt among ­those forty-­five and older. Youths’ anger was directed at older decision makers and citizens who failed to act. Among middle-­aged and older resident-­activists, the legacy of inaction, and of too-­little, too-­late efforts, hung in the air as a mobilizing influence against O&G. According to one, “The more I become aware of environmental issues, the more I’m aware of this tragic legacy that my generation and the generation before me are leaving to my ­children, and their ­children.” For o­ thers, the O&G proposals w ­ ere a personal insult to years of grassroots l­ abor: “It can feel like such an affront when you feel like you are working so hard ­toward the ­future, and then you get what feels like this unstoppably large corporate machine landing in your backyard.” For older residents, who ­were becoming climate-­aware through their re­sis­tance to O&G exploration, climate change was hidden within environmental issues. When I asked about “climate change,” they spoke about the “environment.” For many older p­ eople in small towns or rural communities, the oil proposals brought climate discussions and learning opportunities to their door for the first time. A ­ fter acknowledging a desire to learn more, one told me, “We are starting to develop a deeper understanding of the environment and global climate change and the relationship between par­tic­u­lar types of extraction, and

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that’s ­because we have been forced to think about it. We d­ idn’t r­ eally need to worry too much about it before that, or thought we d­ idn’t need to worry too much. But now b­ ecause we are confronted with it, we w ­ ill have to develop a position.” Another person, who had worked previously on international climate agreements and reducing domestic emissions, regretted some of their earnest but failed early efforts: “Even if we did get a [global climate treaty], it would have a pretty modest obligation, so I’m sort of back to—­possibly where I should have been at the beginning—­going for a slightly more radical type of approach around leadership, and citizen mobilization, and just getting p­ eople to agree not to dig more stuff up.” They recognized that their first attempts ­were within and through institutions that eventually failed to achieve targeted goals to reduce GHG emissions. In contrast, some younger activists became aware of climate change while recognizing vari­ous institutional failures. ­Others, such as Generation Zero, sought to effect change through local and national elections and transportation choices. Intergenerational obligation, one component of kaitiakitanga, linked a worried youth to their older allies while also exposing a rift between t­ hose who ­were mindful (thus experiencing some societal guilt) and a public that was unsure (hence disassociated from responsibility). “Even though p­ eople are concerned about their kids and they are putting enormous amounts of time and money to ensure that their kids have good lives, they d­ on’t feel what their kids’ lives are ­going to be like with business as usual,” one activist claimed. “­There’s a disconnect” between caring for their ­children ­today and acting on climate change for their c­ hildren’s f­ uture. When a proextraction panel was questioned on GHG emissions, one panelist replied, “­There is still a need for fossil fuels. . . . ​We d­ on’t have a solution for society to function without oil in it.” To which an audience member responded, “Do you have ­children, and in twenty years what ­will you tell them about climate change and green­house gas emissions?” One person told me, “By encouraging the industry, you are saying that you are happy to rob your f­ uture generations of economic and environmental stability in the name of mythical economic benefits now.” For some, it was time for older p­ eople to get louder for the sake of ­future generations: “We should be ramping up and becoming more vocal, and I think it would be effective b­ ecause we represent the conservative, responsible voice of conservation. We have fine, upstanding citizens that have worked hard with authorities all their lives. . . . ​And so it would gain some credibility if a lot of our older members strapped themselves to a fence and said, ‘Listen, we are grandparents. We are sick of it.’ ” For this environmentalist, it was a distant dream rather than a mobilized real­ity. Yet some older residents did mobilize through their faith-­based organ­ izations by campaigning for divestment from fossil fuels, which was inspired

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by 350 and conducted mostly in discussions at councils, churches, or universities. The first divestment commitment in New Zealand came quietly from the Auckland diocese of the Anglican Church, which represented Māori, Pacifica (­people primarily from Fiji, Samoa, and Tonga), and white congregants. While one activist interpreted the faith-­based community as not strong in numbers, it was seen with “reverence” by a broad ­middle class that interpreted the church as “ethically the good guys,” or “meaning to do the right ­thing,” or not “crazy ­people who lock themselves to bulldozers.” When I was t­ here, the faith-­based discussions in Dunedin and Wellington ­were directed ­toward an older audience to mainstream and legitimize the idea of divestment. Likewise, the Dunedin council was considering a community-­ wide conversation on divestment as a result of community submissions. For them, the first step had the desired potential to lead to a larger one: “If it’s unethical to be invested financially, why is it any more ethical to invest with resources or effectively subsidize fossil fuel companies with ratepayer resources?” While they recognized that “it’s not a comfortable discussion,” it was at least a conversation that activists, residents, churchgoers, and agreeable elected officials w ­ ere trying to initiate. Two years ­later, in 2016, multiple 350-­led “Break ­Free” events w ­ ere or­ga­nized to correspond with global mobilizations for divestment. Activists in New Zealand focused on banks that ­were supporting the oil, gas, and coal industries. In Dunedin, climate activists blocked access to several banks, which led the media and police to construct them as “disrespectful, unemployable, young and irresponsible,” thereby pitting them against bank customers and community residents, who w ­ ere “ ‘ decent’ and ‘respectful’ citizens.”53 At one branch, it appeared that the police had given bank customers license to use “reasonable force” on the climate activists in order to access the bank.54 In the images witnessed on news outlets and social media, the day’s events w ­ ere reduced to pitting the individual be­hav­iors of older, “respectful” residents and younger, “disrespectful” ones against each other, rather than generating a community discussion on climate change, fossil fuel divestments, and O&G proposals. In a blog post, one of the climate activists summed up the deeper strug­gle that was being eclipsed: “The damage being done by the prevailing status quo is far more im­mense, far more devastating and far more invisible.”55 The image of young activists blocking older bank clientele in a university town was depicted as more threatening, urgent, and vis­i­ble than the c­ auses and impacts of climate change. This was the same community in which older residents at an invite-­ only meeting with O&G representatives contested the meeting’s disruption by younger, louder, and angrier climate and antidrilling activists, as discussed previously. Since my interviews, climate activists have continued mobilizing and launching novel campaigns of re­sis­tance. Young ­people in the Netherlands, New

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Zealand, and the United States have filed lawsuits against their governments for failing to act on climate change for the environment and their ­futures. The one in New Zealand was eventually dismissed, but in solidarity with Greta Thunberg, the young Swedish student who founded Youth Strike for Climate, thousands in Aotearoa left their classrooms, and approximately one thousand rallied in front of Parliament in 2019. When I interviewed them, they had identified their climate campaign as riding on the coattails of re­sis­tance against O&G expansions and oil spill risk. They offered a counternarrative to the industry’s promoted benefits of employment and national wealth. Approximately five or six years ­later, climate activists had ­stopped waiting for the public to catch up. They ­were acting to establish climate change as a standalone issue that was equal to or larger than O&G proj­ects through confrontations and walkouts.

Chasing Global Justice In this case, advancing petroleum interests and heightened generational anx­i­ eties relaunched climate activism—­covertly. Yet the global climate crisis, exacerbated by the near-­permanent real­ity of global social inequalities and power inequities, proved a vexing message to convey to a broad audience.56 The uneven distribution of emissions and the disproportionate impacts of ­those emissions borne by the most vulnerable w ­ ere the types of betrayals few w ­ ere willing to voice. Activists ­were aware of global and intra-­and intergenerational injustices, and acted locally or nationally to do their bit. And even though the divide between their princi­ples and their abilities to achieve them seemed unbridgeable, they aimed through a slight but steady articulation of such ideals to keep their values near official ­tables and within reach of bystanders. The group Climate Justice Aotearoa argued that to achieve justice, it was necessary to “confront the structural/root c­ auses of emissions,” achieve “demo­cratic owner­ship and control of economy,” and prepare “reparations of ecological debt to ­those who have suffered from resource exploitation.”57 However, the frustration was in knowing what needed to be done globally and struggling to achieve a modicum of it locally or nationally in places of privilege. Time and scale impaired the pro­gress of climate justice as well. O&G proposals w ­ ere pressing in on the activist community, pushing global climate justice articulations—­like many justice strug­gles—­out of sight and hearing, and beyond achievement. But regional disparities and climate refugees ­were real at the time. In 2002, New Zealand initiated a Pacific Access Category immigration visa in partial response to climate change effects. For ­those between eigh­ teen and forty-­five, it offered residence consideration—­not guarantees—­for ­people from Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, Kiribati, and Tuvalu. However, a de­cade l­ ater, Oxfam New Zealand interpreted the country as “retreating” from ­doing more

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to help its Pacific Island neighbors.58 Despite nearly fifteen years of mentions in the news, few activists spoke to me about the South Pacific islands, and the access visa started to sound more like a ­labor policy for able-­bodied, English-­ speaking adults from the islands than a humanitarian response to climate change. It appeared that just as climate change had gone “off the boil” for the public, climate-­forced migration had become a sleeper issue for the activist community, supplanted by the more pressing O&G expansion plans. When I asked the activist community about the South Pacific islands, one responded emphatically: “It h ­ asn’t been part of the national conversation. . . . ​I have no idea how they w ­ ill or ­whether they have even developed policy in regard to what happens when t­ hese countries or atoll nations go ­under the waves.” When I recalled a win­dow in time when “climate refugees” had become a buzzword and how some islanders ­were considering relocating to Aotearoa, the person amended their assessment: “It has gone into the slow news. . . . ​The climate refugees w ­ ill prob­ably just fall into the bigger basket: just another crisis.” It appeared that when climate activists remobilized, the risks to their near-­neighbors w ­ ere displaced by targeted efforts to block multiple O&G proposals. Their choice represented a universal bind of acting on climate change in ways that invite participation and the possibility of some degree of accomplishment, rather than overwhelming participation by inviting conversations on global oppression and privilege, or discussions on the meaning and necessity of finding dignity, decency, and inclusion in global changes and deliberations. To maintain a modicum of hopefulness, activists elected to resist O&G in an Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development nation, rather than to vocally link the climate crisis with climate cruelty, climate crimes, and per­sis­tent inequities between ­people, nations, and the private sector. This assessment is not intended to be critical of them, but to be critical of global patterns that perpetuate hierarchies and divisions between ­people, places, natu­ral environments, all living beings, and their habitats. I am also not suggesting anything that a few of the climate justice activists had not already said. In an extended comment contrasting activist aspirations and public sentiment, one person spun together the challenges of climate justice and injustice, and a society’s ability and culpability, especially among wealthier nations: “I ­don’t feel like New Zealand has that sense of being neighborly, you know, ‘we should do this for your sake’ feeling, . . . ​and the fact that we ­wouldn’t necessarily be d­ oing it for our own nation’s sake, we would be ­doing it for the global sake” is a hindrance. Not only w ­ ere discussions of climate change difficult, but discussions of global justice risked splintering the activist community internally and the activists further from the public. I was told that groups strug­gled with speaking about global justice in a way that demonstrated them to be a “level-­headed,

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respectable, campaign group that ­isn’t all totally radical and crazy and alienating p­ eople.” It appeared that debating the risks of an oil spill was acceptable, whereas speaking about global climate disparities was disruptive to gathering supporters. For the most part, climate activists strug­gled to craft public-­friendly, action-­oriented stances on national and global injustices in their campaigns, opting instead for a concerted effort against O&G. Eventually, activists from across the spectrum succeeded in getting the Zero Carbon Bill passed in 2019; and like all civic-­minded leaders and community advocates, they kept demanding more. In a congratulatory email, Generation Zero recognized that the law was “by no means perfect. . . . ​It h ­ asn’t put a just transition front and centre, and it ­doesn’t honor Te Tiriti o Waitangi [the Treaty of Waitangi] as it must.”59 Generation Zero noted that “the real work begins now” with implementing the law and with achieving “justice for t­ hose who are already suffering the worst impacts of climate change.” When interviews w ­ ere conducted, activists w ­ ere connecting their anti-­O&G actions to global climate justice sentiments, at least in private discussions. “The fight against fossil fuel extraction is happening all over the world, and this is our bit that we can play ­towards that greater goal of solving climate change,” one told me. From the perspective of another, “It’s about working on your front lines where you can, in solidarity with p­ eople around the world.” A Māori observer concurred, “It is just not good enough, Māori p­ eople thinking they can save themselves over in a corner somewhere, you know, drop out and every­ thing is g­ oing to be OK, when every­body has got to be a part of that journey. We’ve got to keep our CO2 levels down, and that’s what has led us up to this strug­gle against the fossil fuel industry.” In the can-do, do-­it-­yourself spirit of New Zealanders, a seasoned activist emphasized, “­We’re less than 1 ­percent, so ­doing it by ourselves as a country ­doesn’t do much, obviously. But as a country we might signal to other countries and they might follow what we do. It is also very impor­tant what we do ­because we are 4.4 million p­ eople in the world, and ­there are other 4.4 million p­ eople in the world, and each 4.4 million p­ eople in the world has to do something in order to get a positive result.”

10

Disrupting Oil for Transformative Justice We w ­ ere just saying let the public be part of the pro­cess. . . . ​We ­were trying to de­moc­ra­tize the democracy a bit more.

Aotearoa New Zealand was becoming an oil and gas (O&G) frontier when climate science was certain, renewable energy sources w ­ ere available, and socioecological risks w ­ ere known. Offshore drilling advanced despite the risks of deep-­water exploration, documented disasters, and marine-­based tourism operations. Hydraulic fracturing proposals proceeded despite a clean, green image and numerous community burdens recorded and shared through social media. Permits or licenses ­were awarded and policies ­were written to accommodate the industry despite unanswered questions and a cadre of climate activists mobilizing for a low-­carbon society. More often than not, the products or the pro­cesses of oil defeat p­ eople—­but not always. During the industry’s third era of expansions, new voices allied with established ones in constructing and then magnifying a critical oil narrative and demanding some version of transformative justice. On many fronts, transformations w ­ ere sought for historical justice, demo­cratic procedures, and community-­centered policies (as conveyed in chapters 3 and 4); marine and coastal justice (chapters 5 and 6); environmental health and rural justice (chapters 4 and 7); cultural identity, national responsibility, and clean, green guardianship (chapters 4 and 8); climate, generational, and energy justice (chapter 9); 186

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and first ­people, tribal, or Māori justice (across ­these chapters). When confronted by the behemoth O&G industry, the totality of ­people’s aspirations, demands, mobilizations, and traditional stewardship practices represented a vision of and call for Aotearoa justice. Unlike ­others who have experienced a disaster, or hydraulic fracturing, or offshore exploration, or climate inaction, or disputes over Indigenous rights, New Zealanders w ­ ere facing each one si­mul­ta­neously, and each one spurred an experience of or response to one or more of the ­others. A national shift critical of O&G occurred through a series of national, historic, and community-­based strug­gles for justice, as well as for citizens’ rights to understand the risks; to hold accountable the advocates and beneficiaries of the industry; to insert local residents and small businesses into decision-­making protocols and impact assessments; to raise questions and demand answers on complex socioecological concerns; and to reject any extractive, fossil fuel, or chemical-­laden proposal deemed too risky. If only one community or concern w ­ ere analyzed, the prolonged and intersectional hierarchies of p­ eoples, species, natures, and places within ­these demands would have been obscured. The vari­ous grievances and calls for justice grew and extended a critical oil paradigm in dialogue, ideology, and application. For individuals, communities, and the nation, the alignment between justice and critical perspectives was advanced through globally accessible accounts of acute and chronic environmental health impacts, harmful or suspected impacts on smaller local businesses, rec­ords of disasters, and a tenacious h ­ uman defense for the protection of each other and other species. Likewise, the alignment deepened through the industry’s expansions into previously unaffected areas, including middle-­class neighborhoods or previously privileged landscapes or coastlines in a relatively wealthy nation, and an increasing public recognition of anthropogenic climate change as broadcast by an active youth citizenry. ­Those interviewed and observed mobilized for their health and well-­being; for their neighborhoods, backyards, and beaches; for Planet Earth and Planet Ocean; and for terrestrial and aquatic species and ecosystems. They rallied against toxic, climate-­altering pollution; against nonlocal industries and decision makers; against a myriad of inequities; and for local, just, and sustainable communities, economies, ecologies, and energy sources. They believed themselves to be on the front lines of the industry’s evitable decline. “We ­will win b­ ecause New Zealanders do want to be clean and green. They can see the connections. . . . ​A nd we have the pre­ce­dent of the nuclear-­free campaign, which is engrained into the national self-­awareness,” one activist claimed, before emphasizing, “My worry— as an environmentalist—is, ­will it make any difference on the global scene?” New Zealand’s activist community needed o­ thers to step up and join them. The product’s utilities and the industry’s integration into global politics and economies had exhausted citizen re­sis­tance in past cases, and had captured

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cultures in ­others. More often than not, a “successful” campaign had meant only slight modifications on a single proj­ect or the blocking of a proj­ect in one place without impeding expansions elsewhere. None of this is new. Low-­ income nations with raw resource-­bearing lands or w ­ aters had been sending clear signals of their strug­gles, failures, and miniscule achievements since the second wave of exploration and extraction. The novelty was the encroachment in previously privileged or protected w ­ aters, lands, and communities; and across a nation with a self-­promoted identity of being clean and green; and in a time of known climate change. Given the dominant worldview, oil companies—­whether state or privately owned—­are not likely to stop ­until the reserves are depleted, ­until they are mandated to cease operations, or u­ ntil they control an equally lucrative product or energy source. Replacing petroleum at the pump is pos­si­ble. The possibility of replacing it in its multiple uses beyond the pump is less certain. Plus, if the major corporations walk away from regions of po­liti­cal or civil conflict or re­sis­tance, other companies may step in. Once depleted or when the dregs are left to minor or national companies, the major ones, enabled and permitted by vari­ous national policies, may be primed to launch, control, privatize, or maintain access to the next large-­scale resource—­whatever it may be. To date, industry-­or state-­ led energy strategies appear to interpret “transition” as a means by which states control and major corporations privatize the next major supply while maintaining and commanding the global supply of O&G. Resistant-­minded, compliant-­minded, and middle-­of-­the-­road New Zealanders ­were deliberating on what drilling meant to them, their communities, local industries, the nation, and the planet—­from the local to the global, now and for f­ uture generations. This task was an impossibly tall order for the average person who was just a local resident in a small or medium-­size town before the industry and state became interested in their rural lands or offshore ­waters. In reaction to the scale and speed of extractive activities, many New Zealanders shouted ka nui! Enough already.

