Engineering Reality: The Politics of Environmental Impact Assessments and the Just Energy Transition in Colombia 3031406427, 9783031406423

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Engineering Reality The Politics of Environmental Impact Assessments and the Just Energy Transition in Colombia Cornelia Helmcke

Engineering Reality

Cornelia Helmcke

Engineering Reality The Politics of Environmental Impact Assessments and the Just Energy Transition in Colombia

Cornelia Helmcke Centre for Energy Ethics University of St Andrews St Andrews, UK

ISBN 978-3-031-40642-3 ISBN 978-3-031-40643-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

El Quimbo valley, La Honda, looking north, in 2012 (taken by the author)

El Quimbo reservoir, former Veracruz, in 2017 (taken by the author)

Resisting the Dam

La Honda in Huila, South of Colombia, on 13 September 2012 La culebra se mata por la cabeza (The snake is killed at its head.)

The motorcyclist drove us around a bend of the dirt road and up a little hill. Having just left the busy streets of the township of Gigante, the sight of the green valley that now appeared in front of us was refreshing. This valley, formed by the upper stream of Colombia’s longest river, the Magdalena River or Yuma (river of friends), is surrounded by lush green hills and provides home to tropical dry forest and the most fertile lands of the region. Following my colleague Juan Carlos from a local non-governmental organisation and his driver on the other motorbike, we make our way down the eastern hills. On the entrance to the valley, we approach a little wooden cabin on the side of the road from which a rope is spun across the path, blocking our entry. The two drivers stop and greet the men guarding the entrance. They introduce me and my colleague. At the moment of our visit, the people of La Honda, a farming compound within the municipality of Gigante, do not allow any strangers into the valley. Local fisherfolk and farm workers have reclaimed the productive lands after farms had been sold to make

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space for the hydroelectric dam in the process of construction some kilometres further downstream and are suspicious of any strangers asking questions, afraid of sharing information that later could be used against them. This is what the unarmed guards tell me once we found shelter from the increasing rainfall under an improvisational set-up canopy close to the entrance. Soon more people of the resistance join us. My colleague and I introduce ourselves to a dozen men and women, explaining that we are not there to gather personal information or information about their movement, that I was there to understand the loss suffered through forced displacement. As a German female student from Lund University, Sweden, I partook in a student-led excursion to this part of the world and combined it with an internship at the NGO Casa de la Memoria and with fieldwork for my Master dissertation project. It was my second time in Colombia. One year earlier, I had spent six months accompanying civil society organisations working in the mid-basin of the Magdalena River—the very conflictive region of the Magdalena Medio. I learned about the complexities of land and recourse conflicts, forced internal displacement and the diverse forms of violence persistent in the country. Upstream, the region of central Huila had been comparatively peaceful in the previous years. Residents recall the trust that existed. Families left their houses leaving the doors open, children played on the streets without worry. The peacefulness in the valley was interrupted in 2007 when strangers appeared undertaking a demographic census. Residents and local workers were unsure about the purpose of the census and feared that if they give away too much information about their assets and incomes, their taxes might increase. This census turned out to be one of the central baseline studies of the Environmental Impact Assessment of the El Quimbo dam project. Since then, strangers came and went, leaving sometimes hope, more often despair. The company staff lies, saying they would help. Sometimes we are blind to it. But we have already the experience from last year when they promised to some fisherfolk five hectares of productive land and a house each. Within three months, they would get it if they retract from the river and the

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resistance and sign the agreement. Since then they have been waiting. Tomorrow, tomorrow they are told, it will happen here or there, that it depends… At the end they are left with nothing.

Most of the people hiding now under the canopy listening in are fisherfolk and agricultural workers. Few of them own land but all of them have been living with the land and its water streams for most parts of their lives. They fear that the dam reservoir will not only flood their form of subsistence, but their home (tierra), their social fabric (tejido social ), their roots (raizes ). One fisherman says, “I have spent my life along this river… We have our roots here, our ancestors are here”. And an agricultural worker adds, “We see the land and what it can produce in terms of life. It is frustrating, arduous, and sad to see that this will be lost not just to us but everyone”. The official compensation for each worker without property would be a three-month payment calculated based on the former income, while the compensated party participates in a professional training programme (capacity building; capital semilla—seed capital). This form of compensation causes widespread frustration. Former participants claim that they would learn how to plant corn (maíz), how to grow coriander (cilantro). They do know how to do this, what they lack is land to do so. And the payment? The payment does not support building up a new livelihood: “We have to start from scratch”. The private energy company Emgesa (part of the transnational Enel Group) started the dam construction in late 2008, months before the Environmental Licence was granted (May 2009). These presumable exploration works—the replacement of sediments, as well as initiating land price negotiations—left its impacts soon after. By 2012, with the river re-directed and the dam construction in full force, the valley had entered a stage of decline. We are in paralysis, we have no work, no food anymore. The current does not allow the fish to move upstream any longer. There is no fish to catch. The landlords leave the harvest on the trees. We used to bring in cacao every two weeks, now the fruits fall to the ground and rot away... The company has not complied with the Environmental Licence. Before impacting the livelihood, people should have been compensated, should have been moved and provided with employment. We have been in resistance for so long, but nothing has happened – everything is in favour of the multinational.

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The company negotiated first and foremost with the large landowners, who (seeing not many alternatives) agreed on a selling price and moved away; most of them to their already existent urban residence. This left smallholders and workers on these farms in an even weaker negotiation position. One fisherman uses the phrase: “La culebra se mata por la cabeza”. If you get the head, you do not have to worry about the rest. This would also apply to the company’s strategy to deal with the social mobilisation against the dam. “The people with the biggest mouth, those that brought forward criticisms, were directly bought and as such closed their mouth”. The energy company staff would have roamed around the farms for far too long now, officially to gather information about the livelihood assets in place to update the census, but informally seeking out weaknesses and internal conflicts to destabilise the communities. “Many people have been infiltrated, even our own people, who say that they are on one’s side… If even the ones you know go against you, you have a deep distrust to everyone”. And a friend adds, “We had families and friendships here, now they are broken”. Confronted with this presence and pressured to sign papers of agreements with the company, the remaining workers in La Honda chose to control the access of people into the valley and resist their displacement. Already in February, some months before my visit, it came to violent clashes along the river in which the riot control police evicted fisherfolk and destroyed their huts. After my return to Sweden, it came to further forced evictions. This book is dedicated to all those families that have and still struggle with forceful displacement in Colombia. I especially thank those who have welcomed me into their lives and shared with me their stories in La Honda and Gigante in 2012, and in Rioloro, Nueva Veracruz, El Hobo, Garzón, El Agrado, La Galda, Llano de la Virgen and Neiva in 2016 and 2017. I thank my friends and colleagues at the civil society organisation Casa de La Memoria and the South-Colombian University for their constant support and for helping me find a second home in Colombia. My gratitude goes to all the members of Asoquimbo, Rios Vivos, as well as of municipal and provincial offices who opened their doors and took the time to talk to me. This book would not have been possible without the guidance, confidence and patience of Professors Esben Leifsen and John-Andrew

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McNeish, and the support of my colleagues at Noragric, Norwegian University of Life Sciences, as well as at the School of Geography and Sustainable Development at the University of St Andrews. Finally, I thank my partner and family who have provided stable grounds for me to undertake this research and writing endeavour. This book is for all of you.

Contents

Part I Setting the Scene 1

Introduction 1.1 Yuma—River of Friends References

3 9 12

2

The Power of Water 2.1 Damming the World’s Rivers 2.2 Hydroelectricity in Colombia 2.3 The El Quimbo Dam 2.4 La Gaitana, Huilan Heroine References

17 17 23 28 30 33

3

An “Oasis of Peace” in Huila 3.1 Matambo, the Giant References

39 42 43

4

The People and this Research 4.1 Theobroma cacao L. References

45 50 53

Part II The EIA in the Making 5

Environmental Impact Assessments: The Problem 5.1 A Note on Knowledge References

57 63 67 xiii

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6

Blind Spots 6.1 The God Trick 6.2 Short-Sightedness 6.3 Weak Peripheral Vision 6.4 Convergence Insufficiency References

7

Simplification 7.1 Fragmentation 7.2 Abstraction 7.3 Equivalence References

97 98 102 107 115

8

Serving Power 8.1 Enclosure 8.2 Creating Anticipation 8.3 Identification of Alphas 8.4 Corporate Control References

119 120 126 135 136 140

9

What About Accountability? 9.1 Participation: From Technicality to Mode of Contestation 9.1.1 A Technicality 9.1.2 A Mode of Contestation 9.2 Licencing Environmental Harm 9.3 State Support of El Quimbo 9.3.1 The Weak State 9.3.2 Securitisation 9.3.3 Serving Global Capital 9.4 Pitcairnia huilensis References

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73 73 79 84 87 92

145 146 153 159 165 166 168 172 179 185

Part III Engineering Reality 10

Detachment—Materialising Fragmentation 10.1 Physical Detachment I: Ecosystem Fragmentation 10.2 Physical Detachment II: Infrastructural Violence 10.3 Social Detachment I: Dispossession 10.4 Social Detachment II: Territorial Alienation 10.5 Social Detachment III: Ruins of the Future

197 199 204 206 209 213

CONTENTS

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10.6 Political Detachment: Marginalisation References

215 218

11

Resistance—Defending Territory 11.1 Activism and Science 11.2 Civil Disobedience and Confrontations 11.3 Judicialisation of Conflict 11.4 Anti-Dam Discourse and Scale 11.5 Political Effect 11.6 Territorial Sovereignty References

225 226 232 236 239 241 246 257

12

Justice—Developing a Tool for Change 12.1 Energy Justice 12.2 Data Justice 12.3 Energy Data Justice—Framing the EIA a new References

267 267 270 272 277

13

Conclusion 13.1 The Peasant Reserve References

281 284 285

Index

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List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 3.1

Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2 Fig. 7.1 Fig. 9.1

Fig. 9.2 Fig. 10.1

Fig. 10.2 Fig. 10.3 Fig. 10.4 Fig. 12.1

The Magdalena and Cauca River Basin and location of key cities in Colombia (author’s creation) Matambo Mountain. In the background of the reservoir, the nose of the Giant stands out, his body extends to the left. The breasts of his lover are visible towards the right (taken by the author in May 2017) El Quimbo reservoir, municipalities and relevant places (GIS map, author’s creation) Theobroma cacao L. (© Juan Luis Castillo, 2018) Farmers’ cooperatives: Land tenures in 2007 (EIA, 2008) Consolidated modifications to the environmental licence of the El Quimbo dam (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 5) Pitcairnia huilensis by Betancur and Jiménez-Escobar (2015) The tree cemetery. Located at the west flank of the reservoir, visible from the hanging bridge, El Balseadero (taken by the author, November 2016) Seedling station at Finlandia (taken by the author, May 2017) Nueva Veracruz (taken by the author, February 2017) Traditional cacao finca at La Honda (taken by the author, September 2012) The energy data justice framework

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42 46 51 104

161 180

201 202 210 211 273

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PART I

Setting the Scene

Since the water cycle is powered by solar energy, it will continue as long as the sun shines and makes hydropower renewable and sustainable. (Killingtveit, 2014, p. 455)

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Reaching the end of the first quarter of the twenty-first century, one might reflect on all the recent advances made. One might also wonder how so much is still the same. The pessimist knows too well the global threads still ahead of humanity and the optimist understands the efforts in motion and the possibilities waiting to be unlatched. This book will focus on two areas of continuous effort and its future possibilities, namely renewable energy and environmental auditing. Renewable energies are not a recent invention. Water, wind and sun were indeed power sources long before man discovered the advantages of fossil fuels. To replace fossil fuels, however, technologies are asked for that can generate large, stable quantities of electricity while being economically profitable. Mega-dams were rediscovered after decades of the industry’s decline. Ever larger wind turbines are installed on coast lines and in the open sea. And solar panels cover hectares of barren lands. It seems straight forward to make use of what is already there, to catch the running water of a river (or the tide of the sea), the wind in the air and the sunlight hitting the ground. As Killingtveit (2014, p. 455) says “as long as the sun shines”, these processes will continue. But there is an increasingly understood other side to the coin. With aquatic species disappearing that rely on open river streams for their reproduction and with conflicts arising due to forced evictions of riverside communities, decision-makers are reminded of why the erection of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_1

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large reservoirs was declining in the first place. Pictures of dead birds and bats underneath the wind turbines and toxic waste sites of damaged solar panels do not help the clean image of the renewables. Furthermore, as the Colombian Minister of Environment and Sustainable Development has rightly admitted, “the energy transition relies on mining for minerals” (quoted by Suárez, 2023). I say “admitted” because Colombia finds itself at an important junction in its history. The national government elected in June 2022 is the first in the country’s history to place social-environmental wellbeing above elite and corporate interests. As such, the new Minister of Environment, Susana Muhamad, has emphasised the need for an energy transition away from oil drilling and coal mining—two industries Colombia’s economy is highly dependent on. An important step her ministry is taking is to review all environmental licences granted for recourse extraction in recent years, especially those in territories of high ecological value and those that have generated conflict. She points out that the former governments had opened the mining frontier without discrimination: “mining has been developed despite environmental assets, above communities, and this needs to be corrected” (quoted by Suárez, 2023). The energy transition towards renewables is necessary, if not long overdue, but does not come without its own downsides. As the Ministry of Environment and Sustainable Development has noted, a rigorous environmental auditing is essential to any investment. In the Colombian government’s narrative, the main problem seems to lie with the laissezfaire attitude of preceding administrations. This critique is reflected by a large scholarship surrounding the weak state phenomenon and resource curse. In this view, most shortcomings within environmental protection efforts can be explained with state institutions weakened by corruption and nepotism and a general lack of political will to change businessas-usual (Bonilla-Mejía & Higuera-Mendieta, 2019; Garay Salamanca & Salcedo Albarán, 2012). Another considerable amount of scholarship is dedicated to uncovering challenges in procedures key to environmental monitoring. Predominant issues discussed are the lack of effective participation and incommensurability of different knowledges and values (Aguilar-Støen & Hirsch, 2015, 2017; Baker & Westman, 2018; Barandiarán, 2020; Bravante & Holden, 2009; Carmona & Jaramillo, 2015; Fiske, 2017; Hébert, 2016; Himley, 2014; Li, 2013, 2015, 2016). Also important within these debates is the power imbalance between corporations proposing the investment and

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those affected by it (see also Carmona & Jaramillo, 2020). While some focus on specific aspects of limitations and propose measures to overcome these (Ledec & Quintero, 2003; Toro et al., 2010, 2013), others provide a more systemic critique that requires the hegemonic worldview to change (Del Bene et al., 2018; Skewes et al., 2011).1 This book will critically engage with these debates by analysing the environmental auditing, specifically the environmental impact assessment and licensing process, of the large hydroelectric dam El Quimbo in Huila, South of Colombia. Defended as clean energy project of national interest, the development of the dam between 2007 and 2015 caused long-term environmental, socioeconomic and political consequences in the region. I will argue that these downsides cannot simply be explained by administrative laissez-faire (like poor regulation) or procedural limitations (like lack of participation) and that it is time to systematically walk through and account for all the potential (and usual) shortcomings and injustices associated with environmental monitoring. Doing so, this book covers three main research questions: (i) how has the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) of the El Quimbo dam produced knowledge of the influences caused by the dam, (ii) how has this knowledge shaped the reality at the affected valley in central Huila, and (iii) what insights does the case offer in terms of turning the EIA as a tool of accountability into a tool for justice and change? Answering these questions will require a holistic and in-depth analysis of the politics and procedures, as well as the content, form and effects of EIAs, without any set time limit. The procedure does not necessarily start with scientists appearing in the prospective “area of influence” but with political negotiations that had long proceeded this moment. And the process does not end with the submission of the EIA to the environmental authority, but includes the environmental licensing process, subsequent updates/follow-up studies of the baselines and impacts, and any fora of participation or contestation surrounding the former. Similarly, the effects might be felt much earlier and long after the official extend of the project’s lifespan.2 I look at the case of El Quimbo because it is the most recent large dam development in Colombia which has been planned, constructed and operated by a transnational energy corporation, Enel Group. This company prides itself with corporate environmental and social responsibility and has the financial resources to conduct thorough assessments and to invest in mitigation and compensation. Nevertheless, the project has spurred

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social and political tensions as well as national controversy, while being located in a relative peaceful region of Colombia. This makes the case very different from the large hydroelectric dam Ituango which was politically endorsed at the same time as El Quimbo in 2008 and generated unprecedented conflicts and disasters after El Quimbo had started operating (June 2015). Ituango has been planned and constructed by the public utility company EPM (Empresas Públicas de Medellín). Even though the dam floods less hectares than El Quimbo while generating more energy,3 the construction added tension to ongoing land conflicts and armed violence in the northern region of Antioquia. Additionally, several incidences that led to the blockage of the deviation tunnels in 2018 and the unplanned, premature flooding upstream of the dam site, destroyed the powerhouse and evicted communities—a precarious situation that remained unsolved for months to come (see Chapter 2). Ituango is arguably the worst-case scenario. The idea of this book is to investigate the pitfalls still existing in the “better-case” scenario. Why do I look at Colombia and hydroelectricity though? First, Colombia’s biological and cultural diversity, its threatened ecosystems like tropical dry forests, mountain wetlands (páramos ) and part of the Amazon, make the nation a key partner in tackling global environmental problems. At the same time, after decades, if not centuries, of internal armed conflicts, Colombia has made important steps towards peace reaching an agreement with the most influential guerrilla group (Farc-Ep) in 2016 and having elected a government in 2022 that, as noted above, focuses on finding alternatives to development based on extraction and social-environmental exploitation. The drive for renewable energies offers huge opportunities and, at the same time, huge threats. While solar and wind farms are in the process of becoming, showing first tendencies of social struggles most prominently on La Guajira peninsula, hydroelectricity has a long track-record and tradition in practice. The environmental and social consequences are no news. I situate this study of the environmental auditing process at El Quimbo within the broader theoretical framework of political ecology and environmental justice. I will emphasise relationships and power structures, connect different scales, perspectives and knowledges in analysis, while reflecting on my own position in Colombia as a researcher from Western Europe, as a young single woman, as a human being. Theories and principles associated with energy justice and environmental data justice will guide the identification of challenges and possibilities.

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Taking the environmental justice principles of fair distribution of cost and benefits, procedural inclusion of the affected population groups and recognising diversity in knowing and valuing (Schlosberg, 2007), energy justice requires energy generation and distribution to be accessible (available and affordable), safe (transparent, accountable, sustainable) and accepted (participatory, equal, and responsible; see Heffron & McCauley, 2017, p. 659; Siciliano et al., 2018, p. 2). Similarly founded on environmental justice principles, environmental data justice seeks to interrupt the “extractive logic” of environmental datafication—“the logic of pulling relations out from bodies and lands into data directed towards other ends” (Vera et al., 2019, p. 3). Applying the perspective to conservation data, Pritchard and colleagues (Pritchard et al., 2022) identify five elements that require critical enquiry: data composition (what is made visible, what remains hidden), data access (who can access and benefit of the data), data processing and use (how is the data used, analysed or compared), data control (who has the power over the former aspects) and data consequences (what choices are made based on the data and what impact do these have). As both theories, energy and data justice, have only recently emerged, scholars are still in the process of developing frameworks and applying these to case studies. This book will be the first intent to bring both perspectives together and apply them to the environmental auditing process of energy infrastructure. I will develop and apply my own framework which corresponds to how problems appeared and were communicated to me in the field throughout the book and return to the above scholarship towards the end putting my findings in conservation with their critical reflections and contribution. As a result, I will present the Energy Data Justice Framework and suggest its application in the EIA process of energy projects. The research this book is based on, I undertook during two periods of field work: for three months in 2012 (before dam construction was finalised; see Helmcke, 2013) and for nine months in 2016–2017 (one year after the dam had started operating; see Helmcke, 2021). I follow the political ecology case study approach (Helmcke, 2022) in analysing the data shared with me through participant observation, interviews and informal conservations, and the data gathered in corporate documents (like the EIA itself, newsletters and press releases), legal documents (like environmental licences, sentences and legislations), academic studies,

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reports, news articles and public debates released since the project was first mentioned on paper (in the 1990s). In the subsequent chapters of Part I, the reader will get a clearer picture of the project’s specifications, context and timeline. Chapter 2 will briefly discuss the importance of hydropower worldwide before diving into the Colombian hydroelectric landscape and El Quimbo’s place within it. Chapter 3 will provide geographical background to the project by sketching out the conflictive history of the region. And Chapter 4 will describe the people affected by the rising water level of the reservoir and my relationship with them. Part II will move to the detailed review and analysis of the EIA of El Quimbo considering the critical EIA literature. Chapter 5 will initiate this part with a general overview of the evolution of EIAs globally, and in Colombia, and how the tool’s main advances and problems have been framed. Chapters 6–8 will address each one section of shortcomings in the making of the EIA. Chapter 6 will discuss pitfalls intrinsic to the scientific tradition common to EIAs, namely creating blind spots through the god trick (assuming objectivity in research), short-sightedness (not seeing beyond own set limits of scale), weak peripheral vision (not seeing beyond one’s tasks and methods) and convergence insufficiency (not communicating across disciplines). Chapter 7 will focus attention on more intentional choices made within EIA practice that simplify reality and rationalise impact through fragmentation (ignoring interrelations), abstraction (generalising the concrete) and equivalence (rendering technical and exchangeable). Chapter 8 will widen the picture considering the exploitation of power asymmetries surrounding the EIA process with the aim of serving power by weakening the opposition and actively supporting the project’s realisation. The four identified strategies are the enclosure (obstruction and limiting the imagination of what is possible), the building of anticipation (overstating benefits, understating risks), the identification of alphas (singling out important social figures/leaders) and the corporate control (over the EIA making). Lastly, Chapter 9 will reflect on the role of accountability particularly associated with participation mechanisms and the environmental licensing process, and how these accountability mechanisms have shaped EIA outcomes in the El Quimbo case. Having analysed the content and procedure of the EIA in detail, Part III will turn attention to the effects of the document, the reality engineered throughout the process. Building on the theory of infrastructure

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and integration, Chapter 10 will discuss the dimensions of detachment caused by the project and how fragmentation materialised in the region. Chapter 11 will reflect on the social-political responses to the transformations caused and the resistance spurred in the region as well as within the state apparatus. Chapter 12 then will reflect on the implication of my analysis so far for energy and environmental data justice and what a combination of both approaches, when looking at EIAs of energy infrastructure, can offer. I argue for an “Energy Data Justice Framework” to turn the EIA into a tool for change and justice in energy projects. Finally, Chapter 13 will conclude the book with future potentials for a just energy transition in Colombia and worldwide. The reader will notice little stories at the end of chapters (italic titles). These are intended to provide glimpses into the worlds the dam has affected and are inspired by my time in Colombia and by stories that the people shared with me. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to Yuma.

1.1

Yuma---River of Friends

From the sacred lagoon of Yumamui—Wilka Kucha Yumamui—at the mountain wetland system Páramo de las Papas, south-west of Garzón, springs a little stream (Fig. 1.1). It finds its course east, down the central Andean cordilleras passing sacred and spiritual sites of northern Andean indigenous cultures, most famously the world’s largest necropolis and UNESCO heritage site of San Agustín—Wakakayu. In the language Runa Shimi of the Yanakuna people, it means “river of the spirits” (Lozano Prada, 2018). In the Quechua language it is Guacahayo, the “river of tombs” (Alvear Sanín, 2005; cited in: Museo Nacional de Colombia, 2007). It is shortly after San Agustín that the river turns north flowing between central and eastern cordilleras towards the Caribbean Sea. In central and northern Huila (Garzón to Neiva), it is known as Yuma, “river of the country of friends” in the language of Muiscas (ibid.). Here, it must overcome its two major barriers: the El Quimbo (2015) and the Betania dam (1987). Upon reaching its middle stream, the now ample river becomes known as Arlí, “river of fish” to the Tora tribes (Alvear Sanín, 2005; cited in: Museo Nacional de Colombia, 2007). Recent history has tainted these waters with blood and pollution. The Magdalena Medio is “red

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Fig. 1.1 The Magdalena and Cauca River Basin and location of key cities in Colombia (author’s creation)

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zone”—zona roja: zone of violence and war. Its capital Barrancabermeja is famous for its large port, petrol industry and continuous paramilitary presence. Stationed within the city as peace observer for three months in 2011, I travelled upstream to accompany forcefully displaced communities camping in mining towns. One of such mineral-rich towns was Segovia, where residents had no stable electricity, one hour of tap water supply per day and no adequate health service. And I travelled downstream, first passing fields of oil drilling plants, then submerging into the seemingly endless rows of oil palms. We travelled a day on boat to reach Las Pavas, the community that reclaimed their lands which after having been evicted had rapidly turned into oil palm plantations. The river was furious that year, maybe for what it witnessed at its banks. It had flooded large parts of the city and converted towns and plantations downstream into riverbeds. While nightly downpour was equally torrential, unusual amounts of water came from the mountains. The river took what it could on its way north. The people suffered, the industries hardly. Slowing its pace towards the Caribbean coast the indigenous call the river Karakalí, “great river of the caimans” (Alvear Sanín, 2005; cited in: Museo Nacional de Colombia, 2007). It is indeed a great river, the Magdalena River, as christened by the Spanish. Putting behind 1,540 kilometres of distance, it crosses Colombia from south to north. Meeting the Cauca River—the other major water stream—on the foothills of the Andean central cordilleras, the Magdalena River is the country’s principal drainage basin and “riverine trade artery” (Angarita et al., 2018, p. 2841). Within its limits, 70–80% of the Colombian population produces up to 85% of the country’s gross domestic product (Cormagdalena, 2007, p. 14; Lasso et al., 2011, p. 36; Ministerio de Transporte de Colombia, 2017). Indigenous groups used the river for navigation and later the conquistadors followed it upstream to reach “the heart of America” in the promise of gold. From its banks, villages and cities grew (Alvear Sanín, 2005; cited in: Museo Nacional de Colombia, 2007). San José de Belén— a settlement previously located in the El Quimbo valley—was estimated to be the first colonial settlement in the south of Colombia (originally known as Taperas). The San José de Belén chapel was believed to be over 200 years old. La Jagua, located just upstream of the entrance to the El Quimbo valley, was an indigenous settlement before the Spanish conquest. Today

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La Jagua is known for its well-preserved colonial structures and the presence of witches and magic (el pueblo de las brujas ). Here, Yuma is wild, but happy, not yet obstructed in its way or heavily polluted.

Notes 1. Two recent research papers have analysed expert opinions on these matters reflecting similar tendencies: Nita et al. (2022) questioned EIA researchers worldwide and Schulz and Adams (2021) interviewed dam experts in Latin America. 2. The life span of the El Quimbo dam is set to 50 years after which efficiency in power generation would decrease due to sedimentation. A decommissioning of the dam is neither proposed in the EIA nor demanded by the environmental licence. 3. Ledec and Quintero (2003) consider a higher ratio of electricity generated per hectare flooded as generally beneficial.

References Aguilar-Støen, M., & Hirsch, C. (2015). Environmental impact assessments, local power and self-determination: The case of mining and hydropower development in Guatemala. Extractive Industries and Society, 2(3), 472–479. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2015.03.001 Aguilar-Støen, M., & Hirsch, C. (2017). Bottom-up responses to environmental and social impact assessments: A case study from Guatemala. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 62, 225–232. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.eiar. 2016.08.003 Alvear Sanín, J. (2005). Manuel del Río Magdalena. Cormagdalena. Angarita, H., Wickel, A. J., Sieber, J., Chavarro, J., Maldonado Ocampo, J. A., Herrera, G. A., Delgado, J., & Purkey, D. (2018). Basin-scale impacts of hydropower development on the Mompós Depression wetlands, Colombia. Hydrology and Earth System Sciences, 22(5), 2839–2865. https://doi.org/10. 5194/hess-22-2839-2018 Baker, J. M., & Westman, C. N. (2018). Extracting knowledge: Social science, environmental impact assessment, and Indigenous consultation in the oil sands of Alberta, Canada. Extractive Industries and Society, 5(1), 144–153. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.12.008

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Barandiarán, J. (2020). Documenting rubble to shift baselines: Environmental assessments and damaged glaciers in Chile. Environment and Planning E: Nature and Space, 3(1), 58–75. https://doi.org/10.1177/251484861 9873317/ASSET/IMAGES/LARGE/10.1177_2514848619873317-FIG2. JPEG Bonilla-Mejía, L., & Higuera-Mendieta, I. (2019). Protected areas under weak institutions: Evidence from Colombia. World Development, 122, 585–596. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.worlddev.2019.06.019 Bravante, M. A., & Holden, W. N. (2009). Going through the motions: The environmental impact assessment of nonferrous metals mining projects in the Philippines. Pacific Review, 22(4), 523–547. https://doi.org/10.1080/095 12740903128034 Carmona, S., & Jaramillo, P. (2015). Números, conmensuración y gobernanza en los estudios de impacto ambiental. Revista Iberoamericana de Ciencia Tecnología y Sociedad, 10(30), 61–79. Carmona, S., & Jaramillo, P. (2020). Anticipating futures through enactments of expertise: A case study of an environmental controversy in a coal mining region of Colombia. The Extractive Industries and Society, 7 (3), 1086–1095. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.EXIS.2020.06.009 Cormagdalena. (2007). Altas Cuenca del río grande de la Magdalena. Del Bene, D., Scheidel, A., & Temper, L. (2018). More dams, more violence? A global analysis on resistances and repression around conflictive dams through co-produced knowledge. Sustainability Science, 13(3), 617–633. https://doi. org/10.1007/s11625-018-0558-1 Fiske, A. (2017). Bounded impacts, boundless promise: Environmental impact assessments of oil production in the Ecuadorian Amazon. In K. Jalbert, A. Willow, D. Casagrande, & S. Paladino (Eds.), ExtrACTION: Impacts, engagements, and alternative futures (pp. 63–76). Routledge. https://doi.org/10. 4324/9781315225579-5 Garay Salamanca, L. J., & Salcedo Albarán, E. (2012). Redes ilícitas y reconfiguración de Estados - El caso Colombia. Centro Internacional para la Justicia Transicional—ICTJ, Vortex. Hébert, K. (2016). Chronicle of a crisis foretold: Risk scenarios and the politics of imperilment in coastal Alaska. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 22(S1), 108–126. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9655.12396 Heffron, R. J., & McCauley, D. (2017, April). The concept of energy justice across the disciplines. Energy Policy, 105, 658–667. https://doi.org/10. 1016/j.enpol.2017.03.018 Helmcke, C. (2013). Replace one’s place: The livelihood of internally displaced people in Colombia. Lund University. Helmcke, C. (2021). The defence of territory: Contested environmental politics at the El Quimbo Hydroelectric Dam in Huila, Colombia (PhD thesis).

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Norwegian University of Life Sciences. https://hdl.handle.net/11250/276 1077 Helmcke, C. (2022). Ten recommendations for political ecology case research. Journal of Political Ecology, 29(1), 266–277. https://doi.org/10.2458/jpe. 2842 Himley, M. (2014). Monitoring the impacts of extraction: Science and participation in the governance of mining in Peru. Environment and Planning A, 46(5), 1069–1087. https://doi.org/10.1068/a45631 Killingtveit, Å. (2014). Hydroelectric power. In T. M. Letcher (Ed.), Future energy—Improved, sustainable and clean options for our planet (2nd ed., pp. 453–470). Elsevier. Lasso, C. A., de Paula Gutiérrez, F., Morales Betancourt, M. A., Agudelo Córdoba, E., Ramírez Gil, H., & Ajiaco Martínez, R. E. (2011). II. Pesquerías Continentales de Colombia: cuencas del Magdalena-Cauca, Sinú, Canalete, Atrato, Orinoco, Amazonas y vertiente del Pacífico (Serie Edit). Instituto de Investigación de los Recursos Biológicos Alexander von Humboldt. Ledec, G., & Quintero, J. D. (2003). Good dams and bad dams: Environmental criteria for site selection of hydroelectric projects (Latin America and the Caribbean Region: Sustainable Development Working Paper, 16). The World Bank. Li, F. (2013). Contesting equivalences: Controversies over water and mining in Peru and Chile. In J. R. Wagner (Ed.), The social life of water (pp. 18–35). Berghahn. Li, F. (2015). Unearthing conflict: Corporate mining, activism, and expertise in Peru. Duke University Press. Li, F. (2016). Engineering responsibility: Environmental mitigation and the limits of commensuration in a Chilean mining project. In C. Dohlen & D. Rajak (Eds.), The anthropology of corporate social responsibility (pp. 199–216). Berghahn. Lozano Prada, K. J. (2018). Auka urkuta yakumanta. Guardianes del agua y la montaña. Universidad Pedagógica Nacional. Ministerio de Transporte de Colombia. (2017). La economía y el desarrollo se mueven por el Río Magdalena. https://mintransporte.gov.co/micrositios/ cci/la-economia-y-el-desarrollo-se-mueven-por-el-rio-magdalena.html Museo Nacional de Colombia. (2007). El Río Magdalena. http://www.museon acional.gov.co/sitio/magdalena/magdario.html Nita, A., Fineran, S., & Rozylowicz, L. (2022). Researchers’ perspective on the main strengths and weaknesses of Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) procedures. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 92. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/j.eiar.2021.106690

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Pritchard, R., Sauls, L. A., Oldekop, J. A., Kiwango, W. A., & Brockington, D. (2022). Data justice and biodiversity conservation. Conservation Biology, 36(5). https://doi.org/10.1111/COBI.13919 Schlosberg, D. (2007). Environmental justice. Oxford University Press. Schulz, C., & Adams, W. M. (2021). In search of the good dam: Contemporary views on dam planning in Latin America. Sustainability Science, 16(1), 255– 269. https://doi.org/10.1007/S11625-020-00870-2/TABLES/2 Siciliano, G., Urban, F., Tan-Mullins, M., & Mohan, G. (2018, March). Large dams, energy justice and the divergence between international, national and local developmental needs and priorities in the global South. Energy Research and Social Science, 41, 199–209. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss. 2018.03.029 Skewes, J. C., Guerra, D., Rojas, P., & Mellado, M. A. (2011). ¿La memoria de los paisajes o los paisajes de la memoria? Los enigmas de la sustentabilidad socioambiental en las geografías en disputa. Desenvolvimento e Meio Ambiente, 23, 39–57. Suárez, M. C. (2023, February 9). “El país abrió la frontera minera indiscriminadamente”: Minambiente. Bloomberg Linea. https://www.bloomberglinea. com/2023/02/09/el-pais-abrio-la-frontera-minera-indiscriminadamente-min ambiente/ Toro, J., Requena, I., Duarte, O., & Zamorano, M. (2013). A qualitative method proposal to improve environmental impact assessment. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 43, 9–20. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.eiar.2013.04.004 Toro, J., Requena, I., & Zamorano, M. (2010). Environmental impact assessment in Colombia: Critical analysis and proposals for improvement. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 30(4), 247–261. https://doi.org/10. 1016/j.eiar.2009.09.001 Vera, L. A., Walker, D., Murphy, M., Mansfield, B., Siad, L. M., & Ogden, J. (2019). When data justice and environmental justice meet: Formulating a response to extractive logic through environmental data justice. Information, Communication and Society, 22(7), 1012. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 1369118X.2019.1596293

CHAPTER 2

The Power of Water

Water has long been an important energy source for human civilisations. To place the El Quimbo hydroelectric project in its historic and regional context, this chapter will briefly outline lessons learned in dam building worldwide and the relevance and struggles surrounding hydropower generation within Colombia, before diving into the technical details of the project in question.