Applying Critical Environmental Justice The industry’s expansion near middle-­class neighborhoods in a nation of relative economic security and demo­cratic practices and during a time of climate change and known disasters invited fresh perspectives and generalizable arguments. Yet rather than assessing individual site fights, specific disasters, specialized technologies, or global climate change as in previous chapters, this final chapter explores how New Zealand’s campaigns of re­sis­tance and promotion inform and are informed by the foundational works of David Pellow’s critical environmental justice studies and David Hess’s energy democracy.1

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Up u­ ntil third-­era expansions, social thought had often perceived energy and minerals as the affairs of low-­income nations and past generations, or as “unconnected to the primary concerns of con­temporary development centered around participation, empowerment and rights.”2 Other strands of social thought had been “carbon-­blind, never interrogating the resource and energy bases of economic and social life.”3 In the past, oil-­consuming residents and nations within the Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD) appeared indifferent to or unaware of their own historical or con­temporary embodiments and entitlements to another’s land, ­labor, or resources without local deliberation or equitable compensations. At the same time, low-­income communities directly affected by the industry had been contesting the contamination with ­little global recognition and had been forced to accept fragmented concessions within the larger complexes of extraction, power, and vested interests. Each connection, question, or experience coalesced in New Zealand. The prob­lems of oil became vis­i­ble beyond the point of routine consumption, while a climate-­only focus expanded to include global spills and local environmental health risks. To clarify and connect the justice and critical oil frames, this chapter examines energy democracies and the four pillars of critical environmental justice—­intersectionality, scale, entrenched state power, and indispensability—­through New Zealand’s oppositional and advocacy campaigns. To Pellow’s intersectional approach, this study contributes the axis of place, examining how privileged and marginalized places bestowed similar attributes on the p­ eople, wildlife, natures, and built environments associated with them. To his multiscalar analy­sis, this one adds the global flow of petroleum, and the global flow of anti-­oil sentiments and impacts, from the cellular (such as inheritance toxins) to the atmospheric (or climate change). Pellow’s focus on entrenched power was observed repeatedly at the town hall and marae (Māori communal meeting place) meetings where residents witnessed but refused to accept their own subordination to the state, or to each other. The fourth pillar captures what is perhaps one of the most offensive dimensions of O&G ­today: the forced se­lection of who or what is tolerably expendable. Calls for demo­cratic practices in energy decisions, impacts, and distributions transect each pillar.

Intersectionality: Privileged and Marginalized Places Pellow broadens the early intersectional nexus of race, class, and gender to include speciesism and the “more-­than-­human” world. Specifically, “vari­ous social categories of difference work to place par­tic­u­lar bodies at risk of exclusion, marginalization, erasure, discrimination, vio­lence, destruction, and othering.”4 Beyond the base of discriminatory practices, Pellow emphasizes the

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othering and destruction of nonhuman or more-­than-­human species by ­people and human-­made institutions for their own economic and social interests. The study of O&G expansions in Aotearoa substantiates the othering of certain species and lifestyles, and contributes place and associated topographies to intersectional approaches. An intersectional and critical place inquiry5 reveals that a dichotomy existed in which the status or prestige of certain places privileged the ­people, wildlife, natures, and built environments of ­those places while leading to the detriment of other, less charismatic places and their associated inhabitants. Specifically, the sea and coastline, and the accompanying marine life and coastal communities, w ­ ere prioritized over rural landscapes, and the attending rural life and rural ­people, in the national campaign of re­sis­tance and in subsequent po­liti­cal decisions to place a moratorium on offshore exploration, but not on hydraulic fracturing. The hierarchy of place infused coastal communities and marine ecosystems with greater value. Subsequently, rural farmlands and communities w ­ ere marginalized in national campaigns, even though New Zealand is an export-­ oriented agricultural nation with a strong agricultural lobby where “every­one’s got a farmer in their f­amily somewhere.” With the dissimilarities of place, resisting hydraulic fracturing became a regional, rural issue, while protesting deep-­sea drilling resonated nationally. When confronted with both types of proposals in geo­g raph­i­cally distinct locales, environmental activists drew a deeper line in the sand against offshore exploration, rather than rural or farmland fracturing. While not ignoring regional antifracking efforts, environmental groups prioritized the offshore campaign. It was a status-­oriented cultural ­battle of place between socially constructed interpretations of beauty (or coastlines) and the beast (or farmlands). National opposition to deep-­sea drilling was New Zealand’s equivalent to the widespread land-­based fracktivist campaigns in the United States. As an island nation, New Zealanders prioritized a defense of their coastlines. In contrast, p­ eople in the United States w ­ ere more likely to identify as e­ ither land or coast dwellers, or, in the po­liti­cal and derogatory parlance of the time, as inhabiting e­ ither bicoastal or flyover spaces. Given the much larger landmass and scale of interior O&G activities, environmental groups joined rural residents in defending their flyover fields in the United States. In interviews, national and grassroots organizers in New Zealand offered multiple reasons to defend the frontier seas and coastlines. Taranaki had already accepted the industry; offshore deepwater drilling was an intolerable and risky novelty; and the report by the Parliamentary Commission for the Environment indicated that hydraulic fracturing could be regulated. Some environmental activists thought the national effort could have swung against fracking when the media was reporting on the risks of the oil and dairy industries operating in close proximity. If deep-­sea drilling ­were not on the ­table, then the issues of

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landfarming, waste disposal, and contaminated fields could have generated national re­sis­tance to fracking. “It was quite a big national story . . . ​about messing with our dairy industry,” one activist told me. “So a lot of p­ eople w ­ ere concerned. And I think if the deep-­sea oil ­hadn’t also been coming up, then you might have seen ­people hit hard on the fracking. But instead it feels quite quiet.” Surprisingly, the land-­based fracktivists never complained about or criticized the national commitment to deep w ­ aters. To them, the division was understandable: “New Zealanders are so protective of the ­water. And every­one relates to the ­water, and wanting to protect it, and ­there’s kind of a culture of that. But when you are talking about onshore fracking, and drilling and mining, t­ here’s more confusion about what that means: Is it a farm t­ hing, or is it out ­there and it ­doesn’t actually affect us in the city?” Fracking was also associated with Taranaki, and Taranaki was associated with being captured by industry or perceived as a preexisting martyr or supporter of cohabiting with black and white gold. As the O&G hub, Taranaki was designated as less worthy of defense, relative to the frontiers. “The Taranaki communities accepted fracking ages ago. . . . ​They are not one of the most active environmental areas,” one activist observed. Another shared, “In Taranaki, ­people feel, as far as the w ­ hole movement, that they forget about them, that they ignore them. I know that sounds bad and maybe we could stop some of the expansion, but with the deep-­sea stuff, the industry ­hasn’t ­really got a big grounding yet. Th ­ ere’s still a win­dow b­ ecause they h ­ aven’t got a foothold.” In clarifying further, another suggested, “Offshore wells are risky in terms of spills. . . . ​So it is ­really easy to communicate that, and to work across ­those areas: to defend our beaches, defend our wildlife, and defend our climate. It’s more of a package.” In terms of visual and sensory spaces, activists mobilized in defense of coastlines, coastal views, and marine-­based subsistence or tourism economies, as well as underwater habitats and marine life that ­were often invisible. In contrast, residents near onshore O&G activities could smell changes in the air, feel surface vibrations, and hear industry’s rumble—­all of which w ­ ere unadvisable and unavoidable sensations. Yet the vis­i­ble and invisible deepwater activities and impacts mobilized more p­ eople nationwide than the realized and felt impacts in rural communities or on farmlands. One was a destination; the other became a sacrificial landscape. Surface-­and class-­based privileges and biases resided and w ­ ere maintained in bipolar places: leisure versus ­labor, beauty versus beast. For example, Kaikoura was a coastal town where tourists stayed to watch marine life. In some of the rural or farming communities visited, shops closed early, streets w ­ ere deserted on weekends, and national and international workers slept in deep, exhausted states in tight hostel quarters. The marine environment and marine life offshore of Kaikoura

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­ ill be affected by seismic testing and drilling, but the town, p­ eople, and small w businesses ­will likely only be affected directly if a disaster occurs, the marine life leaves, or platforms populate the seascape looking out to sea—­each of which is pos­si­ble and detrimental. In contrast, inland farming communities ­will be as­suredly altered by industrial spread and routine O&G activities even in the absence of a disaster. Fracking is the calamity; it does not need a major spill to be one for affected communities. Speaking at an outdoor protest against offshore activity, one Māori activist tried to unite citizen-­activists across their intersectional divides. The activist tried to bridge the land-­sea, rural-­coastal, local-­national, Māori-­Pākehā, young-­ old, and class divides by connecting t­ hose who opposed extractive pro­cesses in general with ­those who ­were defending ancestral lands in par­tic­u­lar. From experience with past fissures, the speaker warned, “If we separate ­these issues, we separate ourselves from each other and from the support base that we w ­ ill need at the elections. . . . ​Just down the coast, ten kilo­meters from ­here, land-­based drilling [for O&G] is ­under way. Land-­based drilling supports and feeds the emission of pollutants into the environment and accelerates climate change. . . . ​ You need to think about what’s happening down the coast. ­There’s land down ­there. It’s whenua. It’s beautiful land. It’s ancestral land. . . . ​It’s been in their ­family for forty-­four generations.”6 A b­ itter pill is forced on activists and citizens to select single-­issue or single-­ place campaigns. In the deliberations, other p­ eople, places, and sentient beings become expendable. In this way, a systemic injustice occurs when many extractive proj­ects and companies stretch across a nation or the planet, forcing antiextraction advocacy networks to select what to resist, concede, or ignore given their ­limited resources relative to the scale and speed of the industry. Part of the industry’s overpowering strength is its breadth of activities, which compels activist networks to rank communities and natures as sacrificial or defense-­ worthy. Recognizing the importance of place infuses additional meanings into rural, coastal, and aquatic environments and the living beings affiliated with t­ hose spaces, and reveals layers of privilege and oppression imposed on a ­people and place by industry proponents and opponents.

Scale: Cellular-­to-­Climatic Flows The second pillar of critical environmental justice analyzes the spatial and temporal ­causes and consequences of the vari­ous injustices so as to resolve them.7 When analyzing petroleum, a spatial inquiry explores the substance’s pollution pathways, from the cellular to the atmospheric, and the product’s pro­cessing lines, from seismic testing to waste disposal. A temporal inquiry connects immediate environmental health threats at any point in the pro­cess to complex, cross-­generational inheritance toxins and climate change.

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To add to spatial and temporal examinations, this study offers a multiscalar global flow approach. In a previous study in Ec­ua­dor, I mapped the material flow of oil against the intellectual flow of community and environmental advocacy to explore how spatial location in the chain from extraction to export gave “rise to process-­specific impacts, perceived injustices, distributive strug­gles, and community actions.”8 ­A fter charting the oil and re­sis­tance flows, a paradox of scale emerged in which “sites most wedded to the global market and of critical importance to oil production and exportation ­were least integrated in transnational movements, while the sites of l­ittle production or global transportation import had greater ties to international organ­izations.”9 The two poorest communities, which lacked captivating h ­ uman, nature, or wildlife images, failed to attract deep international ties—­despite being the most critical to the global supply of oil. A global multiscalar lens is especially pertinent to the study of petroleum, as it reveals the industry’s tenacity, the extent of toxic exposures, and the subsequent strengths and limits of domestic and transnational strug­gles across generations. As a tangible property, petroleum is a primordial fossil fuel buried under­ground and sometimes as surface seeps that requires drilling down to extract up in order to be pro­cessed and transported. Once it is brought to the surface, petroleum, as a fuel or petrochemical, flows around the world and has influenced the governance of modern socie­ties and cultures in toxic and intoxicating ways. The menace of disasters, climate change, and considerable community-­level and socioecological impacts ­were the reasons ­people mobilized in the frontiers and zones of extraction in New Zealand. “Thousands of leaking, toxic wells. Is that the legacy we want to leave our kids?” one antidrilling activist demanded. “­Because they ­will be the ones who have to deal with the toxic disaster, and ­they’ll have no choice about it.” Another cautioned, “We cannot burn more than 20 ­percent of that stuff that’s in the ground right now without totally ­disrupting the environment from the global warming picture.” Petroleum is the multiscalar crisis that requires an equally vast, globally connected, and substantially durable effort of re­sis­tance. Rather than problematizing the vast complexities of the product, industry-­state co­a li­tions seek to sequester the discussion into “manageable” silos of discrete, solvable microchallenges. In contrast, ­people live within the web of interrelated complications spanning generations, and ­whether their experiences resonate nationally or internationally hinges in part on the first pillar, their location on the cumulative intersectional axes of oppression and advantage.

Entrenched Power: Betrayals at Town Halls The third dimension of critical environmental justice argues that thinking and acting “beyond the state” is necessary in ending inequalities, h ­ uman and

Climate activists remind ­others why resisting and reducing the extraction and consumption of fossil fuels m ­ atter.