2.1

Damming the World’s Rivers

Throughout human history, flowing water has been an important energy source for economic development. Next to benefits such as flood control, water storage and irrigation, the invention of dams allowed taming “wild” rivers and making use of their natural power by generating electricity without substantial running costs (Obertreis et al., 2016, p. 171). In the twentieth century, many regimes in the Global North took advantage of these characteristics building ever larger dams that would reflect technical advancement and help manifest their sovereignty. Greece marked its dam development for Athens’ water supply in the 1920s as a victory over nature, which implied developing like the West towards modernisation (Kaika, 2006). Francisco Franco used dams to centralise his power in Spain and to weaken regions from potential uprising (Swyngedouw, 2007, 2015, p. 150). The US and the former Soviet Union built © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_2

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several huge hydroelectric plants during the 1960s and 70s within and outside their borders, attempting to technologically outcompete each other (Lagendijk, 2015). They made their own regimes independent, while creating dependencies over other countries. For instance, both superpowers of the cold war competed to realise the Aswan High Dam along the Nile to gain political influence over Egypt (McCully, 2001, p. 19). And while the federally owned US-corporation “Tennessee Valley Authority” (founded in 1933) was first responsible for economically developing the Tennessee Valley, it soon influenced dam developments around the world (Lagendijk, 2015; McCully, 2001, p. 245; Molle et al., 2009, p. 335). Tortajada et al. (2012, p. 2) explain: “Construction of large dams before the 1960s was very significant in the so-called developed world, which included western Europe, the United States, Australia, Canada, the former Soviet Union and Japan”. Soon, however, this changed: By 1975, the United States, Canada and most countries in Western Europe had essentially completed their programmes of constructing large dams. […] during the post-1975 period, the construction of large dams rarely occurred in the developed countries mentioned above; the focus shifted completely to developing countries. (Tortajada et al., 2012, p. 3)

It is estimated that “the remaining economic development potential is located in Africa, Asia and Latin America” (The International Renewable Energy Agency, 2012, p. 16). Beginning with Chile, the World Bank started to finance large dams outside the industrialised North in the 1960s (Nelson, 2013). Especially emergent economies such as China and Brazil contributed to a new boom for hydroelectricity. China, as the world’s largest producer of hydropower, has increasingly moved away from financing small-scale power grids for the rural regions and invested mostly in large-scale hydropower plants, the size of which reached international attention (McCully, 2001, pp. 19–21). Other countries soon followed (Hansjürgens et al., 2016, p. 67; see also Zarfl et al., 2015). Tortajada et al. (2012, p. 3) point out that especially for post-colonial countries it would be about proving their independence and modernity to the world: During the post-1950 period, many countries of Asia and Africa began to shed their colonial past. With their newly gained independence, there was

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an urgency to accelerate their national development processes, to which inadequate attention had been paid by colonisers during centuries of European rule. […] Because of the major contributions dams could make to national development processes, construction of large dams often became a symbol of nation-building and national pride, and in many instances was considered to have contributed to national unity.

During his early political career (in the late 1940s), the first prime minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, called mega-dams “temples of modern India” (Molle et al., 2009, p. 335). Similarly, Ghana placed its hope for industrialising and modernising not only the country but Africa on damming the Volta River (Miescher & Tsikata, 2009). Rwanda and Sudan used dam development to overcome the image of an impoverished country (Dye, 2016) and to create a national identity, “turning dam-builders into nation-builders” (Mohamud & Verhoeven, 2016, p. 182). However, controversies about large dams spread during the 1990s and caused the World Bank to reconsider its investments in the industry (World Commission on Dams, 2000, p. 26). One important contribution to the debate was the book Silenced Rivers by Patrick McCully of the International Rivers Network (2001) [1996]), which “depicts a particularly bleak record” (World Commission on Dams, 2000, p. 27). The new millennium brought a “greater understanding of the often unexpected social, economic, and environmental costs” of dams (Hansjürgens et al., 2016, p. 67), and more public recognition of these costs. The World Commission of Dams (WCD), formed to evaluate the technology’s effectiveness, published its final report “Dams and Development—A New Framework for Decision-Making” in 2000.1 This report acknowledges the importance of large-scale dam developments, but places advantages within the context of their negative consequences relating to experiences from around the world. Chair, Professor Kader Asmal, introduces the report with the following words: If politics is the art of the possible, this document is a work of art. It redefines what is possible to all of us, for all of us, at a time when water pressure on governments has never been more intense. Consider: on this blue planet, less than 2.5% of our water is fresh, less than 33% of fresh water is fluid, less than 1.7% of fluid water runs in streams. And we have been stopping even these. We dammed half our world’s rivers at unprecedented

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rates of one per hour, and at unprecedented scales of over 45,000 dams more than four storeys high. (World Commission on Dams, 2000, p. i)

These numbers shed new light on the technology and raise the question: is the effort worth the consequences? In 1948, Indian Prime Minister Nehru said of the Hirakud Dam: “If you are to suffer, you should suffer in the interest of the country”. He acknowledged the immense social impacts the dam had but considered them as necessary sacrifices in order to modernise. Towards the end of his legislation, he seems to have changed his opinion. At the annual meeting of the Central Board of Irrigation and Power in 1958, he said: I have been beginning to think that we are suffering from what we may call “disease of giganticism” […] We want to show that we can build big dams and do big things … but the idea of having big undertakings and doing big tasks for the sake of showing that we can do big things is not a good outlook at all. (Central Board Irrigation and Power, 1959, p. 172; quoted in: McCully, 2001, pp. 20–21)

The final report of the WCD (2000) presents in detail the diverse range of possible consequences of this disease. It identifies the following problems commonly connected to large dams: Economic: 1. budget over-run: under-estimation of economic costs; 2. delays: not meeting time schedules; 3. poor performance: over-estimating economic benefits, not meeting installed capacities or falling short of irrigation targets; 4. outputs vary (climate dependent) and decrease with time (sedimentation); 5. improper flood management: flood control targets compete with power generation or irrigation targets, unpredictability of extreme climate events; Environmental: 6. alteration of groundwater level: waterlogging and salinity of surrounding lands; 7. habitat fragmentation and loss: displacement of terrestrial species and blocking of fish migration;

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8. Greenhouse gas emissions: slow decomposition of organic material in the reservoir, especially high on tropical soils; 9. alteration of flow regimes, water temperature and quality: affecting aquatic and riparian species upstream and downstream; 10. loss of fertility of flood plains: affecting agricultural production; Social: 11. Uncertainty during planning phase: psychological stress, restrictions of investments; 12. forced displacement; 13. loss of livelihoods: former land/river-based professions lost (downstream and upstream), only short-term job creation in construction; 14. change of production regime: cash crops instead of food crops; 15. loss of social cohesion, tradition and culture: influx of foreign workers, products and services, change of values; 16. spread of illnesses; 17. inaccurate compensation mechanisms: lack of participation, incomplete census of affected, no or poor resettlement schemes; 18. further marginalisation: inequal benefit distribution, population affected often already marginalised like peasants and ethnic minorities, women; 19. conflict; and finally 20. dam failure (World Commission on Dams, 2000, pp. 15–17). An increased awareness of these consequences created a negative reputation, which led to a decline in hydropower development (Hansjürgens et al., 2016; McCully, 2001). It was however foreseeable that, with increasing concern around climate change, the industry would experience a revival. McCully (2001, p. xvii) states: The great hope for the industry is that global warming will come to the rescue – that hydropower will be recognised as a “climate-friendly” technology and receive carbon credits as part of the international emissions trading mechanisms under the Kyoto Protocol.

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McCully was proven to be right (Moore et al., 2010; Schulz & Adams, 2019). Environmental pollution has become one of the main contemporary challenges globally and the so-called renewables (mainly solar, hydro and wind sources) are considered the solution to climate change (Ahlers et al., 2015, p. 198; Del Bene et al., 2018). The World Energy Council defines renewables as “forms of energy which are not exhausted by use”. Branding an energy-generating technology “clean” or “green” creates the impression that it would not pollute the environment nor release greenhouse gases. These technologies are then associated with sustainable development (see Kuriqi et al., 2017)—a discourse proven useful for global investors, like the World Bank, to defend large hydroelectric projects (see Goldman, 2005). Hydroelectricity is considered renewable because its source of energy (run-off water) is not directly subtracted from the system (or water cycle), but as in the case of reservoirs, only periodically stored. As long as the sun shines, the water is returned to the water cycle through evaporation and energy can be generated. It is also considered not to emit many greenhouse gases. However, several studies have shown that this is a misleading conception. As indicated above, large dams pollute fresh water and increase evaporation, consequently restricting its availability for the region (World Commission on Dams, 2000, pp. 78–81). Construction works, loss of vegetation and the slow decomposition of organic material in the reservoir contribute to higher greenhouse gas emissions (methane, carbon dioxide), especially in tropical regions in the first 20 years of a dam’s operation (see e.g. Fearnside, 2016; Fearnside & Pueyo, 2012; World Commission on Dams, 2000, pp. 75–77). Considering the environmental and social costs mentioned above, environmental justice researchers have directed their attention to the “extractivism of renewables” (see Del Bene et al., 2018). They see green energy as “a synecdoche of anxieties and frustrations regarding broader extractive practices that the people feel powerless to confront” (Argenti & Knight, 2015, p. 784; see also Howe & Boyer, 2016). This is not limited to hydroelectricity. For example, Mexico’s large-scale investments in wind energy generated national and international controversies, as the distribution of costs and benefits did not match with local aspirations (Dunlap, 2018, 2019; Howe & Boyer, 2016; Howe et al., 2015). European investments in solar and wind energy parks in Greece sparked similar discontent and resistance (Argenti & Knight, 2015; see also conflict around wind farms in Norway; Fjellheim, 2020).

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In 2000, the WCD accounted for many of these issues with regard to large dams, proposing a “new policy framework for the development of water and energy resources”. The framework is guided by five core values, similar to those relevant to energy justice: equity, efficiency, participatory decision-making, sustainability and accountability (World Commission on Dams, 2000, p. 199). It requires the recognition of rights and the assessments of risks—an approach that goes beyond the mere “cost and benefit” analysis—to identify all interested and affected parties, their stake in the project and their necessary involvement in the decision-making process (World Commission on Dams, 2000, pp. 198–210). Negotiations about the project should be fair (all stakeholders participate), wise (fully informed), efficient (time- and cost-effective) and stable (an enduring agreement; WCD, 2000, p. 210). The framework proposes seven strategic priorities: 1. gaining public acceptance (through informed participation by all groups), 2. comprehensive options assessment (explore alternatives), 3. addressing existing dams (optimising their benefits), 4. sustaining rivers and livelihoods (understanding, protecting and restoring ecosystems), 5. recognising entitlements and sharing benefits (mutually agreed and legally enforceable mitigation and development provisions), 6. ensuring compliance (meeting the commitments made), and 7. sharing rivers for peace, development and security (“good faith negotiations between riparian States” (WCD, 2000, pp. 213–251). In the following section, I will outline the experiences of dam development in Colombia and if the industry has learned from the WCD policy framework.

2.2

Hydroelectricity in Colombia

“Colombia has the third largest installed hydropower capacity in South America”, stated the International Hydropower Association in its 2018 Hydropower Status Report. With a total hydro capacity of 12,549 megawatts (66.83% of the national installed energy capacity) in 2022, this ranking continues to hold true (Ingram, 2023). In 2018, Colombia had

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140 hydroelectric power plants either in operation, under construction or planning, each of these relying on run-off water technologies as well as on small to large dams (Vargas Nieto, 2018). Large reservoir-based hydroelectric plants usually have the highest installed capacity and are therefore considered of particular political and economic relevance for a nation.2 In Colombia, 23 large dams make the greatest contribution to the energy grid. Twenty-two of them are located within the Magdalena River basin, where in total 33 hydroelectric power plants are in operation (Vargas Nieto, 2018). The largest and most important dams (above 200 megawatt installed capacity) are Hidro-Ituango (potentially 2,400 MW), San Carlos (1,240 MW), Guavio (1,213 MW), Chivor (1,000 MW), Hidro-Sogamoso (820 MW), Porce III (660 MW), PeñolGuatapé (560 MW), Betania (540 MW), Porce II (405 MW), El Quimbo (400 MW), Miel I (396 MW), Urrá (340 MW) and Salvajina (270 MW; see also Bacca García, 2019, p. 19). Apart from Urrá, all are located within the Magdalena basin and except for the biggest project HidroItuango, all have started operation before 2015. Colombia experienced three major waves of large dam construction. The first occurred in the 1970s and 1980s with the building of Guavio, San Carlos, Peñol-Guatapé, Salvajina, Betania and Chivor. Another period followed at the beginning of the new millennium in response to the national power shortage of 1991 which led to the building of Porce II, Porce III, Miel I, and Úrra I (Garcia, 2000, p. 30). The latest wave of mega-dam projects approved by the Colombian government initiated in 2008 with the commissioning of Hidro-Ituango, Hidro-Sogamoso and El Quimbo. Independent of size and construction date (degree of environmental monitoring), all projects can be expected to have caused environmental conflicts. “Conflicts over water and dams are probably as ancient as dam building itself […] though it is only in recent years that they have come to command wider attention” (World Commission on Dams, 2000, p. 18). Even though disasters and accidents have occurred, such as a landslide in 1983 during the Guavio dam building that killed more than 180 people (see Gonzáles, 2015), little is known of struggles surrounding dam constructions in Colombia during the last century. Related studies or newspaper articles of the time are rare and only a few are still publicly available. A graduate student, Vanegas Galindo, carried out an extensive archive search in 2018 to analyse the impacts and the conflicts resulting from

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the Betania dam construction in the 1980s (35 kilometres downstream of El Quimbo dam). This researcher’s study shows that while the Betania’s construction caused social tensions especially among local farmers around the issue of land acquisitions and compensation payments, it was supported by the wider Huilan public and regional political leaders. Similar to earlier dam developments and in contrast to the El Quimbo dam, Betania was the result of a regional initiative to extend the power coverage in the Colombian south (Vanegas Galindo, 2018). With its operational start in May 1987, Betania provided energy to the provinces Huila, Caquetá, Cauca, Nariño [towards the south] – provinces with high electrification problems in those years – via the power line Betania-Popayán (320 KW), as well as to the provinces Tolima, Cundinamarca, Boyacá, Meta and El Viejo Caldas via the Betania-Ibagué line (320 KW) [towards the north], and finally for the city of Neiva through the Betania-Neiva line (115 KW). (Vanegas Galindo, 2018, p. 49)

Until then, it had been common to locate hydropower plants close to where their energy was needed (e.g. close to cities). However, in the late 1990s large dams were increasingly connected to the central power grid, deviating the direct benefits away from the areas of impact, reflecting distributional injustice (Vanegas Galindo, 2018). Because of intense resistance from the affected indigenous communities, the Úrra dam was the first hydroelectric project to receive wider public attention from the time that its planning began in 1984. Several studies have been published on its impacts since then (e.g. Garcia, 2000; Leguizamón Castillo, 2015; Orduz Salinas & Rodríguez Garavito, 2012). The most famous cases, in terms of the national public attention on social and environmental consequences, were the El Quimbo dam and, more recently, the Hidro-Ituango project (Rico, 2018; Suárez Gómez, 2017; Vargas Nieto, 2018). Because I explore the case of El Quimbo dam at length throughout this book, here I briefly outline the struggles around the Ituango dam. The public utility of Medellín, EPM, began Colombia’s largest dam construction in 2010 and planned to finish it by 2018. Several technical failures, beginning in April 2018 and continuing until 2019, brought the unfinished dam infrastructure to a near collapse, putting at risk many

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communities located upstream and downstream of the Cauca River (170 km north of Medellín; see Fig. 1.1). Intense rainfall had led to increased turbulence in the river and caused landslides upstream of the dam construction site in early 2018. Heavy material (like tree branches, stumps and rocks) carried by the water started to block the deviation tunnel in use. Consequently, the valley upstream filled with water before the works at the main dam wall and barrier had been finalised. This led to further erosion and landslides. To prevent the collapse of the dam, EPM decided to open the already existing powerhouse to discharge water in a controlled manner (Semana, 2018a). However, the two former deviation tunnels which had been sealed, opened accidentally as a result of the pressure. This caused a sudden uncontrolled water discharge three times higher than normal. Around 25,000 people, mainly artisanal fishing and mining communities downstream had to be evacuated (El Espectador, 2018). The powerhouse collapsed on 16 May, after which the rainfall and water level slowly decreased, so that some families could return to their homes in June 2018 (Semana, 2018b). Throughout the following months, the tension never fully eased. The level of alert would go down to orange, only to return to red a few days later. At the beginning of 2019, EPM noticed fractures in the dam structure and decided to close all compartments, stopping all run-off water. The river downstream ran dry, leaving the population with another disaster to deal with (Semana, 2019a). During the entire period, EPM had trouble finalising the dam’s infrastructure, experiencing one setback after another. Only in December 2022, the company announced that it started operating two out of eight compartments of the powerplant: “As of today, the plant will continuously deliver 600 megawatts of clean, renewable, and low-cost energy to Colombians” (quoted in El Espectador, 2022). To the dam opponents this statement might seem farcical. Next to the high ecological, social and financial costs, Hidro-Ituango provided further fuel for violence.3 The dam is located in a very conflictive area in Antioquia. Different guerrilla groups, paramilitary organisations and state military have moved in and out of the area, leaving behind many deaths and traumatised families (Betancour Alarcon, 2014; Semana, 2019b).4 During the first years of the dam construction, many corpses were recovered in the drained valley of the Cauca River (Herrera Durán, 2020).5

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The dam project did not stop armed threats from occurring. Up to May 2018, the regional organisation against dams, “Movimiento Ríos Vivos de Antioquia”, counted six assassinations among their members (two in that month alone), together with 63 death threats (three of them collective) and 11 massive evictions affecting up to 700 families (Mongabay Latam, 2018). Ríos Vivos suspects that the intention of the paramilitary groups predominately present since 1995 was “to sow fear in the territory to vacate it and thus make way for HidroItuango” (quoted by Tavera, 2019). A detailed investigation into the matter (Torres Ramírez, 2019) evidenced that the development of the megaproject was preceded by a series of human rights violations: “We documented 255 cases in which there were 607 victims. Most of these cases are victims of massacres, extrajudicial executions, selective killings, and forced displacement” (quoted by Tavera, 2019). Considering these experiences associated with dam development in Colombia, neither the industry nor the Colombian administrations seemed to have learned by then from conflicts (e.g. Úrra I), or from the WCD report described above. It was the drastic circumstances around the Ituango dam, following the conflict at El Quimbo, that left its imprint on the sector in Colombia. While several studies, such as the report of Hydrochina (2013),6 emphasise the immense potential of Colombia’s river basins for further large-scale dam developments, no new large dam project has been commissioned.7 The Hydropower Status Report (IHA, 2018, p. 61) makes the following statements about Colombia in 2017: ANLA [Ministerial Department for Environmental Licences] denied, for the second time, the environmental licence to the 960 MW Cañafisto hydropower project. Isagen [investor] is already undertaking feasibility studies for an alternative project that would be a smaller version of the original one with 380 MW of installed capacity. During 2017, Colombia increased hydropower installed capacity by 100 MW, with a focus on smaller capacity hydropower projects.