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more-­than-­human hierarchies, and discriminatory practices.10 According to this perspective, the nation-­state’s power is essentially condoning socioecological in­equality and vio­lence, so much so that it is pointless to work with or within an apparatus whose policies and practices are ecologically unsustainable.11 Consequently, social movements “would be best off articulating, developing, and supporting practices, relationships, and institutions that deepen direct democracy” in­de­pen­dent of and greater than the state.12 On the climate crisis in par­tic­u­lar, ­others call for civil society to transcend in thought and action the po­liti­cal economy of carbon,13 and to broaden community contributions for more just, sustainable, and demo­cratic energy sources, decisions, and operations.14 Yet few offer a rapid, large-­scale solution to working around the state in regard to O&G. The state plays a more complicit role in O&G extraction (and agriculture) than it does with smaller industries, such as tourism. The state governs access; and its ability to designate O&G frontiers is a display of its possession and authority regarding territory and subsurface minerals and fuels. When civil society approaches the state with worries about pollution, it is countered by an aggressive corporate lobby to minimize public concern, enact petro-­friendly policies, mobilize antienvironmental sentiment within the state and across civil society, and deploy extraction-­allied politicians and scientists. Residents discover the intertwining of state-­industry power when their land or sea is demarcated as a worksite, zone of extraction, industrial hub, or transportation corridor. In Aotearoa, entrenched power and public betrayal ­were on display at town hall or marae meetings, where ­people witnessed their subordination relative to the industry or the state. At ­these meetings, ­people began to demand participatory democracy when representative democracy was revealed to be lacking, backsliding, or dismissive of their grievances, or when local demo­cratic practices succumbed to national directives. When the public asked commonsense questions, they received few, if any, adequate answers w ­ hether they w ­ ere in groups of fifty or three hundred. Some meetings w ­ ere long on pre­sen­ta­tions and short on Q&A sessions. Some panelists w ­ ere on an elevated stage; o­ thers w ­ ere even with the community audience. At most meetings, residents experienced a slow dawning of something untoward. In one instance, a public employee simplified the situation in case anyone had missed the point by stating that the policy decisions to conduct seismic testing and deep-­sea drilling had already been made. Government agencies w ­ ere in the stage of regulating or mitigating impact with the companies. The meeting was held to inform residents of what would be forthcoming. Although many residents of low-­income nations or communities rarely expect transparent, information-­sharing, and open-­access meetings, t­ hose in wealthier, more demo­cratic places do, yet leave them stunned by the inadequacies of the pro­cess. In this case, many attendees discovered that they w ­ ere invited not to

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inform the state or industry but rather to be informed. Time was insufficient; answers ­were non­ex­is­tent; and participatory spaces for public inclusion ­were lacking. The scarcity of answers was especially vexing given that the industry had been exploring for and extracting O&G for more than a c­ entury. At times it appeared blatant that the representatives’ expertise was in placating the public and public officials, and expanding industry access. Town hall or marae meetings became venues to observe or experience citizen subordination and confrontation. “The central government and the industry have bottomless pockets to resource studies and pay for lobbyists and PR ­people and a wealth of experience through their industry partners in terms of engaging communities in ways that are g­ oing to open communities up [to agreement], rather than close them down,” one community advocate said. “Whereas it is all very new for our communities, and we are comparatively underresourced.” Like oil disasters, town hall meetings uncover how multiple layers of public agencies work to support the industry or act in concert with it to withhold information from citizens and local officials. Each one exposes a community’s naïveté and belief that someone or some agency is working to avoid or contain a mishap or protect local interests, especially in frontier communities. In this way, the experiences of public meetings in the late 1960s endure t­ oday in explaining how “pseudo-­events” with the state and industry are or­ga­nized to sideline local recommendations and withhold “knowledge unfavorable to the Oil interests.”15 Approximately fifty years l­ater, community meetings and landowner negotiations, w ­ hether in Aotearoa or the United States, corroborated past studies on the oil industry’s disproportional influence or “meta-­power.”16 ­Actual meetings w ­ ere messy and rich affairs as residents riffed and improvised off each other, including some who “just wanted a go” at public officials or industry representatives. In recounting one meeting, a resident explained how they poked holes in “expert” knowledge on underwater conditions, thereby displaying their own sense of spatial and temporal risks, which was missing among the “experts”: We asked the EPA [Environmental Protection Authority], Do you know that’s a subduction zone? Do you know the proximity of the subduction zone out ­here to t­ hose blocks? [The EPA responded,] “Uh, no. What’s that?” We had to explain to them what that is, and what it means [that underwater tectonic plates are moving into and against each other]. . . . ​We asked them about earthquakes. And they go, “Oh, drilling ­doesn’t cause earthquakes.” We are not talking about causing earthquakes. I’m talking about if you are drilling a hole, and you have an earthquake, what’s g­ oing to happen to the pipe?!

Given public concerns, residents became popu­lar marine scientists, who possessed a wealth of submersible knowledge and sweat equity that they conveyed

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when trying to educate newcomers, from government officials to international companies, about their “backyard,” or coastal or offshore ­waters. In 2016, their words proved prescient when Kaikoura experienced a 7.8 magnitude earthquake that lifted the coastal seafloor above the w ­ ater line, triggered a tsunami, and led to landslides that closed the coastal road and destroyed part of the rail line. At a dif­fer­ent meeting, the range of confounding and technical issues from the panelists, pushback from informed residents, and subsequent re­sis­tance or silence from the panelists was exasperating. When one person challenged the use of chemical dispersants during a disaster, a panelist referred to a recent tele­ vi­sion report as “short on science and long on drama.” The panelist suggested that chemicals found in oil dispersants ­were also found in ­house­hold products such as shampoo. ­These types of patronizing talking points ­were presented in chapter 7, and w ­ ere also used to downplay the environmental health risks of hydraulic fracturing and fracking fluids. At the meeting, an audience member suggested that by minimizing the risk, the panelist was being disrespectful to families who had lost loved ones following the BP disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Another suggested the nation should be talking about zero-­carbon solutions to climate change. “We are not saving the world through oil,” the attendee argued, advocating that the country should be “creative” and “courageous” in finding climate and energy solutions. Another questioned why the industry had advanced its drilling capacities at a speed not matched by its cleanup capacities. To applause, another stated that “the only guarantee is no drilling.” ­People w ­ ere emotional, and rightfully so, as they appeared to be the only ones connecting the multiscalar and global flow of O&G to potentially harmful consequences. The risks “scare us” and ­were beyond what the community was prepared to face, one told the assembly. Another reprimanded a public employee, “You told us you ­were referees and not ­here for e­ ither side, but you apologize for them [the industry].” Someone ­else told the EPA that it should protect the environment and not serve as a mediator between the two groups (industry supporters and citizen opponents). It was then clarified that the EPA administers the rules and regulations that are de­cided by Parliament, and the public was advised to contact Parliament if they had a concern. To which someone reminded every­one in the room, “But Parliament is not h ­ ere.” This is what “having a go” at officials and industry representatives sounds like. From the vari­ous meetings attended, residents learned that the EPA and Department of Conservation can monitor and try to mitigate impact, but they cannot stop a proj­ect ­unless the com­pany violates consents or permits. When asked directly w ­ hether the Department of Conservation supported oil, a representative replied that an answer could not be provided and that to government agencies O&G was a “legitimate industry.” Once an expert panelist interrupted a string of public questions by asking ­whether the attendees wanted the nation’s GDP to rise and their quality of life to improve as Norway had

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done. Asking such a question revealed how l­ittle the panelist knew of the informed and irritated residents. One person suggested that New Zealand could just as easily compare itself to the ­Middle East or Africa. To which another added that they did not want a better life if it would hurt o­ thers. Elaborating further, the person reminded attendees that Norway had a state-­owned oil com­ pany, unlike New Zealand. To which another interjected that they did not want “a slightly better this or that, while Bangladesh drowns.” In rapid succession, well-­informed residents countered economic promotions with a commonsense global connectedness and call for climate justice. Panelists offered no reply. Eventually, the public’s ultimate question, which received applause and shouts of “hear, hear,” was asked at one meeting: “If we, the p­ eople, say ‘no drill,’ ­will you, the government, support us?” The reply indicated that the government supported them in having input in the pro­cess, but to change the procedures or regulations they had to talk to Parliament. We support you in having input in the pro­cess, but you have to talk to Parliament to change the procedures or regulations. This is when p­ eople heard—­perhaps for the first time—­that petroleum and democracy do not interact well together. Entrenched power meant that a state-­industry alliance had concealed expansion plans ­until it was nearly too late for public input and contestation. Based on my field notes, multinational corporations and the state resembled a tag team with a shared playbook against their perceived opponents, a knowledgeable and engaged citizenry. Th ­ ere was no in­de­pen­dent referee, arbitrator, or public defender. Citizens asked questions that went unanswered. Citizens made deep and linked comments: drilling for oil ­will increase green­house gas emissions; tarnish the nation’s clean, green image; lead to local and global impacts; and not improve the quality of life for p­ eople in Aotearoa. The accurate response was that ­those outcomes w ­ ere pos­si­ble or likely. Therefore no one replied. The panelists shared in the privilege of refusing to answer questions, canceling or never attending meetings, or spending an inordinate amount of time promoting exploration and minimizing risk. Panelists had the benefit of predetermined time limits, stature, decorum, silence, ignoring questions, or redirecting the pre­sen­ta­tion to the points that they w ­ ere prepared to make in their own interests. Every­one ­either knew this from the beginning or learned it by the end of the meeting. When communities sought answers, they found that the corporations and state w ­ ere “setting the pace and the agenda. . . . ​­There’s no information coming out from the com­ pany. It’s just: ‘Take it easy. Y ­ ou’re emotional greenies. Let’s just see if t­ here’s anything ­there.’ ” ­Those who sought direct lines of communication beyond town hall meetings recounted other forms of state subterfuge. According to one, “I contacted the ministry multiple times. And the song and dance, the spin-­around that they

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give you, the time delay that they give you is just uncanny. Th ­ ey’ve got it down to a science. I ­don’t think it’s by accident. I ­don’t think it’s just ineptitude. It’s a science. . . . ​They are masters at r­ unning out the clock.” Meetings on marae w ­ ere another obstacle for some New Zealanders, while town hall meetings ­were an obstacle for ­others. Some p­ eople who ­were not Māori interpreted marae protocols as discouraging public attendance and protecting government or industry interests ­because of the expected etiquette of hosting guests who included the public alongside government and industry representatives. From an outsider’s perspective, “the ministries all take advantage of hiding ­behind the protocol and politeness and need to preserve mana, mana being the life force of a person. That even if they are your adversary, you want to preserve their mana in Māori culture.” While the marae served as a crucial community resource during disasters, for public discussions on O&G, it was on occasion a source of discomfort among ­those who ­were not Māori and felt silenced by unfamiliar cultural expectations. As one Māori explained, “We have a long, long history of debating, negotiating, and compromising with government. . . . ​Unfortunately the locals that came [to the first marae meeting] ­didn’t understand how we work, ­didn’t have that cultural knowledge. And they almost [expressed] that colonial superiority, ‘the natives ­don’t know what they are ­doing’ mentality. And that was coming from our locals, not from government. . . . ​So it was that Western, white, colonial style that damaged that first meeting.” For a Māori or­ga­nizer, every­one in the community was indispensable. To them, inclusivity mattered ­because the prob­lems and solutions ­were not exclusive to Māori: “We de­cided we ­didn’t want to just meet with the minister and com­pany, we wanted to include our ­whole community ­because we knew our community was just as concerned about it as we ­were. . . . ​We argued and fought with the minister and the com­pany to make that meeting public ­because they did not want it public. They just wanted to have a cozy l­ ittle chat with us. They ­didn’t want all ­these ‘green terrorists’ from the community.” I had the opportunity to observe both contentious and cooperative meetings on marae and at town halls. At the end of one marae meeting, a summary of concerns was developed. When a government representative who had taken notes was asked what they would take back to Wellington, they replied, One, you ­don’t want seismic drilling in the area. Two, if something goes wrong, the consequences are too high to the economy, the community, and kaimoana [local seafood]. Three, ­there needs to be more marine mammal protection. And four, sixty-­two questions need to be answered. The “sixty-­two questions” ­were prepared by the local iwi (tribe) and community groups and ­were presented to the government delegates beforehand. Before consenting to ­these messages that would be taken to Wellington, the community vocalized a few more. Someone added that climate change and alternative fuels should be prioritized; and

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another added that access and accuracy of information needed to be provided to the public. At this meeting, a prepared and respectful group of about eigh­ teen government representatives and fifty residents spoke to local, regional, and global concerns. It was an exception to the rule and one of the most courteous meetings on a contentious issue that I had attended, and one that prob­ably reflected the deep re­spect that all sides shared for the host. Yet even if the formal questions ­were answered, they would prob­ably not eliminate the risk of a spill or climate change, ­unless the community succeeded in blocking the proposals nearby and the global community transitioned off O&G quickly. Often t­ hese meetings exposed a double standard on knowledge possession and acquisition between industry and residents, which was aggravated rather than mediated by state officials. The industry possessed technological and geological expertise (a “how to” and “where to” knowledge) but routinely failed or refused to answer practical community questions. In contrast, communities ­were burdened with ­little technical knowledge and the risk of being told their concerns or comments ­were emotional, extreme, or less than substantiated. This point supports studies in Texas in which the O&G industry was found to wield “epistemic privilege,” or a legitimacy of knowledge that had “nothing to do with quality of evidence,”17 or to construct and prolong debates about the uncertainty of harm while overplaying the industry’s certainty on safety.18 While industry and state officials spoke in half-­truths and offered inaccurate statements, they still spoke from a position of authority, expertise, and legitimacy—­ despite their limits, conflicts of interests, and proextraction agenda. In contrast, residents spoke from a position of vulnerability but ­were forced to speak with precision in a technical language they had only begun to learn. For instance, I was corrected at a meeting for environmental journalists in Oklahoma when I asked ­whether the industry’s scientists should have been able to “predict” that earthquake activity could be associated with hydraulic fracturing. My question was not answered by the industry advocate, who chose instead to correct my word choice. I should have said “model risk,” not “predict.” Subsequently, the industry advocate proceeded to lecture every­one in the audience on misusing industry jargon.19 In defense, another attendee replied that the “industry gets bogged down in criticizing journalists and activists.” In a non sequitur, attendees w ­ ere then told that two-­thirds of the jobs in the state came from the energy sector. At the time, I i­ magined the audience with a collective thought b­ ubble above our heads that read, “Thank you for correcting us on our ignorance, but what about the associated earthquakes, ­water contamination, health risks, and vented gases? Any misunderstandings ­there?” Community frustrations build when industry stipulations, hedges, and challenges minimize what their community or other communities have experienced. For them, fracking began, and then seismic activity increased. The volume of industry corrections was often not balanced with equal debate on

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­ hether a ban or moratorium should be imposed u­ ntil the technology was w designed to prevent injury, or u­ ntil cleaner energy sources w ­ ere developed, thereby bypassing the need to increase O&G exploration and extraction altogether. In Taranaki, one group of residents was silenced and demeaned a­ fter using the “wrong” preposition at a public rally. When an activist said that the group opposed drilling on Mount Taranaki, the corporation and council disputed the location of the proposed operation. In retelling the incident, a resident mimicked how a com­pany spokesperson had responded with a stress on the preposition: “They are not drilling on the mountain. They are drilling next to the mountain, and they can drill ­under the mountain. But they are not drilling on the mountain. . . . ​And the council backed them up: ‘The consent is not out on the mountain.’ ” The desired media attention backfired as well, ­a fter it was reported “that the protesters ­didn’t have their facts right,” according to the resident. In this case, Tag Oil had received approval for up to eight exploratory wells within three hundred meters of Mount Taranaki. The Crown interpreted the location as within the Egmont National Park boundary, so “it’s nothing to do with Māori,” the resident explained. However, “for Māori, if it’s on the mountain, it’s on Māori land. It ­doesn’t ­matter where the park boundary is.” This example demonstrates how the pillars of critical environmental justice are interwoven and multiscalar. Māori viewed the mountain as sacred (the state did not) and viewed sacred and tribal lands as extending within and beyond, and beneath and above the topsoil of, national park bound­aries (which w ­ ere drawn by the state but not acknowledged by Māori). The state controlled interpretations (limiting the range of voices and meaning), scale (via the preposition), and timeline (to post-­English settlement “agreements”), which favored industry interests (and access to the fossil fuels near, below, and around the mountain). But back to the preposition. Industry advocates spent time clarifying the preposition and avoiding answering the questions regarding Māori land rights, a mountain’s cultural significance, and the range of socioecological and ecocultural ­hazards. It is then understandable when residents elect not to attend public meetings or when grassroots groups do not want their attendance to be misconstrued as constructive or cooperative engagement. One group chose not to participate in a dubious exhibit of “public engagement” ­a fter having been invited to “debate,” or sit on a panel, with corporate representatives. From their perspectives, the multinational corporations “­don’t have any legitimate morals or license to operate ­here, and we are not ­going to give them any more stage than they already have, so we are not ­going to engage in some public to and fro with them.” ­Others continued to attend meetings even while recognizing their futility. According to one, “­There’s quite a mistrust of data that might be coming from the companies. . . . ​A nd t­ here’s also a feeling that it d­ oesn’t ­really ­matter

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what we say, it’s still g­ oing to happen.” ­Others may have endured too many interactions that sought to minimize or belittle their questions or experiences. Given state-­industry alliances and the state’s jurisdiction of under­g round minerals and fuels, it is an understatement to suggest that stopping O&G expansions by working with or even around the state is difficult. It is incredibly challenging—­yet not impossible. One way to “disrupt” state entrenchment while working with it is to recognize the affected or vulnerable communities of all sentient beings as the only true “stakeholders.” Impact assessments could emphasize traditional rights and uses of first socie­ties, and include community-­ based knowledge on the potentially affected ­people, cultures, wildlife, and ­human and nonhuman habitats. Deliberative public meetings could begin before any decisions are made and could incorporate the right of affected residents and nature advocates to call expert evidence of their own to challenge an applicant’s expertise and to cross-­examine industry or state experts. In this way, impact assessments and decision-­making pro­cesses could be decolonized and community centered, rather than artefacts used to reinforce hierarchy and facilitate extraction. A second way to work beyond the state is to change the ideas and cultures of a place and p­ eople, which is what the long-­running professional groups and newly formed climate contingents ­were d­ oing. Effective social movements typically identify and then construct a norm, and the activities, policies, or practices that support it, as leading to injustices that are able to be righted through collective effort for normative change. Antidrilling activists had constructed the oil industry and the product as problematic in a multitude of ways, and then facilitated civil society’s critical inspection of both. Frontier expansions served as an opportunity to push some of ­these issues. When, for example, government representatives advised residents to speak with Parliament on legislation, ­people did so by electing more members of the ­Labour Party. Subsequently, L ­ abour Party leadership indicated that it had heard the public’s concerns. It identified climate change as one of the primary issues, enacted a zero-­carbon bill, and placed a moratorium on new offshore proposals. Likewise, Māori succeeded in officially designating Mount Taranaki, in addition to a river and a forested area, as a living entity with ­legal rights. Moreover, the government cordoned off part of the ocean as a no-­take zone that would be thirty-­five times larger than the country’s forty-­four other marine reserves and, if fully implemented, would mean that 15 ­percent of the nation’s surrounding ocean would be protected in some capacity.20 ­Later, the government banned single-­use plastic shopping bags. While ­these examples are representative of working within the po­liti­cal system, rather than averting the state’s dominance, each one was built on the idea of practicing kaitiakitanga (environmental guardianship), protecting the country’s cultural taonga (natu­ ral trea­sures), and living with, rather than exploiting, the terrestrial and aquatic environments.

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Expendable: Selecting the Sacrifice Treating all life and life-­bearing habitats as indispensable in their own right and for the collective good is the fourth pillar of critical environmental justice. However, segregated zones of f­ avor and sacrifice may be more common, especially regarding the global extraction of fossil fuels. In the zones of burden, the expendables are the “excluded, marginalized, and othered populations, beings, and ­things” that suffer from the embodiments of structural or ecological vio­ lence.21 ­These exploitable bodies and places are sacrificed for the benefit and protection of more valued ones. In this case, socioeconomic status, generational f­ utures, and global positioning w ­ ere part of the intersectional determination of who was or felt threatened or safeguarded. In one of several switchbacks tracked in this study, the middle-­aged and middle-­class populations of wealthier nations, who had rarely known themselves to be expendable on this scale to anyone or anything, w ­ ere awakened to what had become a global pattern of sacrificing ­people and places to nonlocal interests and decisions. Younger citizens ­were aging with the knowledge that the planet, or their ecological lifeline and subsequently themselves, was being exchanged for O&G t­ oday. Both groups w ­ ere stunned; and both refused to accept an industry-­determined f­ uture. Middle-­class residents considered the depths of vio­lence and shallow margins of justice that had occurred elsewhere, and felt and resisted their own insecurities. Representing a ­middle body of ­people, they ­were better educated than some, less educated than ­others; wealthier than some, poorer than ­others; bigger consumers than some, less so than ­others; and with stronger social capital than some, but weaker capital than o­ thers. They lived in the m ­ iddle; and the ­middle had been a large and comfortable spot to be, especially in OECD nations. Yet during the industry’s third advance, they became the newly and negatively affected. Their false sense of modest privilege and security had been derailed as they watched, and debated, and contested the reordering of their own status closer to that of an exploited class for the quest of O&G. When resources are scarce, power­ful interests reveal the sacrificial position of the ­middle to the m ­ iddle. Previously, the economic and social securities of middle-­class residence had concealed oil’s journey of aggression before arriving near their shores or doors. Across OECD countries, the m ­ iddles’ curiosity grew when they w ­ ere at stake and receded when they w ­ ere rewarded for being passive consumers rather than engaged global citizens. Their way of life and self-­ perceptions ­were threatened for being in the way of O&G deposits. Their newfound understandings of rank had been known all along by many low-­ income communities, especially t­ hose in resource-­rich, low-­income nations. During this phase of exploration, O&G introduced expendability to many middle-­class residents of OECD countries. W ­ hether in the United States or

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New Zealand, middle-­class consumers appeared to discover the threat only when the industry approached or invaded their homes, lifestyles, and neighborhoods. Without individualizing culpability or passivity, the relative advantages of middle-­class stature that had safeguarded them from the world’s circle of poison had gone unquestioned u­ ntil the industry encroached. In New Zealand, the O&G proposals provoked a dawning—­yet tempered—­ consciousness. Rather than opposing the compounded and interlocking injustices associated with O&G for exploited ­peoples and places everywhere, many ­were forced to fight a pro­cess (hydraulic fracturing or offshore exploration) in a par­tic­u ­lar location (domestic farmlands or coastlines), and the subsequent short-­term or long-­term impacts (illness or climate change). Despite the intimate intertwining of production and consumption, some community advocates also maintained divisions between themselves and the global other, complicating a global solidarity against O&G: “I d­ on’t think it is wrong for it not to happen in our backyard, but it to happen in someone ­else’s backyard. I’ve heard and read information which tells me t­ here are enough oil reserves in the world to keep us ­going forever. . . . ​If the reserves are ­there, and they are pumping the oil from t­ here, I’m OK with that. I might not be OK if it’s harming communities in t­ hose areas though, I better qualify that.” Structural privileges of the past allocated by class, citizenship, and ethnicity had made the industry’s global aggressions invisible. During the first and second eras of expansions, middle-­class and Eurocentric privileges meant never being forced to know. Now, the industry’s arrival and expansion exposed New Zealanders to their own varying degrees of expendability. Some fought their direct exposure not as a first round against O&G, but as the only round. For ­others, the experience became a stepping-­stone to a more critical perspective of the industry and a deeper understanding of how privilege and protection had been unevenly distributed in the past. As a c­ ounter to state and industry mechanisms that systematically divide, isolate, overburden, or exploit ­people and communities, some community advocates sought deeper domestic alliances against systemic pressures and inequities. Recognizing their ability to mobilize, some strove for greater degrees of understanding, inclusion, and accommodation. In the words of one, “I have compassion for p­ eople who are not interested in becoming aware. I have compassion for apathy and trust in government, blind trust in pro­cesses, even though pro­cesses d­ on’t r­ eally exist. Y ­ ou’re busy in your own life, u­ nless you see some direct impact. Well, I was asleep. . . . ​Every­one is not g­ oing to have the capacity to care or space in their life to care. Some ­people are just trying to get food on the ­table.” In addition to middle-­class awakenings, networked young ­people shifted from avoiding climate change discussions to joining global protests led by even younger activists. The industry’s role in contributing to climate change and the

Disrupting Oil for Transformative Justice • 205

state’s entrenched indifference to or ac­cep­tance of this real­ity suggested to young ­people that they and subsequent generations ­were designated as inconsequential relative to the industry or the product. At the time, one climate activist criticized older land-­or homeowners who had signed industry access agreements and then complained about the impacts: “They are not worried about climate change. . . . ​They are worried about themselves,” the activist argued. “So I get a bit pissed off t­ hese days.” Some young climate activists strug­gled with saving the planet for the ­people currently on it. “The environmental movement is about trying to ensure that humanity has a f­ uture,” one said. “Then you get yourself into ­these awful situations where you are having this dialogue with ­people, and you realize, you ­don’t actually like them very much [laughing]. And so you won­der, why am I trying to save humanity?” Nevertheless, many environmental and climate activists moderated their voices to reach a wider audience and to include rather than exclude neighbors or other residents. The corporate lobbyists had been so influential in capturing proindustry mind-­sets that to alienate anyone worked in the industry’s f­ avor and against “extremist” views. New Zealand’s climate activists wanted the nation’s 4.4 million ­people to be indispensable to reducing global emissions. They wanted to flip the narrative and make O&G subordinate, irrelevant, and expendable so as to make each other, other species, and the planet central and essential to one another. Yet in another zigzag ­toward achieving something like justice, domestic and global solidarities w ­ ere easier to form across a shared class. Global climate efforts among millennials and members of Generation Z connected young ­people within OECD nations while separating them from equally young ­people born into social and economic insecurities in poorer nations. One of the more poignant constructions of the clash and class of oil and youth solidarity was published in Christchurch’s The Press on a day of national demonstrations against offshore oil exploration.22 One photo­graph featured young Christchurch activists at an after­noon beach rally, wearing swimsuits and covered in molasses to emulate oil risk. The other photo­graph was of an equally young and thin man from the resource-­rich, low-­income nation of Nigeria actually covered in petroleum and soot as he worked selling oil taken illicitly from the vari­ous pipelines. Regardless of the viewer’s position on domestic drilling, ­these images would likely elicit connections between the routes of global production and consumption and the burdens and opportunities encountered along ­those pathways. In this day’s coverage, the editor expanded a consuming public’s discovery and discussion of petroleum for a more critical and globally informed understanding. Neither of ­these would have emerged if the O&G industry had not tried to encroach. Neither would bridge the tremendous differences in obstacles and opportunities within the millennial and Gen Z generations based solely on place of birth.

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Advancing Just Transitions Unlike traditional oil extracting regions or cultures, in which many p­ eople know the language and their place in the industry’s orb of influence, frontier communities and councils in New Zealand resisted the industry’s arrival and interrogated the rationale of O&G expansions. The technologies ­were too complex; the safeguards sounded weak; the impacts appeared extreme; the risks ­were not offset by local benefit; and t­ here was climate change. Once informed, the frontier communities balked at the promises and communal tradeoffs with the same bravery and fear that had been and continue to be exhibited across marginalized communities that seek to disrupt business-­as-­usual arrangements. The industry’s expansion woke slumbering consumers and reenergized discouraged citizens and environmental and climate activists. And even though the O&G industry may be disproportionately power­ful, social movements and community activism are “ultimately the most fundamental pillars of environmental reform.”23 Some communities achieve their objectives by working through participatory demo­cratic efforts; ­others by replacing elected officials; while still o­ thers may negotiate directly with industry, thereby circumventing the po­liti­cal system for their desired goals.24 In each case, citizens remind government agencies to serve them and private corporations to re­spect them. Hess found that energy-­transition co­ali­tions demand “a sociotechnical transition to a low-­carbon energy system; access to affordable energy and good, green jobs; community control over local environments when threatened by fossil-­fuel extraction and infrastructure; and enhanced public participation in the policy pro­cess as well as greater local control over energy generation.”25 When the public demands an energy transition, likeminded politicians gain broader legitimacy and public support. Once New Zealand residents w ­ ere provoked by the arrival of the O&G industry beyond the traditional hub of extraction, they too mobilized for similar demands and a critical oil perspective grew. Citizens became activists or community advocates, aligning at times with established environmental or climate groups for the health and well-­being of sentient beings and their communities and habitats. They called for people-­ centered clean-­energy transitions, climate action for current and f­ uture generations, and more inclusive deliberations and just outcomes. They rejected singly or in some combination the risks of a pro­cess (hydraulic fracturing), a location (offshore), a product (oil), or a crisis (climate change). In short order, their numerous articulations brought to office the ­Labour Party and a young po­liti­ cal leader. The crux was that the per­sis­tence of the old model appeared to moderate the transition. Previous offshore agreements w ­ ere not challenged, but new block offers ceased. Fracking activities crawled along ­because of global supply and demand, not necessarily state policy. The planet continued to warm. And global disparities persisted.

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Nevertheless, New Zealand’s activists and community advocates punched above their weight, or­ga­nized beyond their population, and contributed mightily to the emergent critical oil narrative that demanded energy alternatives, climate action, the inclusion of civil society, and an alleviation of toxic exposure for all living beings, everywhere. As for the f­ uture, two tracks—­and every­thing in between—­still lay before them. The country could become encircled by O&G—­literally, eco­nom­ically, po­liti­cally, and culturally. Or communities could link arms in a campaign of global solidarity to squeeze fossil fuels out of ­future equations. At one rally, an or­ga­nizer advised the public why their participation was impor­tant (and remains critical t­ oday): “Despite what the government says, we are the majority around the world and around Aotearoa. We are the majority fighting for our own coasts, and our environment, and our climate. We are the majority, and that’s why they are trying to remove our rights to have our say, and to have our rights to protest and our rights of privacy. The oil industry is destructive and unsustainable, so now is the time for us to rise up and fight for a f­ uture of climate justice and a clean and sustainable f­ uture. [Applause.]”

Acknowl­edgments I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude to many p­ eople. This work would have been impossible without the generosity and goodwill of every­one who was willing to meet with me and share their insights and experiences, and who invited me to their conferences, public rallies, town halls, and private meetings. For many of them, our first introduction was by email, and they still shared with me their time and wisdom. To every­one who met with me when I knew so ­little about the issues on the ground and at sea, thank you. E ­ very conversation was a tutorial, and I remain a grateful student. Without the support of several scholars in Aotearoa New Zealand, this work would have been impossible as well. They shared pragmatic, intellectual, and cultural advice; suggested contacts; directed me ­toward crucial backstories; wrote letters of support; and shared a meal with me when I traveled from town to town and gathering to gathering. Through it all, they represented the spirit of a global community of social scientists allied with communities and the natu­ral environment. Janet Stephenson, director of the Centre for Sustainability at the University of Otago, in par­tic­u­lar provided me incomparable support from the inception of my research proposal. She facilitated my yearlong stay by offering me work space, connecting me to other academics, and inviting me to professional and community meetings. Without her early assistance, the start of this proj­ ect would have been much more daunting. Katharina Ruckstuhl, who at the time was a se­nior research analyst at the University of Otago, advised me on Māori culture, history, and tradition; cautioned me on the complexities of each one; and facilitated introductions or meetings with several p­ eople in the greater Otago region. I recognize myself then and now as an outsider analyzing a snapshot of affected communities and

209

210  •  Acknowl­edgments

activist networks that responded in a par­tic­u­lar time and place to formidable circumstances. Martin Tolich, founder and chair of the New Zealand Ethics Committee, guided me in culturally appropriate research practices specific to Aotearoa New Zealand. Before arriving, I reached out to Martin and his group to conduct a nationally relevant peer review of my proposal. Even though I have conducted international research proj­ects in the past, this was the first time that I had found a national body to review my proposal for ethical considerations. Their feedback was astute and invaluable, and their specific recommendations are explained in chapter 2. More broadly, the New Zealand Ethics Committee provides other nations an ethical review model that would benefit all international social science research. Manuel Vallee, an environmental sociologist at the University of Auckland, provided me early grounding just a few days a­ fter I arrived, and when I was still quite gaffe prone. And I owe a special thanks to Terrence Loomis, an in­de­pen­dent scholar and author, who stayed in contact over the years and empathized with me in the time it took to complete this work. I e­ ither began or ended our correspondence by explaining why this work was still not finished. He offered encouragement when I felt far removed from the activist community, and when I took some detours to study how community and environmental groups ­were resisting fracking in Florida and how residents of Southeast Florida mobilized against the policies and rhe­toric that followed the 2016 U.S. election. A quick email to Terry and I felt reconnected to the re­sis­tance activities, policy changes, and industry promotions in New Zealand. Words of appreciation are also inadequate for the assistance Peter Mickulas, executive editor at Rutgers University Press, provided. Peter said what needed to be said. He not only told me when a section went off the rails, he showed me with wit. I owe him a tremendous amount of gratitude. And I am grateful to Ashley Moore for her copyediting assistance. I am also indebted to the reviewers, who offered many insightful comments on draft chapters. Each one of them improved this work tremendously. And to the community of sociologists who offered advice and a space to pre­sent my early arguments at the annual meetings of the American So­cio­log­i­cal Association, the Society for the Study of Social Prob­lems, and the Southern So­cio­log­i­cal Society. In addition, I continue to be inspired and heartened by the community of scholars, especially Marina Karides, David Pellow, and Jackie Smith, who advocate for o­ thers and in the interests of o­ thers. And fi­nally, I remain deeply indebted to my early mentors, sociologists Phil Brown, Valerie Gunter, and Steve Kroll-­Smith.