Similar is the case of the Piedra del Sol hydropower plant proposal (152 MW) in Santander, which the ANLA denied in 2018. Both proposals coincided with ANLA reviewing its licensing process concerning hydroelectric dams (Hydroreview, 2018). But before diving into the legislative field of environmental auditing (Part II), I will use the

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next sections to briefly introduce the dam project this book is focusing on (Sect. 2.3) and the region it affected (Chapters 3 and 4).

2.3

The El Quimbo Dam

The valley subject to damming and to my investigation extends from the El Quimbo gorge to the point where the Magdalena River meets the Suaza River. It is located between 600 and 700 metres above sea level, 210 kilometres downstream of the Magdalena spring and 69 kilometres upstream of the outskirts of Neiva (EIA, 2008, p. 623). El Quimbo dam is the second hydroelectric project along this stretch of the river. The first, Betania dam, was built in the early 1980s (see section above) and finalised in 1987 by the public company Betania-S.A. Its artificial lake of 7,400 hectares has the single purpose of power generation. It is located in the vicinity of the municipalities of Yaguará, Hobo and Campoalegre in Huila, 15–35 kilometres downstream of El Quimbo dam. Betania’s main tributaries are the Magdalena, Yaguará and Páez Rivers (EIA, 2008, p. 621). It has an installed capacity of 540 megawatts. El Quimbo hydroelectric project adds to the national power grid 400 megawatts of on-site exploitation (two installed Francis turbines of 200 megawatts each). It is estimated that an average power generation of 2,216 gigawatt hours per year can be achieved. Together with Betania, this would be equal to eight per cent of Colombia’s total power demand (as estimated in 2008). El Quimbo’s flood barrage is 151 metres high and 632 metres wide. An additional embankment (auxiliary dyke) of 66 metres height and 390 metres length helps encapsulating a maximum of 2,601 cubic hectometres of water, which floods an area of 8,250 hectares. The reservoir is 55 kilometres long and 4 kilometres wide at its maximum. Together with the space the dam construction requires, the “area of direct influence” amounts to 8,586 hectares in total (EIA, 2008).8 El Quimbo was the first dam in Colombia to be built by a private enterprise (Enel Group, 2020). The Spanish utility Endesa, through its Colombian subsidiary Emgesa, was granted the ownership over the project in 2008 and planned to invest USD837 million in the project (Hydroreview, 2010).9 In 1997, Endesa had formed Emgesa through the partial capitalisation of the Colombian company “Empresas Energía de Bogotá”. The multinational corporation financially contributes 48.48% to Emgesa, while

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the now-called “Grupo Energía Bogotá” contributes 51.51%. Thereafter, Emgesa fused with Betania-S.A., a process which was completed in 2007 (Enel Group, 2016, 2019; see also La Asociación Nacional de Instituciones Financieras and La Firma Comisionista de Bolsa, 2011). Around the same time, Emgesa revived Betania’s idea to build a dam at the El Quimbo gorge. After having finalised Betania dam, the public company contracted the private consultancy firm Ingetec to take out a prefeasibility study. Different dam designs were assessed but plans finally rejected by the Environmental Ministry in 1997 as it considered the impacts on the agricultural sector of the region of too significant (Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, 2009, p. 1). Following the privatisation in 2007, political circumstances had changed and Emgesa re-contracted Ingetec to carry out the environmental impact assessment for El Quimbo dam. In 2009, the environmental licence for the project was granted and Enel (Italy) acquired majority shares of Endesa (92.02%). Emgesa became part of Enel Américas (Enel Group, 2019). Enel Group states in a report on investments in Latin America in 2016: We hold 56.4% of Emgesa’s voting rights as a result of a transfer of voting rights from Enersis [Endesa Chile] and we are allowed to appoint the majority of the Board members pursuant to a shareholders’ agreement. We therefore control Emgesa. (Enel Group, 2016, p. 34)

As the partially public company Grupo Energía Bogotá carries 51.51% of the financial responsibility for Emgesa, this configuration of the board limits the decision-making capacity of the public sector, while it still covers much of the costs. Enel Américas has been involved in the electricity distribution, generation and transmission through subsidiaries in four Latin American countries: Colombia, Brazil, Argentina and Peru. In its own words, it is “Latin America’s largest privately owned energy company”, having an installed capacity of 11,257 megawatts and 24.5 million clients at the end of 2018 (Enel Américas, 2019). With regard to its subsidiary Emgesa, the company states on its homepage: Emgesa S.A. is now Colombia’s largest power company [22.6% of total energy generation], operating 14 plants with a total capacity of 3,509 MW, including El Guavio, the country’s largest hydroelectric plant with a capacity of 1,213 MW. Twelve of the fourteen plants are hydroelectric

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and the other two are thermoelectric. The net generation for 2017 was 14,765 GWh. (Enel Américas, 2018)

Enel Group provides energy in 33 countries to 70 million consumers around the world. As non-transparent as any multinational corporation of this scale can be, Enel Group discloses only general information of its shareholders and investors. Enel Americás lists as shareholders: Enel S.p.A (57.26%), ADR’s Citibank N.A (6.66%), “Chilean Pension Funds” (14.05%), “Custodian Banks” (1.89%), “Foreign investment funds” (14.99), “Brokers, Insurance companies and Mutual Funds” (3.49%) and “other shareholders” (1.65%; Enel Américas, 2020). The people behind these structures rarely step into public light. When it comes to the El Quimbo dam struggle, Emgesa has usually been publicly represented by one key figure: long-term General Director Lucio Rubio Díaz. Rubio is of Spanish origin and came to Colombia with Endesa in 1997. Four years later he was promoted to the general management of Emgesa, a position he still assumes today (Enel Group, 2020). From the planning period onwards, Lucio Rubio accompanied the El Quimbo project development, not just as the company’s public face and defender of the company’s actions, but also as a key negotiator with the Colombian government. Another important figure is José Antonio Vargas Lleras. He has been Chairman of Emgesa since 2006 and was its executive president in 2015. His brother Germán Vargas Lleras was Vice-President (2014–2017) of Ex-President Juan Manuel Santos. These connections bring to light the importance that the company and project enjoyed on the national level since the early 2000s. At the provincial level it looked quite different: Huila has a proud history of resistance against superior forces.

2.4

La Gaitana, Huilan Heroine

The upper Magdalena River basin was populated by various indigenous groups when the Spanish arrived in 1538. In particular, the mission of Pedro de Añasco was to conquer the south via the river. Upon arrival in the region, which today is Huila, he called for the leaders of the indigenous tribes to meet him. He wanted their collaboration, their subordination and their services. One of the leaders, the Andaqui leader, was a woman known as La Gaitana. Añasco refused to negotiate with a woman and ordered her son to speak with him. The son refused.

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Outraged by this disrespect, Añasco and his soldiers sought the son and burned him alive in front of his mother. La Gaitana and her tribe did not take this as a reason for submission. Contrary, they perceived this as a reason for resistance and revenge. Her fury united several indigenous tribes to rise up and fight the conquistadors. An army of 5,000 took Añasco’s mission by surprise. The fighters killed everyone apart from Añasco, who was brought alive to La Gaitana. She took his eyes out and dragged him all around the village until he was dead. The news of this colossal defeat travelled downstream, and soon Spanish fleets forced La Gaitana to retreat upstream. It is said that La Gaitana jumped to her death from the Pericongo Canyon into the river. “Although, this brave and proud woman disappeared from the scene of the war, her spirit and the memory of her rebellion have been kept alive through the centuries” (Gobernación del Huila, 2017). Today, the last scene of the battle against Añasco has been eternalised in the statue at the Neivan waterfront, and many stories are told among the Huilan population to remember this heroic fight for independence to the present day.

Notes 1. “The Commission’s two objectives were: to review the development effectiveness of large dams and assess alternatives for water resources and energy development; and to develop internationally acceptable criteria, guidelines and standards, where appropriate, for the planning, design, appraisal, construction, operation, monitoring and decommissioning of dams” (WCD, 2000, p. xxx). 2. The International Commission on Large Dams (ICOLD) defines a large dam as a dam with a height of 15 metres or more from the foundation. If dams are between 5 and 15 metres high and have a reservoir volume of more than 3 million cubic metres, they are also classified as large dams. Using this definition, there are over 45,000 large dams around the world (WCD, 2000, p. 11). The classification for mega-dams varies. A major dam either is at least 150 metres high (El Quimbo reaches 151 metres), has a volume of at least 15 million cubic metres, has a reservoir storage of at least 25 cubic kilometres, or generates at least 1,000 megawatts (McCully, 2001, pp. 5–6). I concentrate here on power-generating large dams, whose construction usually demands major initial investment, long

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3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

planning and development periods, as well as considerable environmental and social sacrifices (WCD, 2000). While dam developers generally underestimate the investment needed to cover all construction and mitigation costs (Ansar et al., 2014), HidroItuango’s final costs are estimated to reach USD4.57 billion (Urrego, 2021) having initially been valued USD2.8 billion (Hydroreview, 2011). Several guerrilla movements have emerged in Colombia to fight for a socialist, communist revolution in the country during the twentieth century, like the Farc-Ep, ELN, and M-19. To confront these popular uprisings, landowners formed private militias that would defend their property as well as the conservative, elite rule. These paramilitary forces soon developed independent structures which merged into the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia (AUC) in 1997. Even though officially demobilised at the start of the new millennia, successor criminal gangs still account for the largest death tolls among civil society (massacres, torture, forced disappearances and displacements) and control most of Colombia’s drug trafficking. They have largely operated parallel to Colombian state army which has partially blurred boundaries between the two in the perception of primarily rural populations. Around 200 families in the territory mourn missing people whose bodies they suspect are among those found in the valley of the reservoir (Espinosa, 2018). Between 1985 and 2012 more than 950 cases of forced disappearance were reported in the 12 surrounding municipalities (Semana, 2019b). The families have demanded the search and exhumation of disappeared people prior to the dam finalisation (Espinosa, 2018), which EPM continues to do (Herrera Durán, 2020). However, the resistance doubts that the officials do their best in solving the crimes. It claims that the dam will “flood the truth” (se inhunda la verdad), leaving no chance for closure and reconciliation (Colombia Plural, 2018). This “Master Plan” for the economic development of the Magdalena River was elaborated by Hydrochina and published in English in 2013 (no Spanish version). It states that only ten per cent of the theoretical reserved hydropower resources of the main river are made use of (Hydrochina, 2013, p. 23). It sees potential for 17 more dams in the upper Magdalena River basin (Hydrochina, 2013, p. 178). The dam project Porvenir II (352 MW) was granted licence in 2015 but was temporally suspended by the Council of State in 2019, because the permits granted by the ANLA interfered with properties subject to land restitution connected to the peace process. Earlier that year, the energy company Celsia (part of Argos) had announced it wanted to sell the project (planned start of operation in 2023; Rodríguez Flórez, 2019). Also, small hydro is facing opposition, like Emgesa’s project in the Páramo Sumapaz

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(Andean wetland) in Cudinamarca, and the Chinese company CTGI— Talasa project in the Atrato River (168 MW), Chocó, which was pushed to change plans from four to three micro-instalments. 8. The area de influencia directa or AID as determined by Emgesa is restricted to the dam site and the reservoir surface; its delimitation is different from the people’s conception of affected areas (Chapter 6). 9. It would spend around USD700 million on the construction and another USD200 million for the power distribution network (Hydroreview, 2008). General Director Lucio Rubio told Reuters Latin America that Emgesa “would fund 20 percent of the investment and the rest could come from local banks and lenders such as the InterAmerican Development Bank and the Andean Development Corporation and debt issues” (Mozzo, 2009). The Environmental Justice Atlas (https://ejatlas.org/conflict/el-quimbohydroelectric-project-colombia, 04/01/2021) names next to the InterAmerican Development Bank the European Investment Bank as funders of the project. No listing of the funders of the dam project has been published. The final cost of the project in 2015 was USD1.23 billion (Ingram, 2018).

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Semana. (2019a, February 9). Hidroituango ¿qué viene ahora? Semana. https:// www.semana.com/nacion/articulo/hidroituango-despues-de-la-tragedia-amb iental-que-viene-ahora/600740 Semana. (2019b, August 10). La JEP busca la verdad sobre desaparecidos en zona de Hidroituango. Semana. https://www.semana.com/nacion/articulo/ la-jep-busca-la-verdad-sobre-desaparecidos-en-zona-de-hidroituango/635170 Suárez Gómez, J. D. (2017). The new imagined communities: The case of Hidroituango in Colombia (Issue December). University of Missouri. Swyngedouw, E. (2007). Technonatural revolutions: The scalar politics of Franco’s hydro-social dream for Spain, 1939–1975. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 32(1), 9–28. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1475-5661. 2007.00233.x Swyngedouw, E. (2015). Liquid power—Contested hydro-modernities in twentiethcentury Spain. MIT Press. Tavera, E. (2019, March 22). La violencia y el avance de Hidroituango. Hacemos Memoria. https://hacemosmemoria.org/2019/03/22/violenciahidroituango-antioquia/ The International Renewable Energy Agency. (2012). Hydropower. In Renewable energy technologies: Cost analysis series: Vol. 1: Powers (Issue 3/5). Torres Ramírez, A. (2019). Colombia Nunca Más: extractivismo - graves violaciones a los Derechos Humanos. Caso Hidroituango: Una lucha por la memoria y contra la impunidad. Corporación Jurídica Libertad. Tortajada, C., Altinbilek, D., & Biswas, A. K. (Eds.). (2012). Impacts of large dams: A global assessment. Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-64223571-9 Urrego, A. (2021, July 14). Inversión total de Hidroituango será de $18,3 billones, según actualización de EPM. La Republica. https://www.larepu blica.co/economia/la-inversion-total-del-hidroituango-sera-de-18-3-billonessegun-actualizacion-de-epm-3201404 Vanegas Galindo, A. S. (2018). Cambios en los conflictos ambientales generados por la construcción de las Centrales Hidroeléctricas de Betania y El Quimbo. Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Vargas Nieto, M. D. (2018). Hidroeléctricas, ¿Energía amigable con el medio ambiente? Pesquisa Javeriana. https://www.javeriana.edu.co/pesquisa/hidroe lectricas-energia-amigable-con-el-medio-ambiente/ World Commission on Dams. (2000). Dams and development—A new framework for decision-making (Report, Issue November). Zarfl, C., Lumsdon, A. E., Berlekamp, J., Tydecks, L., & Tockner, K. (2015). A global boom in hydropower dam construction. Aquatic Sciences, 77 (1), 161–170. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00027-014-0377-0

CHAPTER 3

An “Oasis of Peace” in Huila

Del Oriente la Luz ilumina Los paisajes y el fresco verdor Y los ríos cual lazo de plata Resplandecen al rayo del sol.

En un vuelo de garzas gigantes De este valle el eterno formó, Entre mágico azul de los Andes Un oasis de paz y de amor. From the east the light illuminates The landscapes and the fresh green And the rivers whose silver ribbons Reflect the rays of the sun.

In a flight of giant herons, In this valley the eternal is formed, Between the magical blue of the Andes An oasis of peace and love.