Notes Chapter 1  Which Way Aotearoa New Zealand? 1 Aotearoa is the Māori name of New Zealand, which is the En­g lish name of Aotearoa. Throughout this book, Aotearoa and New Zealand are used singly, interchangeably, and in combination. 2 Clark 2004; C. Tucker 2011. 3 Ministry of Economic Development 2011: 3. 4 See Loomis 2017b; and chap. 4 in this work. 5 “Which Way New Zealand?” was the 2013 conference title of the annual meeting of the Environment and Conservation Organisations of Aotearoa New Zealand. 6 Taranaki Daily News 2014b: 2. 7 Lovelock et al. 2013: 402. 8 C. Tucker 2011: 116, 114. 9 Oram 2007: 174. 10 Oram 2007: 293. 11 Bennett 2004: 3–4. 12 Watts (2004: 274) identifies the importance of discussing oil in terms of its longevity, by using the subhead “Another Oil Story.” 13 See Faber 2008; Peet and Watts 2004; Pellow 2007; Widener 2011b. 14 See Widener 2018b. 15 Widener 2018c. 16 See Selby, Mulholland, and Moore 2010; A. Stephenson 2012a, 2012b. 17 Hess 2018; Pellow 2016, 2018.

Chapter 2  An Allied Ethnography 1 2 3 4 5 6

Brown 2003: 1794; J. Smith 2008: ix. Pellow 2007: 35. Also see Pellow 2014. On “passionate politics,” see Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta 2001. Gullion 2015: 11. Burgess 1991: 107. To protect participant identities, no names or organ­izations are associated with 211

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7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

3 0 31 32 3 3

direct quotes and gender identifiers are omitted. In the absence of a gender-­neutral term, individuals are referenced in the plural they. C. Mills [1959] 2000: 169. Burgess 1991; Glaser and Strauss [1967] 2008; Weiss 1994. J. Stephenson, Abbott, and Ruru 2010. Tuck and Mc­Ken­zie 2015: 633. K. Mills 2009: 679. Martens 2007. Scarce 2005: 213. A. Smith 2010: 36. L. Smith 2012: 1. L. Smith 2012: 217. A version of this section on surveillance was published as a research note in Surveillance and Society (Widener 2016). See Tufekci 2017. Morse 2010a. Morse 2010b: 17. Lee 2010: 57. On how companies sell surveillance equipment to nations to collect data on journalists, activists, and dissidents, see Perlroth 2016. Morse 2010a. Opunake and Coastal News 2014: 5. Pellow 2014: 11. Pellow 2014: 166, italics in the original. Hager and Burton 1999. King 1986. The Five Eyes network formed during World War II as a surveillance-­sharing agreement between Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United Kingdom, and the United States. New Zealand Herald 2014b. Snowden, who was a former National Security Agency systems analyst who leaked U.S. documents and was at the time residing in Rus­sia to avoid extradition, spoke via an online video connection to a gathering in Auckland. Pellow 2014: 220. Pellow 2014: 166. Earl and Kimport 2011. The first time bank was started in the United States in 1980 and became an organ­ization in 1995.

Chapter 3  Dominant and Critical Oil Narratives 1 Many studies focus on specific locations, including Nigeria (Watts 2004, 2014), Ec­ua­dor (Widener 2007, 2009a, 2011b), Canada (Dodd 2012; Marsden 2008; Nikiforuk 2009), Alaska (Haycox 2002), and the Gulf of Mexico (Freudenburg and Gramling 1994, 2011). ­Others explore oil culture (R. Barrett and Worden 2014), offer sweeping global comparisons (Appel, Mason, and Watts 2015), or itemize harms (Epstein and Selber 2002; O’Rourke and Connolly 2003). Still ­others examine specific corporations or associated disasters, including the Exxon Valdez oil spill (Ott 2005; Picou, Gill, and Cohen 1997), Shell in Nigeria (Okonta and Douglas 2001), BP (Lustgarten 2012), and Chevron/Texaco in Ec­ua­dor (P. Barrett 2014).

Notes to Pages 28–34 • 213

2 On the third wave or era of oil extraction, see Widener 2018c. On the third carbon era, see Ladd 2017. 3 Widener 2009a. 4 For this history, see Freudenburg and Gramling 2011: 91–102. 5 Cable 2012. 6 Freudenburg and Gramling 1994: 102. 7 Widener 2013. 8 Marsden 2008; Urry 2013. 9 Helman 2012. 10 Widener 2011a. 11 Hauter 2016: xiv. 12 Hauter 2016: 43, 186. 13 See Widener 2011a, 2011b. 14 Watts 2014: 190. 15 Watts 2014: 191, 207. 16 Watts 2014: 193. 17 See Lambert 1995; Tullett 1981; and Venture Taranaki 2011. 18 Lambert 1995: 12. See Fischer 2012 on the expectation of financial support among British settlers, who received farmlands and government assistance when in conflict with Māori. 19 Lambert 1995: 50. 20 See Tullett 1981. 21 Tullett 1981: 82. British Petroleum, or BP, began as the Anglo-­Persian Oil Com­pany in 1909 with an office in E ­ ngland and oil in Iran. 22 Tullett 1981: 317. 23 Tullett 1981: 75. 24 Lambert 1995: 15. 25 Tullett 1981: 71. 26 Tullett 1981: 87. 27 Tullett 1981: 88. 28 Lambert 1995: 50. 29 For accounts of oil work as adventurous, see Car­ter 2007a, 2007b, and Laskas 2012. 3 0 Tullett 1981: 86. Between 1865 and the mid-1970s, seventy-­eight wells w ­ ere drilled in the Taranaki region (Tullett 1981: 71, 317). 31 See Venture Taranaki’s 2011 report on the fields, operators, and production. 32 Tullett 1981: 90. 3 3 Puke Ariki 2008: 166. 3 4 Tullett 1981: 90. 3 5 Venture Taranaki 2011: 21, 23. 36 “Beyond Taranaki” was the conference theme of the 2012 New Zealand Petroleum Summit. For “Texas of the South Pacific,” see Loomis 2017b. 37 Australian Associated Press 2012. 3 8 Bradley 2011. 39 Ministry of Economic Development 2011: 3. 4 0 Loomis 2017a: 4. 41 Parliamentary Commission for the Environment 2014. 42 Huber 2014: 233. 4 3 Szeman 2019. Also see Wilson, Carlson, and Szeman 2017.

214  •  Notes to Pages 34–46

44 For aquar­iums, see Jorgensen 2014. For disasters, see Dodd 2012. For tourism, see Widener 2009b. For oil towns, see Freudenburg and Gramling 1994. For schools and health clinics, see Widener 2011b. For museums and monuments, see R. Barrett 2014; and LeMenager 2014. 45 Cable 2012: 123. 4 6 Gould, Pellow, and Schnaiberg 2008; Hooks and Smith 2004. 47 Widener 2015. 4 8 Widener 2011b; Cable 2012; Watts 2004: 279–280. 49 “Paradox of plenty” (Karl 1997); “resource curse” (Renner 2002); “violent environments” (Watts 2004). 50 Karl 1997. 51 Cable 2012; Friedman 2009; Ross 2001. 52 Renner 2002. 53 Cable 2012: 194–195. 5 4 Loomis 2017b. 55 Cable 2012: 188. 56 Allen 2003; P. Barrett 2014; Epstein and Selber 2002; Horo­witz 2007; Lerner 2005; O’Rourke and Connolly 2003; Tamminen 2006. 57 Tamminen 2006: 13. 5 8 Horo­witz 2007. 59 Brown 1992; Gunter and Kroll-­Smith 2007. 6 0 Michaels 2006: 158. 61 Michaels 2006: 158. 62 Watts 2014: 207.

Chapter 4  Oil at the Bottom of the World 1 Briggle 2015; Freudenburg and Gramling 1994; Gullion 2015; Widener and Gunter 2007. 2 Shriver, Adams, and Messer 2014: 290. See also Cable, Shriver, and Hastings 1999. 3 Pellow 2014: 166. 4 Molotch 1970: 131. 5 Hudgins and Poole 2014: 305. 6 Vannini, Waskul, and Gottschalk 2012. For visual sociology, see Becker 1974; and Harper 2012. 7 Letter to the editor, Taranaki Daily News, March 21, 2014, 10. 8 Letter to the editor, Taranaki Daily News, March 5, 2014, 8. 9 See Dodd 2012: 140; Katz-­K imchi and Atkinson 2014; and Macdonald and Silverstone 1992. 10 I visited the Puke Ariki museum, as well as industry visitor centers and exhibits at the Marsden Point Oil Refinery in Northland and the Maui Gas Field and Methanex facilities in Taranaki. 11 See Hollard 2011; R. Tucker 2010. 12 The advertisement appeared in the Taranaki Daily News, February 28, 2014, 16. 13 Visited March 2014. The center was built in 2012 as an educational platform for the Parininihi Marine Research and the Tapuae Marine Reserve. 14 New Zealand Oil & Gas 2014: 2. 15 Penwarden 2014. 16 Karauria 2014.

Notes to Pages 47–55 • 215

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 3 0 31 32 3 3 3 4 3 5 36 37 3 8 39 4 0 41 42 4 3 4 4 45 4 6 47 4 8 49 50 51 52 53

See Freudenburg and Gramling 2011; and Lustgarten 2012. Hauter 2016: 135, 141. Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE) 2014: 67. Desplaces 2012. PCE 2014: 63. For an ­earlier paper on landfarming in New Zealand, see Widener 2018c. Brooks 2012; PCE 2014: 57; J. Tucker 2014. PCE 2014: 62. Clarifications on waste and waste disposal are based on chapter 7 of the PCE report. PCE 2014: 59. Ewing 2013b. See also J. Tucker 2014: 225. J. Tucker 2014: 225; Ewing 2013a. Ewing 2013c. See also J. Tucker 2014: 221. PCE 2014: 7. PCE 2014: 64. Ewing 2013b. PCE 2014: 7. Ewing and Harper 2013. Fischer 2012: 117, 120. Also see Belich 2001; B. Campbell 2011; Veys 2010. Taranaki Daily News 2014a. Tuuta 2014. Fischer 2012: 284. Fischer 2012: 287. Martin 2015. See Waitangi Tribunal 2003. Oram 2007: 131. In Transparency International’s annual Corruption Perceptions Index, New Zealand consistently ranks in the top spot, sometimes shared with Denmark or Finland. The United States ranks around sixteenth. Cox 2007. For greater detail on specific reforms, see Loomis 2017b: 77–89. Peart 2009: 211–212. The Ministry for the Environment was established in 1986, followed by the Department of Conservation in 1987. Hansford 2012: 26. See Peart 2009: 212. J. Hayward 2002: 212. J. Hayward 2002: 212–213. Loomis 2017b: 87. This section on the Local Government Act is based on Loomis 2017b: 87–89. Loomis 2017b: 88. Loomis 2017b: 88, italics in the original. This quote is based on Department of Internal Affairs, Report on the Local Government Efficiency Taskforce, Wellington, December 2012. PCE 2014: 6. The United States declared its EEZ rights in 1945; Aotearoa followed in 1978; and the U.N. formalized the EEZ in 1994. When New Zealand marked its EEZ, Māori rights ­were not addressed, leading to a Waitangi Tribunal hearing that established that Māori had traditional knowledge, use, customs, and economies associated with the marine environment (Field 2014: 77–79).

216  •  Notes to Pages 55–65

5 4 Venture Taranaki 2011: 74. 55 Vance 2013a, 2013b. 56 Petition 2011/32 of Simon Boxer on behalf of Greenpeace New Zealand (6 December 2013) as reported by the Local Government and Environment Committee. Available on the New Zealand Parliament, or Pāremata Aotearoa, website: https://­w ww​.­parliament​.n ­ z​/­en​/­pb​/s­ c​/­reports​/­document​/­50DBSCH​ _ ­SCR6027​_­1​/­petition​-­201132​-­of​-­simon​-­boxer​-­on​-­behalf​-­of​-­greenpeace. 57 G. Taylor 2014. 5 8 The specifics of the Crown Minerals Act are based on Loomis 2017b: 83–85. 59 Frankham 2012a: 4. 6 0 Ruckstuhl et al. 2013: 17. 61 Ruckstuhl et al. 2013: 17.

Chapter 5  License to Criticize 1 R. Barrett and Worden 2014; Beamish 2002; Dodd 2012; Freudenburg and Gramling 1994; Hamilton, Safford, and Ulrich 2012; Jorgensen 2014; Widener 2009b, 2011b. 2 Brown 1992; Corburn 2005. 3 Dodd 2012; Epstein and Selber 2002; Ladd 2018; Lustgarten 2012; O’Rourke and Connolly 2003; Ott 2005; Picou, Gill, and Cohen 1997; Tamminen 2006. 4 Clarke 1990: 65. 5 Exxon Valdez Oil Spill Trustee Council 2009: 10. 6 Exxon Valdez Oil Spill Trustee Council 2009: 10–12. 7 Barkham 2010. 8 Perrow 1999: a reference to the book’s title. 9 Picou, Gill, and Cohen 1997. 10 Widener 2015. 11 Beck 2010: 261. 12 Bishop 2014; Freudenburg and Gramling 2011. 13 Haycox 2002: 144. 14 Dodd 2012. 15 Dodd 2012: 174, 175. 16 Dodd 2012: 166. 17 Dodd 2012: 148. 18 Much of this maritime account is based on John Julian’s Black Tide (2012) and Simon Murdoch’s official incident report (2013). Their accounts are supplemented by the Maritime New Zealand’s reports, the New Zealand Herald, and the New Zealand Geographic. 19 Julian 2012. 20 A. Whare 2011: 13. 21 Murdoch 2013: 41. 22 Julian 2012: 101. 23 Murdoch 2013: 98. MNZ led the response, but t­ here w ­ ere many other in-­nation organ­izations that provided critical ser­vice. For a list, see Julian 2012: 110. 24 Warne 2012b: 72. 25 Electronic Chart Display and Information Systems was made mandatory in 2008 by the International Maritime Organ­ization. It would have been installed in Rena by mid-2017 (Julian 2012: 49).