Garzón (municipality at El Quimbo) hymn As the era of conquest, also Huila’s post-colonial history has been marked by territorial struggles and resistance. Because of the high fertility of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_3

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the land and its strategic location along the river, land conflicts have occurred throughout the last century and persist to this day. The indigenous leader Quintin Lame led the indigenous rebellion between 1912 and 1925 to fight for an indigenous autonomous republic that would have today covered the territory of Huila, Tolima, Cauca and Valle de Cauca (Guzman Campos et al., 1962, p. 49; see also Troyan, 2015). With the rebellion defeated, the enduring poverty and inequality in Huila and neighbouring Tolima gave soon rise to confrontations between campesinos (peasants/farmers) and conservative landowners. This situation prompted the national civil war, today known as “La Violencia” (between 1948 and 1957; see Guzman Campos et al., 1962, pp. 40, 46– 62). During that time, many campesinos in Huila were killed or forcefully displaced into more southern provinces, like Caquetá. The end of La Violencia brought further elite control over the country and the agricultural lands in Huila were left in the hands of only a few large landowners. The perceived injustice again sparked violence, this time in the form of new guerilla movements, most prominently the establishment of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—People’s Army (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—Ejército del Pueblo, FARC–EP or Farc) in the 1960s. Huila was one of the first strongholds of the guerillas and is considered to be traditional Farc territory. The high presence of Farc blocs in the 1960s and 1970s caused landowners to abandon their haciendas in central Huila. Many politicians and elites were kidnapped and killed (Ramírez Jiménez & Gómez Alarcón, 2019; UNDP, 2010). In the early 2000s, the presence of paramilitary and state military groups increased. Paramilitary groups received very little support in Huila apart from the province’s capital Neiva and the city Pitalito, a drug shipment route to the south. However, the state military soon managed to push the existing Farc blocs towards the mountains, away from the strategic routes connecting the north with the south of the country (river and highway). In subsequent years, the Farc concentrated on targeted attacks against politicians. The last attack took place in 2009 in the town hall of Garzón, where four politicians were killed and one kidnapped (UNDP, 2010, p. 29). Nowadays, because Huila is not an important site for drug production, it is relatively peaceful compared to other locations in the country and was as such valued by its inhabitants (see Chapter 4). Huila is a “receiving province”, a region which receives internally displaced people

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searching to escape from other more conflictive southern provinces such as Caquetá, Putumayo and Meta (UNDP, 2010, p. 37). In 2007, around 13,000 people came to Huila, according to UNDP (2010, p. 37). This has increased the demand and competition for land. Huila’s Gini index for land concentration was 0.81 in 2009, one of the highest inequalities in land access in Colombia (Ramírez Jiménez & Gómez Alarcón, 2019). This inequality was only intensified by the flooding of the fertile lands of El Quimbo. In May 2009, before El Quimbo’s environmental licence had been officially granted, the national government provided armed security for the project’s realisation by establishing a special energy battalion “Batallón Especial Energético y Vial” (#12) close to the village La Jagua, Altamira, just upstream of the dam valley. Staying largely inactive because of the missing guerrilla presence, the Colombian national riot control police (Escuadrón Móvil Antidisturbios—ESMAD) got involved several times over the years, violently demobilising protests, street blocks and peaceful reunions, and evicting the resisting population from the valley (see Chapter 9). In Colombia, peacefully defending your territory (land, community, identity) against large investments and environmental change is risky. The Colombian organisation for the protection of rivers (against dams), Movimiento Ríos Vivos, has not only been publicly criminalised but its members are regular recipients of death threats and attacks around the country, specifically prominent in the Ituango dam case (see Frontline Defenders, 2019 and Chapter 2). Related to the El Quimbo dam conflict, one fisherman and resistance member of El Hobo (at Betania dam) was shot on his way home on 28 March 2023 having denounced contamination and declining fish population up to the same day (Asoquimbo, 2023). Over the years, members had reported harassment, threats to them and their families, as well as damages to canoes and shacks. The anti-dam organisation presented one direct threat by a paramilitary gang addressed to the leader of the fisherfolk association at El Hobo on the public hearing on the impacts of the El Quimbo dam in November 2016. The letter the fisherman received the same morning told him not to attend the hearing but to leave town immediately. He received a guarantee of personal security from the Minister of the Environment thereafter. The public hearing to follow up on the El Quimbo Environmental Licence was a landmark for the anti-dam struggle in Huila. One year

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after the dam had started operating, the national environmental authorities came to the region, not to listen to the company’s promises but to the people having been affected. The event that lasted for two full days was inaugurated by the Huilan Governor at the time, Carlos Julio Gonzáles. He started his speech by quoting the Garzón hymn (see above) that the audience of around 3,000 people had sung minutes before. With this, he reminded the attending officials that this valley was once an oasis of peace and love where people lived in dignity, overlooked by the greens of Matambo hill.

3.1

Matambo, the Giant

Once upon a time, Matambo, the giant, came to the upper Magdalena River. He encountered many groups of small people and fell in love with the daughter of an indigenous goddess. Mirthayú (daughter of gods) had been sent to live among the humans. But these humans felt now threatened by the appearance of the giant. The local tribes started fighting Matambo and Mirthayú. The couple tried to escape, but it was too late. Defeated, they fell to the ground and their bodies eternalised in stone. Today, to the left of the El Quimbo valley, one can see the face of the giant looking upwards to the sky and the breasts of Mirthayú right next to him (Fig. 3.1). The hill is called Matambo, and the town nearby is called Gigante (giant).

Fig. 3.1 Matambo Mountain. In the background of the reservoir, the nose of the Giant stands out, his body extends to the left. The breasts of his lover are visible towards the right (taken by the author in May 2017)

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References Asoquimbo. (2023, March 28). Atentado contra la vida de Alirio Perdomo, integrante de Asoquimbo. https://www.asoquimbo.org/es/comunicados/ate ntan-contra-la-vida-de-alirio-perdomo-integrante-de-asoquimbo Frontline Defenders. (2019). The Hidroituango Dam and the struggle of Movimiento Rios Vivos to protect its territory, water, and life. https://www. frontlinedefenders.org/en/campaign/hidroituango-dam-and-struggle-mov imiento-rios-vivos-protect-its-territory-water-and-life Guzman Campos, M. G., Fals Borda, O., & Umaña Luna, E. (1962). La Violencia en Colombia: estudio de un proceso social (2nd ed.). Ediciones Tercer Mundo. Ramírez Jiménez, E. A., & Gómez Alarcón, T. H. (2019). El departamento del Huila y los nuevos conflictos agrarios. In J. Baquero Melo (Ed.), Territorios, conflictos agrarios y construcción de paz: Comunidades, asociatividad y encadenamientos en el Huila y sur del Tolima. Universidad del Rosario. Troyan, B. (2015). Cauca’s Indigenous movement in Southwestern Colombia: Land, violence, and ethnic identity. Lexington Books. UNDP. (2010). Huila: Análisis de la Conflictividad.

CHAPTER 4

The People and this Research

Gigante is the municipality most affected by the dam; 43.91% of the reservoir (plus dam related constructions) is located within its borders. The second and third most affected municipalities are El Agrado with 37.83% and Garzón with 16.76% of the dam surface on their grounds. Another three municipalities count as affected, not because the reservoir extends their borders, but because the dam construction affects their territory (Tesalia: 1.25% and Paicol: 0.04%) or communities are resettled to their territory (Altamira: 0.21%) (EIA, 2008, p. 102) (Fig. 4.1). In total, El Quimbo dam directly affected 805 rural properties of 20 veredas (farming compounds) (EIA, 2008, p. 1092). On these veredas lived 1,537 people according to the population census taken in 2007. The largest settlements located in their totality within the valley were La Escalereta (81 houses), Veracruz (76 houses) and San José de Belén (50 houses). These communities were collectively resettled. La Escalereta and San José de Belén were both located in El Agrado (the municipality most affected in terms of people displaced) and only San José de Belén was resettled within the same municipality to La Galda (19 houses). La Escalereta was moved to Llano de la Virgen in Altamira (45 houses). Veracruz resettled to Montea (19 houses) within the same municipality of Gigante. A fourth collective resettlement was built in Garzón at Santiago y Palacio which provides new homes to 15 families from Balseadero, Barzal

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Fig. 4.1 El Quimbo reservoir, municipalities and relevant places (GIS map, author’s creation)

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and Alto San Isidro (smaller affected veredas within Garzón, totalling 51 houses) (EIA, 2008, pp. 1000, 1181). The numbers of households decreased drastically in each settlement because not all families opted for the collective resettlement scheme. Some families negotiated individual resettlement with the company, and some sold directly and moved away. But there were also families that did not qualify for resettlement as they did not own the properties they lived on. For example, some families were employed by the farm owners, who had moved into the city, to take care of the farm. Some such mayordomos had carried out this profession for several decades and had no other home to go back to. Again others were considered “occupants” of lands that they did not own but were able to use because of the absence of the official owners.1 The discrepancies between registered plot ownership and actual land use were further complicated by collectively owned agricultural businesses (empresas comunitarias ). Eight such farmers’ cooperatives of 499 people owned in total 320 affected plots. One of which was La Escalereta (EIA, 2008, p. 1209). A group of approximately 130 people of ten families had occupied the abandoned finca later known as La Escalereta since the 1970s. After they had been forcefully evicted from the property four times, they received legal title to the lands thanks to the national agrarian reform in the 1980s. The reform established the legal framework for community-owned agricultural businesses which aimed to diminish the discontent of campesinos during that time. The lands of Escalereta were still legally owned by their farmers’ cooperative in 2007. While its persistent social cohesion resulted in the biggest collective resettlement of El Quimbo, the community structure of the other seven farmers’ cooperatives within El Quimbo valley had partly dissolved, and members opted for individual compensation schemes.2 The two second biggest collective resettlements of San José de Belén and Veracruz counted on strong community structures, similar to La Escalereta, without owning many farmlands themselves. Residents of San José de Belén gained their main income as agricultural workers on surrounding fincas (farm above 50 ha) and haciendas (estate above 200 ha) which produced labour intensive crops, like tobacco, rice, sargo, cacao, cotton and corn. Residents of Veracruz equally joined the seasonal agricultural workforce but also relied on fishing activities in the river and saw themselves a fisherfolk. Both communities have a long history in the

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valley with family names that go far back in time. Everyone knew and (mostly) trusted each other.3 San José de Belén is considered the first colonial settlement in the region, originally called Taperas. The historic chapel and connected cemetery were believed to be over 200 years old and had been recognised as a cultural heritage site in Huila. The chapel was in the process of receiving its formal title as part of the cultural heritage of Colombia in 2007. When the dam gates were closed in June 2015, the water flooded the original chapel of San José de Belén (the EIA had proposed dismantling and transferring it). For the community who had taken care of the chapel for generations and who connected the chapel to memories of weddings, baptisms and funerals, it was a loss of heritage, customs and tradition. The picture of the flooded chapel turned into the symbol of disrespect towards the local culture (see Atarraya Films, 2015). Its replica at La Galda has not been accepted by the Catholic Church (Chapters 10 and 11).4 Veracruz was and continues to be sister community of Rioloro through proximity and multiple family ties. While Veracruz (west of Rioloro) moved to Montea (east of Rioloro), the village Rioloro stayed. It is the closest village to the El Quimbo reservoir still in existence. But also here, the dam construction left its imprints. Once one of the main entrances to the haciendas in the valley, many family members of Rioloro lost their livelihoods when the lands were flooded. Only few received appropriate compensation; many had to move away to find new employment options. Those who stayed have tried to maintain the community structure while seeking recognition for the impacts suffered. As a result, Rioloro became the main gateway for my research “in the field”. I had already been in the country for three months, when I visited the small village along the North–South route for the first time in 2017. I had been invited to a local festival called “La Alegria Resiste” (Happiness resists) that local youth together with artists around the country organised to bring attention and tourism to Rioloro. During several days of events, performances and parties, I introduced myself to locals and made friends. Staying at a finca opposite of the chapel, taking my tinto (black coffee) at the local café-restaurant every morning, I soon got an impression of the collective and more individual struggles. I followed invitations to the resettlement of Montea and visited Llano de la Virgen and La Galda with each of their community representatives. In between visits, I stayed in Garzón where Emgesa had its local headquarter and a friend of mine from Neiva found employment as

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social worker. Establishing contact with company “insiders” had proven difficult during my time in Colombia. As the situation was still tense, national governmental officials and corporate representatives were sceptical towards independent researchers and would only repeat official statements. Consequently, all my interactions with company staff were off the record. During several occasions, in private settings or in public spaces like pubs, I engaged with colleagues of my friend employed by Emgesa and dealing, among others, with the compensation negotiations. As such, I gained an impression of the position of people on the other side of the dam conflict. These insights were complemented by five formal (still off the record) interviews: one with a Rioloro resident who was a long-term employee of Emgesa, one with the spokesperson of the conservation organisation Fundación Natura Garzón (which was contracted by Emgesa for carrying out the pilot stage of the restoration project), one with a biologist contracted by Emgesa at the South-Colombian University, one with the National Agency for Environmental Licences’ Head of Energy (all of the former in 2017), and one with a long-term leading EIA consultant in 2022. The latest interview was particularly valuable as it provided insights into the viewpoints of someone carrying out EIAs, reflection of practices at the time and how these have been updated since. While these interactions proved very insightful for my analysis of the EIA, the conversations need to remain completely anonymous and do not allow for direct quotes. The lack of “on the record” interviews on the side of the “experts”, people carrying out the environmental studies, is a limitation of my research. Many of my reflections rely on the written document of the EIA of 2008, the local accounts shared with me and witnessed at public events, and official statements published by the companies and governmental agencies thereafter. I indicate the general source to be transparent about the origin of each information while protecting anonymity. When quoting the affected population, I use pseudonyms. In the case of public representatives and outspoken critics of the dam project, I state their names with their full consent. My first three months in Colombia at the end of 2016, I spent in Huila’s capital Neiva. My previous visit to the region in 2012, as part of a student excursion from Lund University, had provided me with early insights to the dam struggle (three years previous to the reservoir filling) and with valuable contacts to the South-Colombian University located in the city. The university campus has been a key site of critical dialogue and

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social protest also with regard to the dam struggle. Emgesa had employed several researchers of the university to carry out studies related to the dam realisation. At the same time, the main organisation of the dam opposition, Asoquimbo, was situated on university grounds and involved many researchers and students. The organisation had additionally tight links to the provincial government, at the time under governor Carlos Julio Gonzáles. Gonzáles had won the elections in 2015 through his anti-dam campaign, which had proven fruitful after the controversies around the dam flooding had reached a public outcry and national attention in July 2015 (see Chapter 11).5 Thanks to my contacts at the university, I was able to attend many relevant meetings with different stakeholders in the region, in Neiva and in Bogotá and interviewed social and environmental activists, researchers of both sides, and public officials on provincial and municipal level. It was also thanks to Asoquimbo that I was welcomed and trusted by the fishing associations of El Hobo in 2017 and, back in 2012, by the resistance at La Honda, Gigante—the capital of cacao.

4.1

Theobroma cacao L.

It is refreshing in the shadow of the trees; their large leaves work like shields against the burning sun on the cloudless sky so common to this tropical dry forest. A variety of birds are singing to the backdrop of the monotone buzzing of insects—all of them surely enjoying escaping the heat above the canopy. Only as I lower my gaze, I am reminded that I am indeed on a plantation, a cacao plantation. The pod-shaped fruits of bright colour—reaching from yellow and orange to dark red—stand out among the layers of green leaves and wooden trunks. They are hanging from the stems of the smaller trees that equally value the shade of the larger broadleaf trees, among them plantain and banana palms (Musa paradisiaca), avocado (Persea americana) and mango (Manguifera indica), soursop (Annona muricata) and citrus trees (Ordoñez & Rangel-Ch, 2020). Very similar to its neighbours, the cacao tree attracts with its fruit. Once its hard, thick outer shell is cracked open, with the help of a nearby stone or a machete on one’s belt, a white pulp is exposed which encapsulates, like a furry coat, each of the up to 50 redbrown seeds (Fig. 4.2). It is after them being fermented and dried under the tropical sun that they turn into the commonly known chocolate beans.

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Fig. 4.2 Theobroma cacao L. (© Juan Luis Castillo, 2018)

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“Chupala”, the cacaotero (cacao farmer) at La Honda tells me after handing me a split fruit. My fingers reach into the soft flesh poking out an individual seed in its bedding. I cautiously place it between my lips and soak up the juice. It is sweet and citrusy. Highly invigorating. Encouraged by the taste and expectant look of the cacaotero, I put the seed into my mouth and start sucking away the pulp, then spitting the remaining seed into my hand. There it is the chocolate bean-to-be. The trees surrounding us and those on other cacao plantations within the El Quimbo valley are about 100 years old, says the farmer. Originally, the plants grew in the tropical rainforest, but the humidity made the fruits prone to disease. Today, Colombia’s most important cacao producing regions are situated in the dry forests of Huila, Antioquia and Santander. Many of the varieties are clones whose gene-materials are constantly improved for “efficiency” and ever higher yields. Not so at La Honda; the cacaoteros here rely on their knowledge of the variety’s specific requirements for fermentation and drying established over years, if not generations, of experience. Their process is described by Colombia’s official tourist site as “different from the rest of the country, making cacoa [sic] sensorial profile particular”: it is characterised by its “floral aroma of jasmine and white flowers, with acid notes that blend deliciously with the fruity flavor and delicate cacoa notes [sic]” (Colombia Country Brand, 2020). While still taking in the sounds of this agroforest system and the sweet taste left on my tongue, I am called back to the farmhouse. A cup of homemade hot chocolate topped with homemade fresh cheese (queso campesino) is waiting for me.

Notes 1. Based on local accounts shared with me in 2012 and 2017. 2. Based on interviews with La Escalereta community members in 2017 and on descriptions in the EIA (2008, p. 1209). 3. Based on the accounts of respective community members in 2017. “Peacefulness” and “rootedness” of communities within the valley also described in the EIA (2008, pp. 1177–1178). 4. Based on my visit to La Galda in 2017. 5. Emgesa closed all compartments of the dam and initiated the reservoir filling without prior announcement on 30 June. Not even the corresponding administrations were informed. The dam opposition had lobbied for a postponement of the initialisation of operation until the company had

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complied with all the legal requirements and compensation claims and until legal struggles would have been solved. The company however used the moment of distraction offered by the biggest festivity of Huila (San Pedro) at the end of June and started the filling. Its response to the widespread critique was, what is done is done. Nevertheless, the constitutional court prohibited turbine operation for another six months due to the unresolved claims (see Chapter 11.5; Helmcke, 2021, pp. 172–174).

References Atarraya Films. (2015, December 2). Antes y después de El Quimbo. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sggjDwRyWO8 Colombia Country Brand. (2020). Colombia is “Cacao Fino de Aroma.” https://www.colombia.co/en/colombia-country/colombia-the-land-wherecocoa-production-is-cacao-fino-de-aroma/ EIA. (2008). Estudio de Impacto Ambiental del Proyecto Hidroeléctrico el Quimbo - Emgesa-S.A. Ingetec-S.A., Emgesa-S.A. Helmcke, C. (2021). The defence of territory: Contested environmental politics at the El Quimbo Hydroelectric Dam in Huila, Colombia (PhD thesis). Norwegian University of Life Sciences. https://hdl.handle.net/11250/276 1077 Ordoñez, C. M., & Rangel-Ch, J. O. (2020). Composición florística y aspectos de la estructura de la vegetación en sistemas agroforestales con cacao (Theobroma cacao L. - Malvaceae) en el departamento del Huila, Colombia. Revista de La Academia Colombiana de Ciencias Exactas, Fisicas y Naturales, 44(173), 1033–1046. https://doi.org/10.18257/RACCEFYN.1183

PART II

The EIA in the Making

Only a specialist can help the masses to analyse space, but only the masses live space, and know concretely what it is. (Riou, 2007, p. 37)

CHAPTER 5

Environmental Impact Assessments: The Problem

Only a specialist can help the masses to analyse space, but only the masses live space, and know concretely what it is. —(Riou, 2007, p. 37)

Knowledge, space and power are three entangled concepts relevant to the analysis of Environmental Impact Assessments (EIAs). This part of the book will concentrate on the power of knowledge and how the EIA produced a “certain economy of discourses of truth” about the space to be affected (Foucault, 1980, p. 93). I will problematise what Riou (2007, p. 37) so eloquently formulated in the quote above, applying Foucault’s insights to Geography. I will start with this chapter by introducing the EIA system and its perils as identified in the literature. EIAs have been the principal tool of environmental auditing worldwide since the environmental influences of investments have become of wider public concern (first in the US in 1969; see Morgan, 2012). Simply speaking, an EIA can be described as “the evaluation of the effects likely to arise from a major project (or other action) significantly affecting the natural and man-made environment” (Wood, 2003, p. 1). This definition captures most EIA frameworks existent in different legislations around the globe. For the purpose of this book and the systematic analysis of EIA shortcomings, I will rely on a more comprehensive definition as suggested by Amelia Fiske (2017, p. 63): The EIA is “a set of scientific practices and © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_5

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a document that characterizes and evaluates the potential Impacts [sic] to the environment and local community of a proposed project, and analyzes risks and proposes means of preventing and managing potential negative impacts”. With this definition, Fiske emphasises four relevant attributes: firstly, the EIA is not merely a document or text, but comprises a set of scientific practices associated with its elaboration and negotiation; second, it characterises the area of potential influence and evaluates the different impacts the project intervention could cause to this area, not only considering the natural and man-made environment but also the human communities living there; third, it analyses risk which implies assessing the severity and likelihood of an impact to occur; and lastly, it proposes means of preventing and managing identified negative impacts.1 The purpose behind including such a process in national legislations is to allow decision-makers to be informed about costs and benefits of a proposed activity and to “outweigh” those before granting permissions to the project. The process should not only prevent the realisation of projects which promise more environmental costs than economic benefits, but also help avoid unnecessary burden caused by an investment to be realised, help understand risks that cannot be avoided, and identify strategies for their mitigation (Wood, 2003, pp. 1–2). According to EIA researchers interviewed for a recent study on the subject (Nita et al., 2022, p. 4), the EIA framework has globally contributed to more sustainable decisionmaking, improved the design of projects, offered good opportunities for public involvement in decision-making and provided increased accountability and transparency during the development process. As such, Fabiana Li (2009) calls the EIA a “tool of accountability”, a tool to make companies and state agencies accountable to the affected populations.2 While Colombia counted on a “National Code of Renewable Natural Resources and Environmental Protection” since Decree 2811 of 1974, the legal introduction of the EIA only followed the formation of the Ministry of Environment in 1993 (Ley 99 of 1993). The EIA as a prerequisite for granting the environmental licence was subsequently regulated through Decree 1753 of 1994. Decree 1728 of 2002 further detailed the licensing process by stating that the EIA must contain information on the location of the project, on the abiotic, biotic and socioeconomic elements of the environment that may suffer deterioration by the respective project, and the evaluation of the impacts that may occur along the project’s utility. This includes the design of prevention, mitigation, correction and

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compensation plans of impacts and the environmental management plan of the project (Article 17, Decree 1728 of 2002).3 Despite several amendments to the environmental law (more closely discussed in Chapter 9), the legislation generally defines the environmental impact assessment not as “an object of approval but of technical concepts, based on which the environmental authority decides on the granting or not of an environmental license” (Article 27, Decree 1753 of 1994 and Article 18, Decree 1728 of 2002). According to Colombian law, the EIA is considered a “value-free”, technical tool that informs the responsible environmental agencies about possible environmental risks and the management of the project’s impacts. Every company that wants to realise an activity, which legally requires an environmental licence, needs to contract experts that carry out the environmental impact study.4 The company pays for the EIA, and associated consultation processes, and is the one submitting the final document to the environmental authorities.5 If the project is approved, the environmental licence is granted. The Environmental Licence is a legal document founded on the details outlined in the EIA. “The Environmental Licence carries implicitly all the permits, authorisations and/or concessions for the use, exploitation and/ or affectation of renewable natural resources, which are necessary for the useful life of the project, work or activity” (ANLA, n.d.). It furthermore defines, in general terms, the company’s responsibilities for mitigation and compensation, agreeing, amending or rejecting the proposed strategies in the EIA. In the case of the El Quimbo dam, the EIA (i.e. the final version of 2008 that is publicly available and has formed the basis of the Environmental Licence, 2009) was carried out by Colombia’s largest engineering consultancy firm—Ingetec-S.A. Ingetec’s company profile states that it has over 60 years of experience providing engineering services to a variety of development projects, like hydro and thermoelectric projects, transmission lines, highway and ports, oil, gas, and mining. It consults companies of the public and private sectors during conceptual design, prefeasibility, feasibility, bid designs and detailed designs for the construction of their infrastructure projects. The services include environmental and social studies, as well as supervision of the construction works.6 Also at El Quimbo, Ingetec was assigned to design, audit and supervise the construction works of the dam after the Environmental Licence had been granted (Pérez Trujillo, 2019).

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As one of Colombia’s major energy producers, Emgesa is a valuable client to Ingetec. The relationship that started with the first prefeasibility studies of El Quimbo back in the 1990s suggests a power asymmetry which has been widely problematised by civil society confronting large investments and in academic literature that scrutinises EIA practices (see below and Chapter 8). The financial entanglement of the EIA experts with contracting company or public institution would bias these experts towards corporate interests.7 Fabiana Li’s contributions in this regard have been particularly influential. In her work, she sheds critical light on what an EIA does —“the actions that it anticipates and enables” (2015, p. 187). This allows her to uncover the political nature behind the apparent technical tool. EIAs serve to “delineate the parameters of the project [and] its measurable impact” (Goldman, 2005, p. 119; Li, 2018, p. 109). It turns nature with all its complexities of life into an object of environmental management (Li, 2018). The foundation of every EIA, the baseline studies, would not only determine the physical and social characteristics of the space to be influenced, where it begins and ends, what its natural assets are and what an impact defines (Li, 2015, p. 192), they would moreover be a form of “problematization” outlining the area’s deficiencies to then present the proposed project as solution in improving peoples’ lives (Carmona & Puerta Silva, 2020, p. 1080; see also Kirsch, 2014, p. 152). Revealing the elite interest entangled with the El Cercado irrigation dam realisation in northern Colombia, Susana Carmona and Claudia Puerta Silva (2020, p. 1074) consider EIAs as a “government technology” that has “the potential to exclude the socio-spatial dynamics of local populations while depoliticizing the interests behind the project”. As such, the EIA would act as a “legitimizing device” for controversial projects of high environmental and social impact: “the EIA appears to be an instrument for managing the risks that people and the environment pose to projects, and not the other way around” (ibid.). This is a devastating finding for a tool that is globally considered crucial in preventing disproportionate environmental and social costs (Morgan, 2012, p. 6; Nita et al., 2022). But Carmona, Puerta Silva and Li are not alone in their assessment of the assessment. The interviewed EIA experts in the study mentioned above disclose that, in practice, the EIA process often fails to stop environmental devastating projects from being realised and to effectively translate recommendations on mitigation and monitoring into project implementation and operation (Nita et al., 2022, p. 4).

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According to Richard Morgan’s review of the EIA literature in 2012, one of the main problems of EIAs would be “the failure to recognize the political and value-based nature of decision-making” and Mariel AguilarStøen and Cecilie Hirsch (2015, p. 473) describe environmental and social impact assessments as “spaces through which processes of exclusion are legitimated”. Ashley Fent’s review in 2021 (2021, pp. 1624–1625) includes the decolonial critique that EIA practice is strongly grounded in the western knowledge regime which depoliticises the proposed project “through techno-scientific and anthropocentric approaches to the valuation of nature”, while “explicitly or implicitly embodying capitalist values, liberal regimes of recognition, and techno-scientific expertise” (ibid., see Barandiaran, 2016; Hoogeveen, 2016; McCreary & Milligan, 2021; Stevenson, 1996). Meriam Bravante and William Holden (2009, p. 542) see associated shortcomings of the EIA system “not an oversight, or a result of faulty judgment, rather, they reflect a policy direction shaped by those with a vested interest in the continued mismanagement of natural resources”. Most authors mentioned so far do not see the problems associated with EIAs as “a demonstration of policy failure”. As Bravante and Holden put it: “it is a demonstration of political success in managing natural resources for the benefit of those who control the state” (2009, p. 542; see also Kirsch, 2014). This observation seems to hold true in the El Quimbo dam case. While having first been evaluated as unfeasible in the 1990s, it received the environmental licence in 2009 after corporate structures and political priorities had changed (Chapters 2 and 9). At the same time, several scholars highlight the importance of the EIA for resistance movements that seek counterarguments against the realisation of a proposed project (Aguilar-Støen & Hirsch, 2015, 2017; Fent, 2021; Li, 2013, 2016). Also at El Quimbo, The EIA plays a dual role in the conflict and subsequently in my research analysis. On the one hand, the EIA describes the area of the project’s “direct and indirect influence” in detail before the dam construction started. Together with follow-up studies carried out over the years after the environmental licence was granted, it became the principal source of information not only for the company, but also for governmental agencies, opposing movements, and researchers such as myself. On the other hand, the forms of knowledge it produces, as this Part will show, are highly contested and disputed by opposing parties. Consequently, I agree with Berkes and colleagues

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(2006, p. 317) who describe EIAs as “inherently political processes in which competing interests, values, world views, and options for action are negotiated”. But to what extent does the making of the EIA follow specific goals intentionally? What are exactly the mechanisms which allow a scientific tool of environmental accountability to be appropriated by elite or opposing interests? The vast literature that covers EIA advances and pitfalls has offered a variety of answers with regard to EIA’s procedure, form and content, and I will systematically walk through these throughout this Part of the book while analysing step by step their applicability in the El Quimbo case. I organise the identified mechanisms in three sections that differ in “intentionality” and build on each other. Blind spots (Chapter 6) emerge within EIAs through the god-trick or seeing from nowhere, short-sightedness, weak peripheral vision and convergence insufficiencies (not seeing what the other eye sees) of the experts involved, not so much due to individual choice but due to the “traditional science” taught and encouraged within the EIA system. Simplification (Chapter 7) is equally based in the traditional science but requires the experts to make active choices in fragmenting essentially interconnected processes, in abstracting, generalising and categorising impacts and in applying the logic of equivalence, commensurating unrelated process and rendering technical their mitigation. Serving power (Chapter 8), then, is the intentional manipulation of data to accommodate certain interests. It involves the active enclosure of information, building anticipation to the project by overstating benefits and understating risks, identifying alphas, i.e. social or political leaders, to gain their support, and the corporate control of the EIA and what is negotiated with the authorities. Having walked through these mechanisms, I will return to the issue of accountability (Chapter 9), asking how participation and the environmental licensing process have failed to counterbalance all the above dynamics at El Quimbo. The reader will notice that I will problematise scientific practices, such as classification and abstraction, which I myself apply in this analysis. The choice of how to classify the multiple limitations identified was not inspired by any pre-existent framework, such as suggested by data justice scholars (Leslie et al., 2022; Pritchard et al., 2022), to avoid a situation in which I look out for environmental data issues identified in other cases. Instead, I developed my own framework that emerged through my longterm engagement with the EIA document (I started to read it between

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my two visits to Huila in 2016) and through putting the material in conversation with my primary qualitative data and data collected by the dam opposition. I then reviewed the literature for similar or diverting experiences with environmental data and included those in the analysis. While still other classifications of the limitations are possible, I decided on the above-described structure, because it puts attention on the level of agency and intentionality behind EIA practices that result in shortcomings. It acknowledges structural limitations to the EIA process and grants EIA experts the benefit of the doubt. Accordingly, I will refer to the EIA document as “(EIA, 2008)”, instead of naming Ingetec as sole author, because the final text is the result of the institutional practices and involvement of both Ingetec and Emgesa (more in Chapter 8). The consultants contracted to undertake the studies, or as locally called la gente de Emgesa (Emgesa’s people), I will generally refer to as the EIA “experts”, following Carmona and Jaramillo’s understanding of the “enactment of expertise” in environmental management (2020). To contextualise my critique of “science” as a brand and legitimisation tool, I will briefly introduce my thoughts on knowledge and related terminology.

5.1

A Note on Knowledge

Traditional science might appear a confusing term when having the common dualism of “modern science” versus “traditional knowledge” in mind. Therefore, I will take a moment to deconstruct these terms and associated perceptions. The term modern science allows for two interpretations. The first interpretation would refer to how science came to be practised and understood as a result of the scientific revolution in the seventeenth century. The second interpretation refers to how contemporary science is practised and understood. Arguing that one equals the other would imply denying any progress, evolution or advances in academia. As philosophies of science have plurified, increasingly recognising diverse ways of knowing the world, and as “modernity” is a contested concept in itself, I suggest bidding farewell to the term “modern science” (Latour, 1993). Instead, I would like to introduce “traditional science” to express those forms of knowing that hold on to traditional characteristics of science such as described by B. Alan Wallace (2004, p. 18):

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Science [divorced from its philosophical and theological underpinnings] is a discipline of inquiry entailing rigorous observation and experimentation, followed by rational, often quantitative, analysis; and its theories characteristically make predictions that can be put to the empirical test, in which they may turn out to be wrong, and the theory is thereby invalidated. One of the central ideals of this discipline is that of a disengaged observer, capable of objectifying the surrounding world and suppressing emotions, inclinations, fears, and compulsions in order to pursue research in an unbiased and rational manner.

This practice of knowing relies on the belief system that pure objectivity, neutrality and rationality is possible to achieve in research. This belief and knowledge regime is archetypal to Western ideals of supremacy and has been criticised accordingly by decolonial and poststructuralist scholarship. A pioneer in his time and location was Michel Foucault. The French philosopher (1980, p. 82) argued that science has come to be portrayed as the superior form of knowledge production with a constructed “regime of truth” around its own discourses. This regime of truth would leave “a whole set of knowledges that have been disqualified as inadequate to their task or insufficiently elaborated: naive knowledges, located low down on the hierarchy, beneath the required level of cognition or scientificité [scientificity, the qualities regarded as scientific]”. Since Foucault’s famous lectures on the regime of truth, critical scholarship on the topic has grown around the world. On the forefront are decolonial thinkers who try to break with the abyssal thinking (pensamiento abismal; Santos, 2006, 2007) that they associate with western scientific knowledge practice, and that divides the world into human vs. nature, science vs. belief, true vs. false, objective vs. subjective, we vs. the other. Determining “the other”, a sort of dissociation, and claiming objectivity and superiority in knowing “the other’s” truth, would create chasms and clashes with alternative forms of knowing and relating (ontologies and epistemologies) and, as such, underlie any territorial conflict in the colonised world (i.e. political ontology; Blaser, 2009, 2013, 2019; Escobar, 2016, 2020; Fals Borda, 2009; Herrera Huérfano et al., 2016; Quijano, 2000; Santos, 2007, 2014; Ulloa, 2005). Disregarding the increased understanding of the diversity in knowing, perceiving and valuing landscapes, environmental decision-making continues to follow a rather technocratic approach to science and politics that seemingly allows for apolitical, expert-oriented decisions. Through

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“boundary-work”, distinctions between the scientific and non-scientific are drawn, which establish who has the authority to speak in the name of the environment and the people to be affected (Hébert, 2016, p. 120). The “non-scientific” is then described as “local”, “traditional” or “practical” knowledge and associated with feelings, customs, and cosmology rather than with logic, experimentation and verification (Scott, 1998). I agree with the scholarship and activism that wants to move past this dichotomy, first by uncovering the biases and beliefs inherent to scientific practices, and second, by showing the relevance and contributions offered by knowledge practices outside the academic realm (Alimonda, 2011; Escobar, 2008, 2016; Fals Borda, 2009; Machado Aráoz, 2010, 2017; Mignolo, 2000, 2007; Santos, 2006, 2014). In the case of EIA practice, Skewes and colleagues (2011, p. 54) describe the EIA as originating in “western cosmology” (cosmología occidental) emphasising the “archaic worldview” connected to it (Krupp, 2015). EIA experts would exclusively consider findings of own approved methodology and only regard other sources of knowledge if it can be “scientized” and if it fits their purpose. As such, experts would “extract” knowledge from communities without acknowledging its sources and without offering anything in return (Baker & Westman, 2018). Considering the above, I will call traditional science those forms of dissociate knowledge that claim objectivity and universality (similar to “techno-science” by (Hébert, 2016), corporate science the knowledge practice that follows corporate/elite interests (see Kirsch, 2014), and relational science those forms of knowledge practices that are post-abyssal, co-produced and situated (inspired by relational ontology, “sentipensar” and “walking with” methodologies; Escobar, 2014; Fals Borda, 2009; Kimmerer, 2020; Santos, 2006; Smith, 2012; Sundberg, 2013). This suggested terminology is far from being comprehensive and I acknowledge the diversity of views and practices within, outside or in between these umbrella terms. I believe making this distinction will nevertheless facilitate the discussion and contributions to follow.