Notes to Pages 65–77 • 217

26 A photo­graph of this public mural was published in Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: i. 27 An excerpt of a poem spoken at a public event, in Raglan, November 16, 2013. 28 See Maritime New Zealand for a timeline: https://­w ww​.­maritimenz​.­govt​.­nz​ /­public​/­environment​/­responding​-t­ o​-­spills​/­spill​-­response​-­case​-­studies​/­rena​.­asp, last accessed July 27, 2020. 29 Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: 70. It is a reprint of McPherson 2011. 3 0 Murdoch 2013: 77. 31 Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: 22. Volunteers and paid cleanup crew collected approximately 1,050 metric tons of oil waste. 32 Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: 22. 3 3 A. Whare 2011: 13. 3 4 See Peart 2009. 3 5 Julian 2012: 100. 36 On disaster and the crisis of state legitimacy, see Brunsma, Overfelt, and Picou 2010; Gunter and Kroll-­Smith 2007; Solnit 2009; and Tierney 2014. 37 Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: 21. 3 8 Fraser, de Monchy, and Murray 2012: 25. 39 Brunsma, Overfelt, and Picou 2010; Dodd 2012; Haycox 2002; Solnit 2009. 4 0 Brown 2007. 41 Picou, Gill, and Cohen 1997. 42 See Murdoch 2013: 52. 4 3 Picou, Gill, and Cohen 1997. 4 4 Widener and Gunter 2007. 45 Parker and Grossman 2012: 13. 4 6 Rena Recovery Newsletter 2012. 47 New Zealand Herald 2014a. A pipi picker collects bivalves. 4 8 A. Stephenson 2012a: 163. 49 A. Stephenson 2012a: 166. 50 A. Stephenson 2012b: 93. Also see Stephenson 2012a: 166. 51 See Dodd 2012. 52 Mooallem 2013: 54. 53 Theunissen 2011. 5 4 Public event, Raglan, November 16, 2013. 55 Frankham 2012a: 4; Frankham 2012b: 4; Warne 2012b: 80. 56 New Zealand Herald 2011a. 57 Public comments on New Zealand Herald 2011a. https://­w ww​.­nzherald​.­co​.­nz​ /­opinion​/n ­ ews​/­article​.­cfm​?c­ ​_­id​=­466&objectid​=1­ 0758104. Accessed May 31, 2013; written in October 2011. 5 8 Public comments on New Zealand Herald 2011b. “Be reasonable,” http://­w ww​ .­nzherald​.­co​.­nz​/­profile​/­comments​-­by​.­cfm​?­user​=1­ 05762&page​=­29. “How on earth,” http://­w ww​.­nzherald​.­co​.n ­ z​/­profile​/­comments​-­by​.c­ fm​?­user​=­38102&page​=1­ . “The reaction was,” http://­w ww​.­nzherald​.­co​.­nz​/­profile​/­comments​-b­ y​.­cfm​?­user​ =­896&page​= ­0. Accessed August 21, 2013; written by the authors in October 2011. 59 Hogan 2013: 4. 6 0 Revington 2013: 19. 61 John Wathen, New Zealand Oil ­Free F ­ uture conference, Dunedin, January 11, 2014. 62 See the transcript of the Green Party’s “Kiwi Bid” launch and press release at

218  •  Notes to Pages 77–84

63

6 4 65 66 67

68

https://­thedailyblog​.­co​.­nz​/­2013​/­05​/­28​/­whats​-­the​-­kiwi​-­bid/ (last accessed July 27, 2020). “Maritime Transport Amendment Bill, Exclusive Economic Zone and Continental Shelf (Environmental Effects) Amendment Bill—­Third Readings,” New Zealand Parliament, transcript of sitting date October 15, 2013, https://­w ww​ .­parliament​.­nz​/­en​/­pb​/h ­ ansard​-­debates​/­rhr​/d­ ocument​/­50HansD​_­20131015​ _­00000016​/­maritime​-t­ ransport​-­amendment​-­bill​-e­ xclusive​-­economic​-z­ one. J. Tucker 2014: 230. Murdoch 2013: 73. Migone, Bowen, and Carson 2011. “Be a Tidy Kiwi” was a national campaign reminding New Zealanders to pick up ­a fter themselves. Dodd 2012: 142, italics in original.

Chapter 6  Marine Justice 1 2 3 4 5 6

Watts 2014: 192. Greenpeace 2012: 12. Venture Taranaki 2011: 74. Brake and Peart 2015: 81. New Zealand Herald 2010b. See Widener 2018b for the first development of ­these concepts. I use both sociology and sociologies to express a range of so­cio­log­i­cal perspectives and to emphasize distinct frameworks or lenses. 7 Cameron 1961; Cocco 2013; Hannigan 2015, 2017; Kolodziej-­Durnaś 2014; Longo and Clark 2016; Widener 2018b. 8 For marine sociology, see Cameron 1961; Longo and Clark 2016; and Widener 2018b. For maritime sociology, see Cocco 2013. For sociology of oceans, see Hannigan 2017. 9 As urban sociology is distinct from environmental sociology, coastal sociology is distinct from marine sociology. 10 For culture, see Cameron 1961; Kolodziej-­Durnaś 2014; and Longo, Clausen, and Clark 2015. For environmental sociology, see Hannigan 2017; and Longo and Clark 2016. For geopolitics, see Hannigan 2015. For l­ abor, see Cocco 2013; and Kolodziej-­Durnaś 2014. For po­liti­cal economy, see Hannigan 2015, 2017; and Longo and Clark 2016. For social constructionism, see Hannigan 2017; and Steinberg 2001. For aquaculture and commercial fishing, see Bavington 2010; and Longo, Clausen, and Clark 2015. For offshore O&G extraction, see Dodd 2012; Freudenburg and Gramling 1994; and Widener 2018b. 11 Cocco 2013: 16, italics in the original. 12 For journalists, see Field 2014. For biologists, see Earle 2014. For geographers, see Steinberg 2001. For thinkers, captains, and activists, see Helvarg 2006, 2015; and Moore and Phillips 2012. 13 Earle 2014: 98. 14 On “ocean imperialism,” see Cameron 1961: 4; and Skladany, Belton, and Clauson 2005: 14. 15 Statistics New Zealand 2016: 5. 16 Field 2014: 59, 202. Also see Field 2014: chap. 9. 17 Field 2014: 80. 18 Field 2014: 125.

Notes to Pages 84–91 • 219

19 20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29 3 0 31 32 3 3 3 4 3 5 36 37 3 8 39 40 41 42 4 3 4 4 45 4 6

47 4 8 49 50

Frankham 2011: 37. Earle 2009: 17–18. Freudenburg and Gramling 1994. Helvarg 2006: 220. Ingersoll 2016: 6. Peart 2009: 65. Also see O’Brien 2013. The Foreshore and Seabed Act is informed by Bess (2011) and T. Whare (2010). The foreshore is the intertidal zone that is dry at low tide and submerged at high tide. The seabed is completely submerged and includes the ­water, underwater land surface, and subsurface below the seafloor. Murton 2006: 26. Bess 2011: 91. A. Smith 2010: 34. For the sea migration story, see Fischer 2012: 105–106. For Māori Indigeneity, see Somerville 2012: 205. New Zealand Oil ­Free ­Future conference, Dunedin, January 11, 2014. Ingersoll 2016: 81, 3–7. Ingersoll 2016: 5. Ingersoll 2016: 6. A. Stephenson 2012b: 89, 90. Steinberg 2001: 54, italics in original. A. Stephenson 2012b: 90. See Hooks and Smith 2004 on land-­based “treadmill[s] of destruction.” Bavington 2010. McKinley and Fletcher 2012. See Gunter and Kroll-­Smith 2007 on history as tradition or as harbinger of environmental re­sis­tance. Jacinda Arden, speech at UN General Assembly, New York, September 27, 2018. For the transcript, see Newsroom 2018. See Clements 1988; Greenpeace 2013; and Zelko 2013. The po­liti­cal party was first named the Values Party before being renamed the Green Party. Clements 1988: 66–67. Steve Abel, speech at a public rally, Raglan, November 16, 2013. In 2013, the Green Party proposed a symbolic c­ ounter offer, the “Kiwi Bid,” to outbid corporations in acquiring block offer permits. Diprose, Thomas, and Bond 2016: 166. “Maritime Transport Amendment Bill, Exclusive Economic Zone and Continental Shelf (Environmental Effects) Amendment Bill—­Third Readings,” New Zealand Parliament, transcript of sitting date October 15, 2013, https://­w ww​ .­parliament​.­nz​/e­ n​/­pb​/h ­ ansard​-­debates​/­rhr​/d­ ocument​/­50HansD​_­20131015​ _­00000016​/­maritime​-t­ ransport​-­amendment​-­bill​-­exclusive​-­economic​-z­ one. O’Brien 2013. Many—if not all—of t­ hose interviewed about this case remarked admiringly on the influence of Te Whanau a Apanui ­lawyer Dayle Takitimu. Morton 2012. Petition 2011/32 of Simon Boxer on behalf of Greenpeace New Zealand (6 December 2013) as reported by the Local Government and Environment Committee. Available on the New Zealand Parliament, or Pāremata Aotearoa, website: https://­w ww​.­parliament​.n ­ z​/­en​/­pb​/s­ c​/­reports​/­document​/­50DBSCH​ _ ­SCR6027​_­1​/­petition​-­201132​-­of​-­simon​-­boxer​-­on​-­behalf​-­of​-­greenpeace.

220  •  Notes to Pages 91–105

51 Loomis 2017b. 52 “Deep Sea Oil Drilling,” Greenpeace brochure, received September 2013, in the author’s possession. 53 Ruckstuhl et al. 2013: 4. 5 4 K. Mills 2009. 55 K. Mills 2009: 683. 56 Selby, Moore, and Mulholland 2010. 57 New Zealand Herald 2010a. 5 8 “Keep Our Seas Oil ­Free,” Greenpeace brochure, undated, likely published around 2013, in the author’s possession. 59 John Wathen speaking via Skype at the Oil F ­ ree F ­ uture conference, Dunedin, January 11, 2014. 6 0 “Anadarko Announces Settlement with BP,” Anadarko news release, October 17, 2011. 61 G. Campbell 2013. 62 Public event, Raglan, November 16, 2013. 6 3 “Keep Our Seas Oil ­Free.” Also see “Deep Sea Oil Drilling.” 6 4 Utiger 2014. 65 Gardner 2013: B5. 66 Bob 2005. 67 Gardner and Smallman 2013: 1. 6 8 Gardner and Smallman 2013: 1. 69 Tamminen 2006: 29–30, citing Save Our Shores: Florida’s Shores at Risk (Tallahassee, FL: Florida Public Interest Research Group, 2006). 70 McAdam and Boudet 2012. 71 See Zelko 2013. 72 New Zealand Herald 2013: A5. 73 Public talk by Rachel Shaw at the Oil ­Free ­Future conference, Dunedin, January 11, 2014. Also see “New Zealand Oil Spill Map,” Greenpeace, accessed June 29, 2020, http://­oilspillmap​.o­ rg​.­nz​/­. 74 Small 2013: A18. 75 See Hannigan 2014 on ideal type and social construction. 76 Buttel 2003. 77 Letter to the editor, New Zealand Herald, October 11, 2013, A28. 78 Solomon 2006: 210. 79 Ngāi Tahu owns shares in Whale Watch. 8 0 Dangerfield 2013. 81 See J. Stephenson 2010. 82 Revington 2013: 19. 8 3 Widener 2018b. 8 4 J. Stephenson 2010: 156. 8 5 A. Smith 2010: 28. 86 Te Korowai o Te Tai o Marokura (Kaikoura Coastal Marine Guardians). Undated. “Te Korowai o Te Tai o Marokura’s Position in Re­spect to Resource Prospecting and Mining.” This four-­page position paper was provided to the author and other attendees at the Ngāi Tahu Tribal Wānanga, Mining, Oil and Gas Activities in the Takiwā (a meeting on new O&G proposals at Puketeraki Marae). October 4, 2013. 87 Reid 2015.

Notes to Pages 105–118 • 221

88 Slooten quoted in Reid 2015. 89 Goldbogen et al. 2013. 90 Slooten quoted in Green 2015. 91 Slooten quoted in Forest & Bird 2014. 92 Hogan 2013: 4. 93 Hogan 2013: 4. 94 Dangerfield 2015. 95 See Gould 2017. 96 Before ­Silent Spring (1962), Rachel Carson wrote ­Under the Sea Wind (1941), The Sea around Us (1951), and At the Edge of the Sea (1955). Sylvia Earle contributed Sea Change (1995), The World Is Blue (2009), and Blue Hope (2014). 97 Costello and Ballantine 2015. 98 Department of Conservation 2014: 5. 99 Department of Conservation 2014: 5. 1 00 “New Marine Protected Areas for Kaikoura,” press release, Ministry of Primary Industries and Department of Conservation, March 16, 2014, http://­w ww​.­doc​ .­govt​.­nz​/­news​/­media​-­releases​/­2014​/­new​-­marine​-­protected​-­areas​-­for​-­kaikoura​/­. 1 01 Goldbogen et al. 2013. 1 02 R. Barrett 2014; Jorgensen 2014; Stimeling 2014; Stoddart and Graham 2018; Widener 2009b, 2011b. 1 03 Wicksten 2015. 1 04 See Hauter 2016. 1 05 Widener 2011b. 1 06 For climate, environmental, and food justice, see Agyeman, Bullard, and Evans 2003; Brown 2007; Pellow 2007, 2018; Pellow and Brulle 2005; and Roberts and Parks 2007. 1 07 Lloyd, Newlands, and Petray 2016: 54. 1 08 Walker 2011. 1 09 Helvarg 2006: 266; Helvarg 2015. 1 10 Pellow 2014. 1 11 Oil ­Free Wellington demonstration at the Second Petroleum Summit, Wellington, September 18, 2013.

Chapter 7  Mobilizing the ­Middle 1 Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE) 2012: 27; J. Tucker 2014: 206. 2 PCE 2012: 5. 3 PCE 2014: 5, 9. 4 PCE 2012: 5. 5 PCE 2012: 5; J. Tucker 2014: 209. 6 J. Tucker 2014: 207. 7 PCE 2014. 8 Evensen and colleagues (2014: 136) note that fracking is a word tinged with confusing and contentious meanings and argue for social scientists to carefully consider appropriate word se­lection. Also see Widener 2018c. 9 Widener 2018a, 2018c. 10 See Appel, Mason, and Watts 2015 on “subterranean estates.” 11 See Keck and Sikkink 1998 on the boomerang effect of transnational advocacy.

222  •  Notes to Pages 118–130

12 Briggle 2015; Gullion 2015. 13 See Gold 2014. The annual meetings of the Society of Environmental Journalists include industry and community tours and panels on O&G technologies and impacts. I attended the meetings in Lubbock, Texas (2012); New Orleans (2014); and Norman, Oklahoma (2015). 14 See Petroleum Exploration & Production Association of New Zealand undated; PCE 2012: 27; and J. Tucker 2014: 206. 15 See Boudet et al. 2016; Briggle 2015; Gold 2014; Gullion 2015; Hauter 2016; Ladd 2014, 2018; Malin and DeMaster 2016; Willow 2014; and Willow and Wylie 2014. 16 See Brown 2007; and Hofrichter 2000. 17 See Briggle 2015; Gullion 2015; Hauter 2016; and Ladd 2018. 18 Briggle 2015: 150. 19 Gullion 2015: 173. 20 Hays and Shonkoff 2016. 21 Mc­Ken­zie et al. 2014: 412. 22 Casey et al. 2016: 163. 23 Casey et al. 2016: 172. 24 Gold 2014: 30. 25 Society of Environmental Journalists annual meeting, Norman, Oklahoma, 2015. 26 Craig Scott Rosebraugh, dir., Greedy Lying Bastards (New York: Disinformation, 2012). 27 J. Tucker 2014: 209. 28 Brooks 2012: 5, 7–8. 29 Desplaces 2012: 9. 3 0 Gunter and Kroll-­Smith 2007. 31 See Gullion 2015. 32 Rubinstein and Mahani 2015: 1063–1064, citing ­others. 3 3 Rubinstein and Mahani 2015: 1061. 3 4 Rubinstein and Mahani 2015: 1060. 3 5 See Gold 2014; and Rubinstein and Mahani 2015. 36 Society of Environmental Journalists annual meeting, Norman, Oklahoma, 2015. 37 PCE 2014: 26. 3 8 Harvey 2012. 39 Brooks 2013. 4 0 Freudenburg and Gramling 1994; Haycox 2002. 41 Hastings Oil and Gas symposium, Hastings, October 2, 2013. 42 Abbie Jury, “Tikorangi News 3: September 8, 2013,” Tikorangi the Jury Garden (blog), September 8, 2013, https://­jury​.­co​.­nz​/­2013​/0 ­ 9​/­08​/­tikorangi​-­news​-­3​ -­september​-8­ ​-­2013​/.­ 4 3 Rilkoff 2013a. 4 4 Rilkoff 2013b. 45 PCE 2014: 7, 5. 4 6 Malin and DeMaster 2016: 278. 47 Malin et al. 2019: 1811, italics in the original. 4 8 This account has been paraphrased. ­Under the Crown Minerals Act, a landowner could block access but it would require all landowners to agree. If they agreed to block access, a com­pany would be forced to get consent through several layers of government. 49 Briggle 2015; Gullion 2015. 50 PCE 2012: 76.