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Notes 1. Some countries include Social Impact Assessments in their legislation which focus on the impacts on the human communities, their livelihood and culture. Usually and in the case of Colombia, abiotic, biotic and socioeconomic impacts are all included in the environmental assessment and can therefore be seen as Environmental and Social Impact Assessments (ESIA). In line with the legal framework of Colombia, I will refer to these assessments as EIAs. 2. As noticeable by now, I am not limiting my review of EIA literature to those works focusing on hydropower projects. I will relate to critical scholarship on EIA practice more widely and many studies will relate to extractive activities like mineral mining and oil drilling. The reason for this wider scope is first, that reducing attention to hydropower related EIAs neglects a broad range of experiences generated on EIAs in different industries and second, that this part is not about analysing the technical details and consequences of this specific type of investments but about analysing the way environmental (and social) data is gathered, composed, accessed and used. 3. The regulation reflects the logic of the mitigation hierarchy: if an impact cannot be avoided, try to minimise, or mitigate it. If that is not possible, restore or rehabilitate the ecosystem, and finally if that is still impossible, offset or compensate the damage done (Sullivan, 2013). 4. That is any work or project that generates serious deterioration of renewable natural resources or the environment and considerable modifications or noticeable changes to the landscape. Energy and mining projects generally require the National Authority of Environmental Licensing (ANLA, before 2011 the Ministry of Environment) to approve of the project. Other activities of smaller scale are handled by the respective regional environmental authority (CAR). 5. The level and form of participation within the EIA process differs between national legislations. In Colombia, only indigenous and afro-Colombian populations need to be consulted, if considered affected. Otherwise, public hearings in the affected region are deemed sufficient (see Chapter 9). 6. See company’s webpage https://www.ingetec.com.co/Pagina/firma/ (accessed 18 August 2020). 7. Spiegel’s paper on small-scale mining politics in Zimbabwe (Spiegel, 2017) uncovers another way such power imbalance can be abused. The national government introduced EIAs as a prerequisite for small scale mining as a tool to fight such activities. Forcing artisanal miners to pay an expert to conduct an EIA for their mine implies a cost in money and time which not many small miners can afford and henceforth lose their licence.

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Kimmerer, R. W. (2020). Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teachings of plants. Penguin. https://www.penguin.co. uk/books/316088/braiding-sweetgrass-by-kimmerer-robin-wall/978014199 1955 Kirsch, S. (2014). Mining capitalism: The relationship between corporations and their critics. University of California Press. Krupp, E. C. (2015). Native American cosmology and other worlds. Encyclopedia of Astrobiology, 1659–1667 . https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-662-44185-5_ 5222 Latour, B. (1993). We have never been modern. Leslie, D., Katell, M., Aitken, M., Singh, J., Briggs, M., Powell, R., Rincon, C., Perini, A., & Jayadeva, S. (2022). Data justice in practice: A guide for impacted communities. SSRN Electronic Journal. https://doi.org/10.2139/ SSRN.4080046 Li, F. (2009). Documenting accountability: Environmental impact assessment in a Peruvian Mining Project. PoLAR Political and Legal Anthropology Review, 32(2), 218–236. Li, F. (2013). Contesting equivalences: Controversies over water and mining in Peru and Chile. In J. R. Wagner (Ed.), The social life of water (pp. 18–35). Berghahn. Li, F. (2015). Unearthing conflict: Corporate mining, activism, and expertise in Peru. Duke University Press. Li, F. (2016). In defense of water: Modern mining, grassroots movements, and corporate strategies in Peru. The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology, 21(1), 109–129. https://doi.org/10.1111/jlca.12198 Li, F. (2018). Moving glaciers: Remaking nature and mineral extraction in Chile. Latin American Perspectives, 45(5), 102–119. https://doi.org/10. 1177/0094582X17713757/ASSET/IMAGES/LARGE/10.1177_0094582 X17713757-FIG1.JPEG Machado Aráoz, H. (2010). La ‘Naturaleza’ como objeto colonial. Una mirada desde la condición eco-bio-política del colonialismo contemporáneo. Boletín Onteaiken, 10, 35–47. Machado Aráoz, H. (2017). “América Latina” y la Ecología Política del Sur. Luchas de Re-existencia, Revolución Epistémica y Migración Civilizatoria. In H. Alimonda, C. Toro Pérez, & F. Martín (Eds.), Ecología Política Latinoamericano: Pensamiento critico, diferencia latinoamericana y rearticulación epistémica. Clacso. McCreary, T., & Milligan, R. (2021). The limits of liberal recognition: Racial capitalism, settler colonialism, and environmental governance in Vancouver and Atlanta. Antipode, 53(3), 724–744. https://doi.org/10.1111/ANTI. 12465

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Sullivan, S. (2013). After the green rush? Biodiversity offsets, uranium power and the calculus of casualties in greening growth. Human Geography, 6(1), 80–101. https://doi.org/10.1787/9789264222519-en Sundberg, J. (2013). Decolonizing posthumanist geographies. Cultural Geographies, 21(1), 33–47. https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474013486067 Ulloa, A. (2005). The ecological native: Indigenous peoples’ movements and ecogovernmentality in Colombia. Routledge. Wallace, B. A. (2004). The Taboo of Subjectivity: TOwards a New Science of Consciousness. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195173109.001. 0001 Wood, C. (2003). Environmental Impact Assessment: A comparative review (2nd edition). Pearson Education Limited.

CHAPTER 6

Blind Spots

In the making of the EIA, blind spots are unaccounted variables and complexities that are not understood (Scott, 1998, p. 291). I argue that they are the first set of shortcomings to emerge through the restricted field of vision of the experts carrying out the EIA. Such vision problems are connected to the god trick (seeing from nowhere), short-sightedness (seeing not far enough), weak peripheral vision (seeing not wide enough) and convergence insufficiency (not seeing what the other eye does). In this chapter, I will go through each of these mechanisms in detail before I return to the question of what blind spots do.

6.1

The God Trick

The conquering gaze from nowhere. (Haraway, 1988, p. 581)

The god trick is foundational to traditional science and was described as such for the first time by Donna Haraway in 1988. It gives name to the idea that a researcher can see “everything from nowhere” (581). Like God, the scientist would be above everything, seeing and understanding everything without being involved or situated within the studied phenomena. Haraway sees this belief as an illusion; everyone is seeing from somewhere and can only represent their own point of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_6

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view (Haraway, 1988, p. 587). The trick serves however to provide the appearance or pretence of neutrality and objectivity in science. Traditional scientists would assert that the purpose of rigorous scientific method would be to circumvent biased perception specific to the individual researcher generating findings that are repeatable and verifiable. If one method cannot account for unbiased results, a second or even third method is applied to triangulate the findings. An appropriate selection of methods would create evidence detached from the person carrying out the methods (Wallace, 2004). This line of argument sounds reasonable. Also, in the case of the EIA of the El Quimbo dam, the experts used a variety of data sources and methods at hand to build a comprehensive representation of what it is that would be affected and how. Within an overall period of six months, a total of twenty-two engineers, eleven biologists, three geologists, two agronomists, five sociologists, plus two social workers and four anthropologists (three of them specialising in archaeology) carried out a variety of studies to characterise the population groups and economy through an own census in addition to official demographic statistics and maps of the six municipalities, as well as the environment of the zone of influence through own samples of species, water and soil in addition to satellite images and official geological data (EIA, 2008, pp. 76–78). Together, the experts compiled a final document of over 2,300 pages offering a seemingly impartial overview of the potential risks and their severity without clearly voting for or against the project’s realisation. It follows the official purpose, requirements and procedures of any EIA. To illustrate the presence and effect of the god trick in the making of the EIA, I will concentrate on one highly contested aspect of the EIA’s baselines: the number and variety of riverine species present in the area of influence. This data was relevant as it determined how many families could have actually lived of fishing activities in the river and to what extent they are affected by the dam in that activity. Particularly fisherfolk expressed concerns about not having been included in the socioeconomic census (see next point). The rising discontent and legal struggles over compensation claims were countered on the side of the experts by referring to low visible fishing activity in the area during the census period. Furthermore, a biologist having been funded by Emgesa to study the fish population states that their samples did not support a big variety of fish in that part of the stream which would have been too cold for reproduction. Based

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on these numbers, only a few fishers could have lived off fishing in the area of direct influence.1 The “scientific” accounts were used to invalidate many claims for the compensation of income loss concerning fishing activities in the valley. This conflict was not limited to the valley. Also, further downstream at El Hobo, Betania reservoir, fisherfolk struggled with shrinking fisheries since the constructions at El Quimbo began (see below). The EIA considers fisherfolk downstream of El Quimbo beneficiaries of the project as the dam would decrease sedimentation and stabilise water run-off. Because of intensive fishing activity, including aquaculture, and the old age of Betania, the variety of fishes would have suffered and only El Quimbo could improve the situation (EIA, 2008, p. 1661, 1740). The EIA experts took samples in Betania and observed the catch of two commercial species bocachico (Prochilodus magdalenae) and peje (Pseudopimelodus ). They also registered the possible appearance of pataló (Ichthyoelephas longirostris ), gilthead seabream and sardines based on fishers’ accounts. The experts attributed their appearance to the fish cultivation in the Betania reservoir, some of which might have escaped (EIA, 2008, p. 481). Fisherfolk, I talked to in 2017, named nine relevant fish species that they used to catch: capaz (Pimelodus grosskopfi), bocachico, mojarra (Gerreidae), peje, cucha (Hypostomus plecostomus ), pataló (Ichthyoelephas longirostris ), maya, carpa (Cyprinus carpio specularis ) and viscaino (Curimata mivartii). By that time, the water level at El Hobo had drastically decreased and fisher boats lay dry at the shore. The fisherfolk blamed El Quimbo construction to have caused intensified sedimentation and contamination that had enforced the impacts of several avalanches along the Páez tributary in 2007 and 2008. At the beginning of 2011, dead fish covered the shores along Puerto Seco (the entrance to the Betania reservoir) and since the dam started operating the water run-off has been very limited and smelly (low in oxygen).2 The EIA acknowledges this impact due to the slow decomposition of organic material in the basin but its calculation are optimistic; all scenarios assume that Emgesa removed most biomass before the flooding, that the turbulence of the dam discharge would oxidate the water, and that the Páez tributary, 1.3 km downstream, would outbalance the remaining lack in oxygen levels. That the Páez River is the more sedimented stream due to its course running along the slopes of the highest volcano of Colombia, Nevado del Huila (whose eruption caused the avalanches in 2007 and 2008), is a fact not mentioned in

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the EIA. Furthermore, Emgesa did not remove all biomass (discussed in Chapter 10) and monitors in 2020 detected levels below 1 mg/l of oxygen in the run-off water, while the water entering the reservoir contained levels of 7 mg/l and the required minimum for aquatic life is 4 mg/l. This situation was not improved by the Páez River, or the liquid oxygen applied by the company in response to earlier complaints (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 8). In March 2023, media reported another wave of dead fish in Betania (Fabio Arenas, 2023). Biologist and politician Leyla Rincón argued that the anoxic waters of El Quimbo would still affect the situation at Betania and presented pictures of the accumulation of organic material at the surface of El Quimbo reservoir to the Congress in April (Comisión Quinta - Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). Emgesa’s public statement regarding the matter points out that El Quimbo’s discharge had been high and of no insufficiency: “Enel Colombia works permanently for the environmental care of the Betania reservoir, not only by constantly monitoring the quality of the water, but also with actions such as the removal of aquatic plants, and the restocking of fish, among others”. It further pronounces worry about the “external” factors that affect the state of the reservoir (Villarreal Ruiz, 2023). In terms of compensation claims by the fisherfolk downstream, Emgesa debunked those, naturalising the impacts, stating that the company cannot take responsibility for weather events, like droughts, and that their studies show that fishery had increased by 43 per cent downstream of El Quimbo, relying on the EIA data.3 This corporate strategy of denial (see Benson & Kirsch, 2010) makes use of scientific methods which carry a form of legitimisation that is missing in accounts based on personal experience. Scott calls this superiority of scientific knowledge production “imperial pretensions” (1998, p. 264). It disregards local knowledges and skills because they are created outside its own paradigm and exceed the technical framework of risk assessments, what Hébert calls “overflow” (2016; see also Baker & Westman, 2018; Fent, 2021). This pretention can reach as far as stigmatising contradicting arguments as “mythological” or environmentally fundamentalistic, as in the case of the Pascua-Lama conflict analysed by Fabiana Li (2016, pp. 204, 207). While the affected people at El Quimbo valley had their knowledge and experience to offer with regard to the culture and ecosystems to be flooded, these insights were usually not regarded as “evidence”

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but as perception or opinion of no scientific value. The EIA lists the fish species named by interviewed fisherfolk but weighs these accounts against samples taken. While individual claimants (of compensation) are possibly biased by immediate concerns and the hope of receiving money, experts are considered free of these emotions. However, as Carmona and Jaramillo (2020, p. 1093) point out, “each enactment of expertise” entails an interpretation, if not prediction, of the possible risks and future of a project in positive or negative terms. The authors apply Carr’s notion of expertise (2010, p. 18) who describes it “as a performative, ideological and inherently interactional phenomenon implicated in semistable hierarchies of value that authorize particular ways of seeing and speaking as [an] expert” (quoted in Carmona & Jaramillo, 2020, p. 1087). Experts can interpret and articulate risk in multiple ways, and the choices they make even if unconscious, are biased by their own experiences and point of view. The El Quimbo EIA’s optimistic evaluation of the risk of anoxia in the reservoir already exemplified this bias. To illustrate how systematic partiality is to the whole EIA process, I will briefly walk through the calculation of “impact importance” as applied in the El Quimbo EIA. The method was developed by Ingetec based on the calculation suggested by the Colombian Engineer Jorge Arboleda (1998). The formula reads as following: Importance of Potential Impact = Occurrence Probability × (Relative Magnitude + Non-Quantifiable Incidence) × Vulnerability Level × Duration × Character of Impact × 10 (EIA, 2008, p. 1594).4 For each variable a value is assigned. For instance, a short duration of impact, below 1 or 4 years (like temporary pollution due to excavation works),5 is valued below 0.5, while a permanent impact (like the flooding of a tropical dry forest ecosystem) is valued 1. The result of the formula would be a value between 0 and 6. Any impact below the value 1 would be deemed low/ irrelevant (periodic, of low magnitude and risk). Any impact of above 5 would be seen as very high/severe (permanent, of high magnitude and irreversible; EIA, 2008, pp. 38–41).6 Each assignment of value to a variable relies to a certain amount on subjective judgement and prediction (Soto Barrera et al., 2018, p. 289; Toro et al., 2013a, p. 49, 2013b, p. 10). While determining duration of an impact might be relatively straightforward, “occurrence probability” demands estimating the likelihood of the uncertain to occur and the “non-quantifiable incidence” measures the effects of the impact that are not quantifiable or difficult to estimate. Having studied EIAs and different

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methodologies in Colombia, Toro and colleagues (2013b, p. 10) point out, “opinions of the importance of certain environmental impacts tend to differ, depending on the values and personal beliefs of the evaluators”. It is generally admitted, also among EIA experts that environmental evaluation is subjective but that numbers are asked for by policymakers. Quantification is indeed seductive, as Merry (2016) showed with international indicators: “numbers convey an aura of objective truth and scientific authority despite the extensive interpretive work that goes into their construction” (p. 1). In the case of the EIA, the impact calculation allows the experts to hide their subjectivity behind seemingly neutral numbers. They incorporate their interpretations into objects and processes in which they gain independence from the expert (Carmona & Jaramillo, 2020, p. 1088). The researcher disappears behind their written words, numbers, pictures and graphs and their findings and discourses develop a life on their own, detached from the author (Fent, 2021, p. 1631; Fiske, 2017, p. 63; Li, 2015). Indeed, it is in very few occasions that the experts step into the light in the EIA and offer own reflections on their positionality or limitations in methodology. In the section in which the methodology for determining the “ecological potential” of the different environmental zones is described, the authors mention “the impossibility of making a qualitative assessment of the criteria adopted which in turn are determined based on the known characteristics of each element considered” (EIA, 2008, p. 790). This statement does not make sense on its own and, in context of the following discussion, seems to contain an error. It is the impossibility of quantifying the assessment which is considered a limitation. The authors accept the complexities of social-environmental interactions within each zone and admit relying on a “qualitative” (subjective) value scale when weighing the zone’s ecological potential as either low, medium or high (EIA, 2008, p. 790). Similar acknowledgment is provided when the “quality of landscape” is assessed which is based on the visual experience of the researcher in question (EIA, 2008, p. 749). With regard to carrying out species samples (flora and fauna) in the region, the authors reflect on the “difficulty” in surveying all species in a limited timeframe. To verify their sample, they would have consulted satellite images and secondary sources on species diversity in similar ecosystems to create a more complete picture (EIA, 2008, pp. 186, 332). They would consider local records of species present while recognising the

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potential disappearance of species due to habitats having changed (EIA, 2008, p. 294). In general, the EIA mentions limitations concerning some methods but always suggests a way to overcome these, never addressing possibility of bias or own involvement in the study. Only on one occasion do the authors reflect on the chance that their presence could lead to a particular response: attracting people from outside the zone of influence that seek to be registered in the census to take advantage of the compensation schemes (EIA, 2008, p. 1082). This could explain why there was not much visibility and misconceptions around the census at the time. The experts tried to silence their own presence within the area to be studied, while discounting the responses such behaviour might trigger. This attitude represents a limited reflexivity of the expert’s positionality in the field and corresponds to the illusion that the researcher has no impact on the behaviour of the studied subject—a fallacy long observed and problematised in the Social Sciences (Backhouse & Fontaine, 2010; Fals Borda, 1979). The circumstances of the interactions taking place, the questions that are asked and in what manner, always influence the reaction. Contrary to the fear of the scientists to attract too many “claimants”, the local population was sceptical about strangers roaming their lands asking questions. This mistrust is common especially in more marginalised communities, also described by Baker and Westman (2018) in the case of indigenous EIA consultation for oil sand extraction in Alberta. At El Quimbo, residents feared that taxes might be increased, as such many tried to appear poorer than they were, not giving away all their assets—a strategy which caused later disadvantage in claiming actual losses. In summary, there are three problems connected to the God trick: first, the pretence of neutrality, second, the perceived superiority (imperial pretensions), and third, the disregard of possible influences the study might cause on the subject. All can be observed in the El Quimbo EIA process. Next, I look at how short-sightedness has influenced the making of the EIA.