Notes to Pages 130–145 • 223

51 52 53 5 4 55 56 57 5 8 59 6 0 61 62 6 3 6 4 65 66 67 6 8 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 8 0 81 82

Kregten 2012: 1. Widener 2011b. Rilkoff 2013b. PCE 2014: 11. PCE 2014: 11. For “accidental activists,” see Hauter 2016: 151. For “reluctant activists,” see Gullion 2015: 22. For “themselves . . . ,” see Gullion 2015: 11. Willow 2014: 245. See Widener 2018c. Keck and Sikkink 1998. “No mining, no drilling, no fracking, enough!” was chanted outside the 2013 Second Petroleum Summit in Wellington. “Ka Nui! Enough!” was the title of the 2012 Extractive Industries Counterconference in Rotorua. See Widener 2018c; Willow and Wylie 2014. PCE 2014: 38. PCE 2014: 5, 7. PCE 2014: 9. Brooks 2012: 10. Kregten 2012: 2. See de Rijke 2013 on the Lock the Gate Alliance. Brown 1992, 2007; Corburn 2005; Gullion 2015; Gunter and Kroll-­Smith 2007; Lerner 2005. See also Ladd 2018; Widener 2018a, 2018c. Jaspal, Turner, and Nerlich 2014: 505. Hannigan 2014: 185. Vasi et al. 2015. J. Tucker 2014: 207. PCE 2014: 9; J. Tucker 2014: 207. Jaspal, Turner, and Nerlich 2014: 502. See Buttel 2003; Gullion 2015; and O’Rourke 2004. PCE 2014: 6, 56. Brooks 2013: 12. Brooks 2012: 11. See Buttel 2003; McAdam and Boudet 2012; Widener 2011b, 2013. New Zealand Herald 2012. Baker 2017.

Chapter 8  Tainting a Clean, Green Image 1 Tourism New Zealand 2009. See also Rudzitis and Bird 2011. 2 C. Tucker 2011. 3 Pure Advantage, “Green Growth NZ’s Best Change for Wealth—­Pure Advantage,” press release, July 8, 2011. 4 Greenpeace 2013: 6. 5 Greenpeace, “Our Greatest Natu­ral Resource is Kiwi Ingenuity,” undated brochure, received 2013. 6 Steve Abel, public demonstration, Raglan, New Zealand, November 16, 2013. 7 Quentin Duthie, “Oil and Coal Permits Threaten National Parks,” press release, Forest & Bird, May 3, 2011.

224  •  Notes to Pages 145–157

8 “Maritime Transport Amendment Bill, Exclusive Economic Zone and Continental Shelf (Environmental Effects) Amendment Bill—­Third Readings,” New Zealand Parliament, transcript of sitting date October 15, 2013, https://­w ww​ .­parliament​.­nz​/­en​/­pb​/h ­ ansard​-­debates​/­rhr​/d­ ocument​/­50HansD​_­20131015​ _­00000016​/­maritime​-t­ ransport​-­amendment​-­bill​-e­ xclusive​-­economic​-z­ one. 9 Hogan 2013: 4. 10 Brooks 2013: 10. 11 Organic NZ, “Toxic Fracking Waste Entering Food Supply?,” press release, June 6, 2013. 12 Stewart 2012. 13 Manhire 2012. 14 Warne 2012b: 85. 15 Oram 2007: 290. 16 Prepared speech for then–­prime minister Helen Clark to be given at the centenary of the proclamation of New Zealand’s dominion status, September 26, 2007, https://­w ww​.­beehive​.g­ ovt​.­nz​/­speech​/c­ oncepts​-­nationhood. 17 Oram 2007: 32. 18 A summary of the Global Green Economy Index (GGEI) for 2011 is still available at: http://­w ww​.­toposophy​.­com​/­insights​/­insight​/­​?­bid​=­229 (retrieved 17 August 2020); The Global Green Economy Index for 2012 is available h ­ ere: https://­w ww​.g­ reengrowthknowledge​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­fi les​/­downloads​/r­ esource​ /­Green​_ E ­ conomy​_ ­Index​_ ­Dual​_­Citizen​.­pdf (accessed 17 August 2020). 19 Etsy et al. 2006; Emerson et al. 2012. 20 Morton 2015. 21 Joy 2011. The comment from a resident in Canterbury was submitted online on April 26, 2011, and accessed by the author on November 7, 2012. It is no longer available online. 22 Rudzitis and Bird 2011: 18. 23 Brooks 2013: 13. New Brunswick, Canada, had announced ninety-­seven new rules to govern O&G, including double well casing and closed tanks for wastewater storage. 24 Marsden 2008; Nikiforuk 2008. 25 “It’s Not Easy Seeming Green: A Backlash to New Zealand’s Vow of Purity,” Economist, March 23, 2010. 26 Pearce 2009. 27 Sargeant 2014: 13. 28 Letter to the editor, Taranaki Daily News, March 17, 2014, 8. 29 Shriver, Adams, and Cable 2013: 873. 3 0 Luke et al. 2018. 31 Potter 2011. 32 Letter to the editor, “They Too Need Oil,” Waikato Times, November 28, 2013, 16. 3 3 Letter to the editor, “What You Thought,” Waikato Times, November 21, 2013, 5. 3 4 Oil ­Free Otago, “We All Drive ­Don’t We?,” undated brochure, received 2014. 3 5 McKibben 2016: SR4. 36 The phrase “feeling a bit u­ nder siege” was said by a participant at the ECO conference, Coromandel, New Zealand, November–­December 2013. 37 Selby, Mulholland, and Moore 2010: 1. Translations added in brackets. 3 8 A. Stephenson 2012b: 89. 39 A. Stephenson 2012a: 165. 4 0 Brake and Peart 2015: 79.

Notes to Pages 157–166 • 225

41 Brake and Peart 2015: 80. 42 Brake and Peart 2015: 80. 4 3 “MANA Party Policies: Environment and Energy Policy,” Mana Party, Accessed on June 1, 2013: http://­mana​.­net​.­nz​/­policy​/.­ 4 4 Ministry of Economic Development 2011: 4. 45 Rixecker and Tipene-­Matua 2003: 252. 4 6 Cheng 2017. 47 “Innovative Bill Protects Whanganui River with ­Legal Personhood,” New Zealand Parliament, March 28, 2017, https://­w ww​.­parliament​.­nz​/­en​/­get​-­involved​ /­features​/­innovative​-­bill​-­protects​-­whanganui​-r­ iver​-­with​-­legal​-­personhood​/­. It is believed to be the first river granted l­ egal personhood.

Chapter 9  Reviving Climate Activism 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Steve Abel, Greenpeace, public rally, Raglan, New Zealand, November 16, 2013. Urry 2011: 157. Urry 2011: 157. Beck 2010: 259, 264. Ulrich Beck’s theoretical framework on climate change informs this chapter. Betram 2010: 142. Norgaard 2011. Environmental defenders and cultural leaders in Norway have begun rejecting Statoil’s economic and cultural dominance and their own role as a “billboard” for the oil com­pany (Fountain 2014: B1). Bangs 2008: 19. Ministry of Economic Development 2011: 1. Parliamentary Commission for the Environment 2014: 8. Urry 2011: 15, citing Anthony Giddens. Dispensa and Brulle 2003: 74. Jiang, Sharp, and Sheng 2009. Murphy and Murphy 2012: 265. Mobil Oil New Zealand 2011: 2–3; David Cohen, “No Nukes Is Good Nukes? Ten Years ­A fter, Kiwis Soften Stance,” Christian Science Monitor, June 17, 1997, http://­w ww​.c­ smonitor​.­com​/­1997​/­0617​/­061797​.i­ ntl​.­intl​.­3​.­html. Climate Justice Aotearoa, Climate Justice in Aotearoa: A Climate Change Re­sis­tance Handbook, undated, received 2014, p. 13. Warne 2012a: 76. In 2006, 52 ­percent of New Zealand’s GHG emissions came from methane and nitrous oxide in 2006 as a result of its agricultural land use, livestock, and animal waste (Jiang, Sharp, and Sheng 2009: 70–71). Salinger 2014. Salinger 2014. Morton 2013: 7. Murphy and Murphy 2012: 265. Murphy and Murphy 2012: 267. Davison 2013: A5. “Canada and New Zealand Tie for the Infamous Colossal Fossil 2012 Award,” Climate Action Network International, December 7, 2012, http://­climatenetwork​ .­org​/­press​-r­ elease​/­canada​-­and​-­new​-­zealand​-­tie​-­infamous​-­colossal​-­fossil​-­2012​-­award.

226  •  Notes to Pages 166–189

26 Karl Mathiesen, “Jacinda Ardern Commits New Zealand to Zero Carbon by 2050,” Climate Home News, October 20, 2017, https://­w ww​.­climatechangenews​ .­com​/­2017​/­10​/­20​/­jacinda​-­ardern​-­commits​-­new​-­zealand​-­zero​-­carbon​-­2050​/­. 27 See Ciplet, Roberts and Khan 2015; Hemphill 2016; and Roberts and Parks 2007. “Flaxroots” is the term sometimes used in New Zealand for “grassroots,” or locally grown activism, and is based on the ubiquitous native flax plant. 28 Hemphill 2016: 168. Also see Dunlap and Cohen 2016. 29 Generation Zero tour, What’s the Holdup?, Tauranga, New Zealand, July 30, 2013. 3 0 Ungar 2000. 31 Braverman 2016: 10. 32 McKibben 2010: 99, italics in the original. 3 3 Royal Forest and Bird Protection Society 1989. 3 4 J. Taylor 1998. 3 5 Greenpeace New Zealand, action alert, email, November 15, 2016. 36 Carolan 2010. 37 B. Hayward 2008. 3 8 B. Hayward 2008: 59. 39 Kleres and Wettergren 2017. 4 0 Kincaid and Roberts 2013. 41 For the oil industrial complex, see Widener 2011b. For the carbon complex, see Urry 2013: 188. For the carbon-­industrial complex, see W. Stephenson 2015: 133. 42 On industry efforts to manufacture climate doubt, see Banerjee et al. 2015, 2018. 4 3 See Beck 2010 on climate risk and contested knowledge. 4 4 Hopkins 2015: 947. 45 McKibben 2010: 169. See also Marino 2015. 4 6 Social Justice Commission of the Anglican Church in Aotearoa, New Zealand and Polynesia 2011: 14. 47 Parker and Grossman 2012: 14. 4 8 West Coast Wildlife Centre, Franz Josef, New Zealand, visited December 2013. 49 On similar studies that found confusing museum displays or exhibits, see Katz-­K imchi and Atkinson 2014; Macdonald and Silverstone 1992; and Widener and Rowe 2018. On “blameless phenomenon,” see MacKendrick 2010: 140. 50 With several undergraduate students, I attended the third (2018) and fourth (2019) annual King Tide tours, or­ga­nized by ­Temple Solel and the Sea Level Rise Solutions group in Hollywood, Florida. 51 Parliamentary Commission for the Environment 2015. 52 Royal Society of New Zealand 2017. 53 Diprose et al. 2017: 500. 5 4 Diprose et al. 2017: 496. 55 Quoted in Diprose et al. 2017: 500. 56 Beck 2010. See also Ciplet, Roberts, and Khan 2015. 57 Climate Justice Aotearoa, Climate Justice in Aotearoa, 4. 5 8 Coates 2013: A11. 59 Generation Zero, email correspondence, November 6, 2019.

Chapter 10  Disrupting Oil for Transformative Justice 1 Hess 2018; Pellow 2016, 2018; Pellow and Brulle 2005. 2 Banks 2014: 194.

Notes to Pages 189–206 • 227

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Urry 2011: 16. Pellow 2018: 19. On “more-­than-­human,” see Pellow 2016: 223. Tuck and Mc­Ken­zie 2015. Raglan, New Zealand, November 2013. Pellow 2018: 14. Widener 2009a: 31. On flows, see Spaargaren, Mol, and Buttel 2006. Widener 2009a: 39. Pellow 2018: 22. Pellow 2018: 23. Pellow 2018: 24, italics in the original. Magdoff and Foster 2011: 93. Hess 2018. Molotch 1970: 139–140. On the oil and gas industry’s “meta-­power,” see Malin et al. 2019. Gullion 2015: 134, 138. Briggle 2015: 193. Society of Environmental Journalists annual conference, Norman, Oklahoma, 2015. The Environmental Defence Society was instrumental in documenting the country’s past and potential management practices for sustainable seas (see Brake and Peart 2015; and Peart 2009). Pellow 2018: 26. Also see Farmer 2003; Rees and Westra 2003; and Widener 2015. Referencing the issue of The Press, February 17, 2014. Buttel 2003: 306. See also Hess 2018. Gullion 2015: 98–99. Hess 2018: 185.

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Index Abel, Steve, 88, 145 activist campaigns: Banners on the Beach, 15, 110; Break ­Free, 182; Hands across the Land, 134; Hands across the Sands, 100; Lock the Gate, 134, 136; Save Our Surf, 112; Save the Reef, 112 advocacy: anti-­oil extraction, 17, 189, 192–193; middle-­class, 138; pro-­oil extraction, 5, 28, 37, 41, 46, 189; science, 98; transnational, 118 Alberta, 27, 135, 150 allied ethnography, 6, 12, 25 ally: activist, 10, 12, 97–98, 136; generational, 170, 181; po­liti­cal, 20; pro-­industry, 37, 59; research, 12. See also allied ethnography Anadarko: Deepwater Horizon, 94–95; exploration, 59, 93, 96–97, 99, 106, 115; office, 93; public meeting, 101; re­sis­tance to, 81–82, 90, 93, 109–111; risk perception of, 77, 95–96, 98 Antarctica, 2, 87 antinuclear, 1, 87–88, 143, 162 Ardern, Jacinda, 4, 114, 166 Auckland, 13–14; anti-­oil groups, 89; climate change groups, 166, 169; divestment campaign, 182; Greenpeace, 19–20, 87 Australia: climate change, 178; comparison, 31, 55, 135–138, 163, 177; hydraulic fracturing, 27, 134–136; media, 136–137; oil spill, 61, 98; proximity, 2, 135; Rena, 64

Bailey, Emily, 19–20, 46 Bay of Plenty, 59–60, 64, 66, 82, 174, 178; Regional Council, 67 Bennett, Raewyn, 72 BP, 29; oil spill, 7, 59, 64, 73–77, 94, 105, 108, 197; surf rescue, 45–46 Briggle, Adam, 118, 120 Britain, 3, 16, 28–29, 31, 61 Brown, Phil, 12, 210 Cable, Sherry, 34, 35 Canada, 3, 46, 53, 63, 73, 78, 135–136, 150, 165; tar sands, 27, 250, 166 carbon: emissions, 155; feeder, 164; low or lower emissions, 6, 144, 163–166, 173, 186, 206; neutrality, 4, 114, 162; regulatory carbon capture, 163; sequestration, 163; tax, 163; zero emissions, 5, 166, 185, 197, 202 Cheung, Catherine, 46 Chevron, 29 China, 145, 162; corporations, 29; dairy imports, 149 Christchurch, 89, 155, 205; climate change, 179; earthquake, 91, 125; fracking ban, 142 Clark, Helen, 4, 148, 162–163 clean, green: economy, 145, 147, 151; energy, 145–147, 169, 206; image, 1–3, 5, 9, 12, 143–154, 160–161, 186, 198 climate change: activism, 4, 10–12, 160–168, 171–173, 180–186, 194, 205, 216; amendment act, 163; crisis, 4, 6, 10, 161, 172, 183–184, 195; science, 174, 186 245

246  •  Index

climate organ­izations: Climate Action Network, 166; Climate Justice Aotearoa, 183; Climate Justice Taranaki, 46, 117, 166; Climate Real­ity, 170; Generation Zero, 166, 169, 181, 185; Power Shift, 166, 169; Rising Tide, 166; 350​.­org, 154, 166, 170, 182; 350 Aotearoa, 89, 166, 169 Coast Care, 67 contamination, 4, 29, 37, 124, 135; of beach, 78; dairy, 49; re­sis­tance to, 189; risk of, 96; w ­ ater, 120–121, 135, 200 corporate sponsorship, 34, 41–44, 108; BP, 45 critical advocacy research, 12 critical oil (narrative, paradigm, perspective), 5–6, 27, 50, 97, 156, 186–189, 206–207. See also dominant oil Crown Minerals Act (CMA), 57 cultural capture, 37, 40–44, 59, 79, 109, 118, 124, 138–139, 152 dairy: climate change, 165, 172; exports, 32, 147; Fonterra, 48; oil, in relation to, 38, 49, 127, 131, 149, 190–191; prob­lems, 149–150; Taranaki, 40, 43, 48, 50. See also landfarming Dannevirke, 117, 129 Delahunty, Catherine, 74, 95 Denmark, 64, 163 Department of Conservation (DOC), 54, 92, 197 divestment, from fossil fuels, 181–182 documentaries: Bidder, 70, 136; Gasland, 117, 136–137; Greedy Lying Bastards, 121; Operation, 8, 19 Dodd, Susan, 62–63, 79 dolphins, 83–84, 100–101, 105–106, 114 dominant oil (narrative, paradigm, perspective, worldview), 5, 27, 33–36, 59; anti–­greens, 74; global, 161, 188; language of, 33, 41, 164; supporters, 34; re­sis­tance to, 58, 79, 114, 138. See also critical oil Dunedin, 13, 82, 109–111; anti–­oil, 36, 110; climate change, 146, 179, 182; conference, 77; divestment, 182; pro-oil, 90, 110. See also public meetings Earle, Sylvia, 84–85 earthquakes: Christchurch, 91, 125; fracking, 123–125, 135; Kaikoura, 197; risk, 196, 200

East Cape, 74, 81–82, 89, 99, 103–104, 109 East Coast, 33, 49, 81, 90, 135 embedded seascapes, 102 Emissions Trading Scheme (ETS), 163 energy democracy, 10, 188–189 Environmental Defence Society, 56, 89, 157 environmental health, 27, 30, 186–189, 192, 197 Environmental Protection Authority (EPA), 55–56, 81, 196–197 eras of petroleum extraction: global first and second waves, 28, 62, 85, 188; global third wave, 27–30, 34–35, 133, 186, 189; New Zealand first wave, 30–31; New Zealand second wave, 32, 63; New Zealand third wave, 10–11, 16, 32, 39, 50–51, 63, 89, 109, 116, 126, 147 Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ), 55–57, 81, 84, 91, 93, 99–100, 103 Exxon Mobil, 29, 34, 81 fishing: commercial, 51, 83–85, 94, 100–101, 107; overfishing, 43, 156; rights, 84, 91; vessel wrecks, 61 focusing event, 7, 60, 62, 73 Forest & Bird, 56, 89, 145; Royal Forest and Bird Protection Society, 171 Franz Josef Glacier, 179 generations: climate, 169; ­f uture, 30, 57, 67, 92, 96, 105, 113, 144, 156–157, 205–206; intergenerational worry, 180–181; knowledge across, 18, 71, 86, 102, 104, 136, 192; oil consumption, 4, 39; pride, 147; younger, 143, 150, 161 Gisborne, 130 green­house gases (GHGs), 3, 11, 26, 107, 109, 161, 171, 181, 198 greenies: identity of, 74, 153, 173; opposition to, 9, 53, 143, 151–153, 173, 198; terrorist, 97 Green Party, 74, 89, 95, 132, 145, 151, 153, 175 Greenpeace, 151, 153, 165; climate change, 172; defense of the sea, 81–82, 89–90, 94–95; flotilla, 7, 57, 91–92, 96, 152; history, 87, 113; ideal type, 97–99; inter­view, 17; Māori co­ali­tion, 7, 57, 91–92; U.N. Law of the Sea, 56; public rallies, 88, 145; Rainbow Warrior, 19, 20; Rena, 74 Greymouth Petroleum, 127

Index • 247

Gulf of Mexico, abandoned platform, 108; cleanup, 68; extraction, 30. See also oil disaster, at sea: Deepwater Horizon Gullion, Jessica Smartt, 118, 120 Hastings Oil & Gas Symposium, 122–123, 126, 128–129, 135 health risks, 30, 37, 119, 189; generational, 142; hydraulic fracturing, 120, 122, 197, 200; inheritance toxins, 61, 78, 189, 192; oil spills, 66–68 Hess, David, 10, 188, 206 Hogan, Ralph, 76, 106, 145 Hughes, Gareth, 74, 77, 89, 145 hydraulic fracturing (fracking): first-­ fracked, 9, 117–120, 134–139, 141; fracking vulnerable, 9, 117–118, 136; fracktivists, 117, 120, 131–132, 139, 142, 191; Lock the Gate campaign, 129, 134, 136. See also contamination; earthquakes; landfarming; Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE): recommendations impact assessment, 6, 105–106, 120–122, 202; community-­led, 81, 118, 187; environmental, 56, 111; health, 37, 48; marine mammal, 105 industrial spread, 119, 125–126, 138, 192 industry. See dairy; fishing; timber; tourism institutional review board (IRB), 16–17 intersectionality, 187, 189–193, 203 justice: Aotearoa, 9, 144, 156, 158, 187; climate, 95, 161, 169, 173, 183–185, 198, 207; critical environmental justice, 10, 188–189, 192–193, 201, 203; environmental, 9, 49, 112, 120, 133, 157, 159; energy, 186; generational justice, 186; global, 183–184; marine, 9, 80, 82, 95, 112–114; transformative, 186; systemic, 6 Kaikoura, 13, 82, 89–90, 99–104, 107–109, 191, 197; Kaikoura Coastal Marine Guardians (Te Korowai o Te Tai o Marokura), 99, 104–107; Kaikoura District Council, 106; marine management, 107; No Drill Kaikoura, 76, 89, 99–100, 106, 147 kaimoana (seafood), 70, 77, 79, 85–86, 102, 155, 199

kaitiakitanga (guardianship), 9, 57, 144, 156–159, 181, 202; marine environment, 80–81, 87, 92; Rena volunteer, 67; Resource Management Act, 54. See also Justice: Aotearoa Key, John, 4, 147, 149, 163 Kyoto Protocol, 163 ­ abour Party, 4, 85, 114, 162, 166, 202, 206 L land: claims, 130, 140; confiscations, 31, 51 landfarming, 48–49, 119, 140, 147, 149, 154, 191 legislation, 7, 39–40, 50, 52, 68, 85, 113, 142, 157, 202 Local Government Act, 54–55 Maketū, 64, 66, 72 Mana Party, 157 Māori Party, 85, 157 marae, 199; cultural significance, 103; during disaster, 69, 72–73, 103, 189, 195–196, 199; protocol, 72–73, 199. See also public meetings marine justice. See justice marine literacy, 86, 104, 114 marine protected area (MPA), 107 Maritime New Zealand (MNZ), 64–66, 68, 74, 76–78, 95 maritime sacrifice zones, 114 McKibben, Bill, 154, 170, 177 middle-­class, 9, 27, 118, 130, 133–134, 138, 187–188, 203–204; middle-­status, 118, 134, 136, 141 Ministry of Energy and Resources, 106; minister, 163 Motiti, 64, 69, 71 Mount Maunganui, 13, 64–66 Mount Taranaki, 43, 159, 201–202 multiscalar global flow, 193 National Institute of ­Water and Atmospheric Research (NIWA), 165 national park, 125, 154, 201 Nelson, 89, 148 New Plymouth, 32, 41–42 news media: Guardian, 150; Economist, 150; New Zealand Geographic, 57, 148, 164; New Zealand Herald, 14, 74, 100; Otago Daily News, 14; The Press, 205; Taranaki Daily News, 14, 95

248  •  Index

New Zealand Ethics Committee (NZEC), 16–18, 210 New Zealand Oil & Gas (NZOG), 46 Ngāi Tahu, 76, 100, 102 Nigeria, 29–30, 111, 205 Noble Bob Douglas, 93–97 Norgaard, Kari, 162 Northland, 89, 106, 115 Norway, 28, 30, 197–198 not in my ocean (NIMO), 7, 97 not in planet ocean (NIPO), 97 offshore exploration, 1–2, 6–7, 52; history of, 28, 32–33; moratorium, 5, 114, 190, 202; national re­sis­tance, 69, 73–79, 86–91, 99–107, 156, 190; permits, 5, 33, 78, 81. See also eras of petroleum extraction; Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ); marine justice; oil disaster, at sea oil basins, 33, 49, 81, 93–96, 115 oil disaster, at sea: Deepwater Horizon, 7, 27, 47, 56, 59–63, 73–82, 94, 100, 105, 175–176; Exxon Valdez, 28, 61–62, 68, 70; Ocean Ranger, 62–63; Rena, 2, 7, 13–14, 59, 69–70, 78–79; Torrey Canyon, 61 Oil F ­ ree groups, 89; Oil ­Free F ­ uture, 86; Oil F ­ ree Otago, 46, 89, 109, 154; Oil ­Free Seas, 96; Oil ­Free Wellington, 89 Oklahoma, 2, 54, 118, 124, 135, 200 OMV, 61, 115 opportunity spaces, as visual and sensory spaces, 34, 40–41, 97, 101, 108, 191 Oram, Rod, 3, 148–149 Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD), 15, 27, 37, 118, 138, 141, 184, 189, 203, 205 Otago, 82, 84, 90, 109–110, 112; Canterbury Basin, 94; University of Otago, 57, 209. See also news media; Oil ­Free groups; Progas Otago Pacific Ocean: climate change, 178, 184; nuclear testing, 20, 87–88; p­ eople, 16, 85, 166, 182, 184; Ring of Fire, 2, 125; South Pacific, 1, 3, 26, 33, 80, 86, 109 Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE): climate change, 163, 179; consent, 55, 140; hydraulic

fracturing, 116–117, 119; landfarming, 49; recommendations, 125, 127, 131–133, 135, 137–138, 190; regulatory capture, 47 Pellow, David, 10, 12, 22, 188–189, 219 Pennsylvania, 2, 135–136 Penwarden, Rosemary, 46 Petrobras, 91–94, 111, 115; community meeting, 73, 90–91; exploration, 59–60, 82, 96–97; re­sis­tance to, 7, 81, 90–92, 99, 103, 109 Petroleum Act, 31, 51, 58 Petroleum Action Plan, 4, 163 Petroleum Exploration & Production Association New Zealand (PEPANZ), 119, 123 place: attachment, 73, 148, 158; critical inquiry, 15, 58, 190 port, 110; Taranaki, 43, 97, 141; Tauranga, 63, 69; traffic, 43, 64, 155 Progas Otago, 109–110 public meetings, 14, 38, 78, 89, 147; entrenched power, 189, 193–196; invite-­only, 111–112; observations of, 14, 53, 72, 189, 193–196, 199. See also marae Pure Advantage, 145 Raglan, 15, 89, 84 Rainbow Warrior. See Greenpeace regulations, 32, 52–53, 63, 198; hydraulic fracturing, 120, 131, 137; industry-­ friendly, 5, 39, 47, 49, 65, 87, 111, 149; marine, 84, 87, 107–108 regulatory capture, 7, 35, 39–41, 47, 50, 128, 131; carbon, 163 Rena, 2, 7, 13–14, 59, 69–70, 78–79; Deepwater Horizon comparison, 75; history, 63–64; marae, 72–73; oil spill, 16, 75–76, 145; perception of government response, 60, 65–66, 72, 76–77, 90, 95; wreck, 7, 178. See also focusing event; port; risk referents; volunteers Resource Management Act (RMA), 52–55, 92, 164 risk referents, 60, 73–76 river, cultural importance, 18; pollution, 149–150; rights, 159, 202; ­W hanganui, 159 Roberts, Sarah, 127, 139, 153

Index • 249

Royal Dutch Shell, 29, 34, 59, 82, 90, 115; public meeting, 111; re­sis­tance to, 97, 109; support for, 82, 109; WOMAD, 41, 43 Sandy Bay Ecological Reserve, 43 Saudi Arabia, 1, 80 security culture, 22, 24 settlements: BP, 94; Māori, 51, 58, 109, 178, 201; Settlement Claims Act, 92, 100 Shell Todd Oil Ser­vices (STOS), 43, 111 shock motivator, 7, 60, 65 Slooten, Liz, 105–106 Smith, Jackie, 12, 210 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, 18 Smith, Mike, 97, 139 social license, 45, 60, 65, 79, 131 Society of Environmental Journalists (SEJ), 118 Solomon, Mark, 76, 102 Statoil, 115 Stephenson, Ata Brett, 72, 86, 156 Stephenson, Janet, 102, 104, 209 submersible knowledge, 7, 104, 196 support troop, for industry, 44, 58–59, 121, 125, 144 surveillance, 6, 12, 19–23, 25 sweat equity, 7, 25, 60, 66, 68–69, 196 TAG Oil, 46, 152, 201 Takitimu, Dayle, 219n48 taonga, 7, 16, 31, 39, 54, 85, 148, 156–157; capital, 7, 57–58, 81; cultural, 7, 57–58, 79, 81, 202 Taranaki, 3–4, 6–7, 13, 47, 54, 83, 89, 108, 152, 171; hydraulic fracturing, 9, 116–119, 129, 134, 138–140; oil and gas history, 30–33, 39, 51, 126; region of sacrifice, 89, 141–142, 190–191. See also cultural capture; dairy; industry, landfarming; New Plymouth; news media; Parliamentary Commission for the Environment (PCE): recommendations; port; regulatory capture; Venture Taranaki Taranaki Regional Council, 48–49, 121 Taylor, Gary, 56 Terrorism Suppression Act, 19, 21

Te Urewera, 159 Te Whānau ā Apanui, 90, 92, 97 Texas, 1, 54, 200; hydraulic fracturing, 2, 118, 133; negative image of, 33, 135, 138 Thunberg, Greta, 168, 183 tikanga, 130 Tikorangi, 127 timber, 19–20, 32, 64; climate change, 164, 177; pro-­and anti-­logging sentiment, 20; traffic, 155 time bank, 24–25 Todd Energy, 41 tourism, 63, 107–108, 179, 191, 195; ally economies, 59, 107–108; corporate sponsorship, 34; ecotourism, 99, 126; king tide, 179; negative impacts to, 38, 94, 106, 131, 145, 186; 100% Pure, 1, 143, 147; toxic, 140, 179; w ­ hale watching, 13, 82, 90, 100–101 town hall meetings. See public meetings toxin, 28, 120, 136; inheritance toxins, 61, 78, 189, 192; toxic alliances, 40, 47. See also contamination; environmental health; health risks Treaty of Waitangi (Te Tiriti o Waitangi), 50–51, 54, 91, 157, 185; agreements, 31; rights, 84, 92, 178; settlements, 58, 92; Waitangi Tribunal, 51, 58, 85 United Nations (U.N.): climate conferences, 166, 168; Cancun climate summit, 168; Convention on the Law of the Sea, 56; Copenhagen climate summit, 10, 150, 160, 166, 168–169, 171; Doha climate summit, 166; General Assembly, 87; recognition, 4 United States, 17, 34; climate change, 163–166, 175, 183; coastal culture, 85; disaster, 61, 73, 79, 100; hydraulic fracturing, 9, 27, 117, 122–125, 128, 135, 190; oil and gas history, 28–30, 36, 119; surveillance, 19 U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), 124 Venture Taranaki, 46, 55, 123 volunteers: oil spill cleanup, 7, 60, 66–69, 71, 73; WOMAD, 43–44

250  •  Index

Warne, Kennedy, 148, 164 Wathen, John, 77, 94 Watts, Michael, 30, 37, 80 Wellington: Anadarko, 93; anti-­oil groups, 89; climate change, 166; divestment, 182; offshore activity, 93; rally, 8, 11, 115, 132, 167; Parliament, 106, 199 Whale Watch, 100–101, 106

World of M ­ usic, Arts and Dance (WOMAD), 41–44 Wright, Jan, 132 youth, clean and green, 143; climate change, 4, 161, 166–170, 181, 183, 187; cultural capture, 44; global, 205; Rena, 70 Zero Carbon: Act, 166; Bill, 185

About the Author PATRICIA WIDENER is an associate professor of sociology at Florida Atlantic Uni-

versity and author of Oil Injustice: Resisting and Conceding a Pipeline in Ec­ua­dor. She conducts allied qualitative research to advance an understanding and practice of climate, environmental, and marine justice, and to shed light on the socioecological risks of oil from its extraction to waste disposal. Currently, she is researching the impacts of extractive marine economies and regenerative aquatic practices among coastal communities and marine advocates. When in residence in Florida, she conducts regional studies on climate change and activist campaigns. Before studying sociology, she worked as a journalist for six years in Bangkok, Thailand, and throughout Southeast Asia.