6.2

Short-Sightedness

In Seeing like a State, James Scott terms “shortsightedness” the problem that experimental models for testing inventions always run short-term assuming that “the long-run effects will not contradict the short-run findings” (Scott, 1998, p. 293). Such timeframe, enforced by institutional

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and commercial pressures, has critically been noted by a variety of EIA researchers (Barandiarán, 2020, p. 59; Bravante & Holden, 2009, p. 540; Fiske, 2017, p. 69; Li, 2015, p. 192). The studies that are undertaken for the assessment of environmental impact cover a short time period, while the economic and environmental viability of the project should be guaranteed long-term. In the El Quimbo case, the EIA experts spend in total six months studying the region which included several shorter visits to different areas in different periods. This timeframe corresponds to corporate and institutional requirements but cannot represent the full crop cycles of a variety of plants or seasonal variations in agricultural work. As noted in the previous section, the experts complemented their findings with local accounts and secondary sources. Nevertheless, in the aftermath of the environmental licence being granted, people contested the baselines of the EIA arguing that many affected people, species and livelihood assets were not accounted for. Prolific is the case of the fisherfolk. The socioeconomic census for the EIA was carried out between 14 May and 22 June 2007, but an additional survey of fisherfolk was carried out by Ingetec in August 2008. In these periods, the experts registered 75 people who engaged in fishing activities, 26 did so permanently (EIA, 2008, p. 2078). However, in their final census they only list 39 persons engaged in fishing as a productive activity in the valley, 31 of them permanently (EIA, 2008, p. 1804). These later numbers correspond to the 2007 register of the Colombian NGO Fundación Humedales (EIA, 2008, p. 2078). It is peculiar that the experts relied on these registered numbers rather than on its own survey results. In any case, relative to the total population living in the valley (1,537 people, of which 1,056 are of working age according to the census), these numbers are surprisingly small. Surprising, because the part of the river was known for its fisheries. The former community of Veracruz identified as fisherfolk accounting for 76 households, and as the EIA explains fishing is a family activity providing additional food and income for households (2008, p. 942). Not only did residents close to the river take advantage of its fish, so did fisherfolk living in the close by towns of Gigante, Garzón and La Jagua (see Grupo Kavilando, 2011). Many of them claimed that they had not been informed of the census and were not present in the area during the time the experts registered fisherfolk. The census was carried

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out between 8am and 4pm; fishers are generally active along the river during the early morning hours, before the sun rises at 6am.7 Even though the environmental mitigation plan in the EIA points out that the census will require updates in this regard (2008, p. 2078), Emgesa maintained the position that people were sufficiently notified in advance to the census and that the study’s scope would have covered times and spaces in a representative manner (additionally relying on the scientific data on fish population, as outlined above). In reaction, the regional anti-dam organisation, Asoquimbo, soon compiled a list of 8,000 people that saw themselves affected by the dam. The list was presented to the legal authorities as “tutelas” (legal claims for the protection of rights). In the first instance, the Civil Family Chamber of the Superior Court of the District of Neiva and, in the second instance, the Civil Cassation Chamber of the Supreme Court of Justice rejected the tutelas, because they saw insufficient proof that the people’s subsistence was at risk because of the dam construction. Consequently, the cases were forwarded to the Constitutional Court, who ruled in March 2013 (Sentence T-135/13) in their favour.8 The seminal ruling states that the census cannot be time-bound and needs to remain open to including all those people who experienced an impact on their subsistence at any point throughout the dam development. Emgesa had to make a new census within the next six months, respecting the rights for participation of those affected (Sentencia T-135: Participación y Concertación de Personas Afectadas Por El Desarrollo de Megaproyectos, 2013; see Chapter 11). Emgesa reviewed 181 cases in June 2013, however the court reminded the company that this was not enough. At the time of the deadline, Emgesa demanded that the court revises the Sentence T-135, but without success. By then 28,644 people had requested their inclusion in the census. At the public hearing in November 2015, Emgesa stated that it received in total 30,564 claims, of which it compensated 7.7 per cent (2,353 people). This court case challenged the temporal and spatial scales of censusmaking determined by the company. In temporal terms, it acknowledged that the timeframe of the census, as a snapshot taken in 2007, cannot represent fluctuations in work and migration pattern or family growth in the years prior to the dam finalisation. In spatial terms, it showed that “the area of direct influence” could not be limited to the flooded area, if the agricultural production chain of the whole region is impaired. As lands and harvests were abandoned after farmers had sold to Emgesa,

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not just seasonal workers but also truck drivers, merchants and manufacturers claimed loss of income. The problem had been intensified by the damage that the dam constructions had caused to local road infrastructure (Sentencia T-135: Participación y Concertación de Personas Afectadas Por El Desarrollo de Megaproyectos, 2013; see Chapter 10).9 EIA experts relate to the static nature of census and other EIA baseline data matter-of-factly. It is a picture taken at a specific point in time, and an Engineer of Endesa Chile, interviewed by Barandiarán in 2011, explains that “Making a baseline is like taking a photograph [of nature], to see what is there” (quoted by Barandiarán, 2020, p. 58). The court ruling identifies a problem in this approach which reflects a wider critique of the baselines in literature. EIA experts would not only present, but see landscapes as stationary, “waiting to be captured” by them at that moment in time (Barandiarán, 2020, p. 59). Similar to Barandiarán’s critique, Scott (1998, p. 46) compares the cadastral map with “a still photography of the current in a river”: “It represents the parcels of land as they were arranged and owned at the moment the survey was conducted. But the current is always moving…”. And Fiske (2017, p. 69) argues, “The baseline study relies on the fiction of being able to stop time in order to make future predictions about harm, thus divorcing historical processes from their outcomes”. Consequently, EIA experts would be like “fleeting intermediaries” of the lateral histories in place (Skewes et al., 2011, p. 51). The baseline would act as “an inert and timeless backdrop to ‘progress’” (Fent, 2021, p. 1625): The future without the project’s realisation would only mean the continuation of the status quo (static picture) disregarding any alternative development paths and local entrepreneurship (Carmona & Jaramillo, 2015, p. 8). This is represented in the El Quimbo EIA assessment of the local economy which it states would be of declining productivity, sooner or later entering crisis. For example, the section on the influence on productive activities “without project” reads as follows: The current conditions of the agricultural sector of the area of direct impact present technical rice crops, which are being affected in their profitability by the high production costs, especially those related to water for irrigation. Regarding the cultivation of cocoa, old plantations with low productivity predominate, which has led farmers to deliver the crops to ‘partijeros’ [tenants], who, based on the use of family labour, maintain

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production. For the current traditional cocoa farmers, this crop is not profitable, and the areas dedicated to planting have decreased. These producers assure that 10 years ago the area planted with cocoa was 10 times greater than the current one and that the area has been reduced, due to the fact that the crop is not profitable. In recent years, there has been a change in the use of agricultural land for livestock, because of the low prices of agricultural products at the producer level and the high production costs, a change that began about 10 years ago. Specifically, the harvested areas of sorghum and cotton have decreased. According to what was stated by some producers interviewed during the field work, if the current situation of agriculture in the AID is maintained (with a lack of water and infrastructure for irrigation), the sector will continue to decline and enter into crisis. (EIA, 2008, p. 1758; see also p. 1225)

Of course, no study can be limitless in time or space, but where boundaries are drawn is not a value-free process: boundaries are not “unambiguously defined by biophysical characteristics”, nor are they politically neutral (Lebel, 2006, p. 37; Reid et al., 2006, p. 8). All scales are socially constructed, potentially according to certain power interests (Cox, 1998; Harvey, 1990). The scale the experts chose for analysis (the area of direct impact) did not correspond to the scale at which the impact was experienced (see also Lebel et al., 2005, p. 2). The census scale determined who counted as affected and was able to claim compensation for impacts. It had the power to exclude and include (Lebel et al., 2005, p. 1). The choice to limit the area of direct impact to the reservoir and dam infrastructure corresponded however to the Terms of References for EIAs of large dams as defined by the Ministry of Environment at the time (Ministerio de Ambiente, 2006). This restriction was not binding but standard procedure. In 2023, the Minister of Environment and Sustainable Development emphasised the need to update these terms of references, specifically relating to the El Quimbo dam case (Comisión Quinta - Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). With short-sightedness, I have addressed the problem of scalar limitations, spatial and temporal, in the composition of EIA data. I will now turn to another structural vision impairment—weak peripheral vision.

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6.3

Weak Peripheral Vision

Weak peripheral vision is another concept I borrow from Scott. He describes weak peripheral vision as the condition of scientists focusing on single variables in their analysis, bracketing out other factors of potential influence (Scott, 1998, p. 292). In traditional laboratory work, a controlled environment is required to study the behaviour or interaction of the variable of interest. Even if the scientists adapt the environment and test different sets of variables, their comprehension of how the object of analysis will engage with the real world (outside the lab) will always be incomplete. “Even under the best of circumstances, the laboratory results and the data from the experimental plots of research stations are a long country mile from the human and natural environments where they must ultimately find a home” (Scott, 1998, p. 288). In the context of EIA practice, I see this condition implicit in the experts’ concentration on individual variables and tasks as well as the often very limited assessment of secondary and cumulative impacts (Baker & Westman, 2018; Bravante & Holden, 2009; Fiske, 2017). Secondary impacts are often framed as indirect impacts that occur as a result of a direct impact which caused rather unforeseen interaction. To provide an example from the dam construction, if a terrestrial habitat is flooded, it will (directly) displace animals that can escape the rising water. These animals will look for a new habitat. The EIA of El Quimbo assumes that affected species will find these in the assigned “zone of environmental compensation” (EIA, 2008, p. 177). Unfortunately, animals do not follow signs and even if they could, they would not have found a revitalised forest ecosystem. At the point of the reservoir flooding, the hillside pastures were still in the pilot stage of their restoration.10 Consequently, many animals were spotted along the highway, where they often lost their lives, and on the coffee plantations of El Agrado. Farmers reported sudden damage to their crops which they knew was caused by bats and snakes; species that they had only rarely encountered previous to the flooding.11 This interaction can be seen as a chain of impacts not accounted for by the EIA and as such not covered by compensation mechanisms. Similar occurred in what the dam opposition referred to as the “chain of displacement”. It gave name to the phenomenon that not only former communities at El Quimbo were uprooted but also their resettlement uprooted again other communities. In November 2013, around 200 agricultural workers protested their

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displacement from the plots Santiago and Palacio in Garzón, which were bought to provide new homes for the compensated families of El Balseadero within the same municipality (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 78). Conflicts between remaining and new families were reported at Llano de la Virgen in Altamira where families of La Escalereta (Garzón) were moved to and at La Galda in El Agrado where families of San José de Belén (El Agrado) were moved to (see Chapter 4).12 A cumulative impact then results from successive, incremental and/ or combined effects of projects, works or activities when added to other existing, planned and/or reasonably anticipated future impacts (ANLA, 2018). This often-required detail of the EIA asks the experts to consider other activities in the area and how the project’s impacts could intensify their impacts. In the El Quimbo EIA, the cumulative impact of each direct impact is addressed primarily by referring to the existence of another large dam structure—Betania—further downstream, and in some instances to mining activities in the eastern hills. These considerations are generally limited to a few sentences and do not recognise memories of impacts as experienced by the local populations (see also Fiske, 2017, p. 68).13 For example, with regard to the impact on the fishing sector, the EIA mentions secondary impacts such as the “alteration of the socioeconomic conditions of the fisherfolk”, the decrease of permanent employment and the increase in unemployment. As cumulative impact, it notes that Betania already caused restriction to fish migration, but studies of fish repopulation suggest that such efforts can re-establish the socioeconomic conditions of the fisherfolk. The importance of impact is calculated as medium (2.24) and highly manageable (1.7; EIA, 2008, pp. 1805– 1807). In this instance, secondary impacts seem to state the obvious and cumulative impacts appear to be an afterthought, which then serves to reduce the impact importance. Both miss to recognise the wider impact of the agricultural and fishing production chain in the region (see previous sections). Limiting the variables accounted for not just in terms of temporal and spatial scale (short-sightedness) but also in terms of crosslinking reactions of various variables (weak peripheral vision), I see a direct result of established EIA procedures that require of the expert to focus their attention on particular aspects in specific time and space. Each researcher in a team contracted to carry out the EIA fulfils a specific function, and this function is usually well defined and restricted to certain technicalities, methods and timeframes. For example, the plant biologist reviews

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secondary information and photo interpretation, and verifies the surveyed units in the field during two sampling periods with the objective to diagnose the “vegetation cover of the area of indirect influence”, as well as to characterise the flora and vegetation of the area of direct influence (EIA, 2008, pp. 75–76). This exclusive preoccupancy with the predefined task can also be called “tunnel vision” as other factors of relevance are blended out. An EIA expert interviewed by Li (2016, p. 203) admits: “As consultants, we limit ourselves to the question that is put to us”. This generally includes avoiding any form of “judgement”. Similarly, Fiske (2017, p. 63) observes the behaviour of experts to always respond to appeals to their humanity by affected families with technical or legal frameworks. This behaviour is met with irritation among the local populations because they do not care about what a certain regulation or calculation says about acceptable noise levels (in the case of Fiske) or about acceptable water pollution (in the case of the El Hobo fishing community and visible in (Leifsen, 2017; Li, 2013). They care about what they experience as unacceptable, and unrecognised, alterations to their environment and daily life. In the eye of the experts confronting complaints, they have done their job. They have taken the appropriate measurements, had done the calculations right and complied with the corresponding regulations. This is what they have been paid for.14 To extend the critique expressed by the “God trick”, own reflection on personal involvement and limitations is as rare as ethical considerations within EIAs. A document search in the El Quimbo dam EIA of the Spanish words for morality and ethics gave zero results. Additionally, even if the consultants have their personal opinion with regard to what should be done, the client would be usually only interested in what needs to be done in terms of regulations. EIA experts are urged to comply with their set-functions within their discipline; the factors or processes outside their scope of analysis is potentially looked at by a colleague of different expertise. The multidisciplinary teams, as seen in the El Quimbo dam case, provide ample potential for interdisciplinary exchange and to complement each other’s understanding of the realities encountered. The next section will analyse how this potential is enacted.

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Convergence Insufficiency

To stay within the metaphor of vision impairment, I define the term “convergence insufficiency” as the lack of interdisciplinary communication within EIA expert teams. The medical condition I refer to occurs when a pair of eyes does not work with each other, and each eye produces its own picture. This can lead to blurred or double vision. Similarly, in research teams, a limiting degree of collaboration and interactions between experts of different disciplines or expertise can result in different pictures created and in incompleteness, repetition or contradiction of information provided (blurriness). Early critiques of environmental assessments in the 1990s and early 2000s have focused on the unequal representation of social scientists relative to engineers and physical scientists. For example, the Colombian Office of the Comptroller General (Contraloría General de la República— CGR) assessed the state of EIAs in Colombia up to 2006 and noted the “worrying” lack of social scientists participating in the expert teams (2006, p. 173). As the recognition of social and cultural dimensions of environmental impacts globally grew, the EIA process increasingly included sociologists, anthropologists, psychologists and social workers also in Colombia. They provide the EIAs with valuable insights into the diverse population groups who might suffer from proposed investments. The experts of different disciplines would contribute each to either the socioeconomic, biotic or abiotic characterisation of the area of influence and bring their findings together in the evaluation of the overall risks. However, as Carmona and Jaramillo’s analysis of a small dam project in the Neiva River shows, this often only seems to happen in theory. “The interaction between experts, heads and coordinators was minimal. There were no meetings to discuss the impacts or to corroborate the calculations of each other” (2015, p. 7). Also in the El Quimbo EIA case, the characteristic symptoms of convergence insufficiency, such as incompleteness, repetition, and contradiction of EIA information, are visible. The publicly available EIA document appears disorganised and inaccessible. Chapters do not always line up according to their numeration and their content lists are misplaced and/or incomplete. Some paragraphs stop mid-sentence or end with a comma. Some sections seem to be copy-pasted without incorporating

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them within the context of preceding or following parts. The accessibility is worsened by a predominant technical jargon, grammatical errors, contradictions and repetitions. In previous sections, I have mentioned the confusion of terms, like in describing quantitative vs. qualitative data, the incoherence with predefined scales, like a temporary impact lasts either up to 1 or 4 years, and the solution to one problem is seen as the root of the problem at another instance, like fish farming is presented as solution to impacts on fishing sector, while it is also seen as producer of pollutants and sediments that decrease habitability of the reservoir. But repetitions and contradictions are also visible within the same sections, for example the EIAs evaluation of community resilience. The experts argue that the strong sense of belonging of communities with long traditions would make them adaptive enough to overcome impacts of resettlement, especially if it happens collectively and in consultation with the local population (EIA, 2008, p. 1350). Their “deep rootedness in the territory” and social networks (ibid., p. 1177–78), as well as economic adaptability would make them resilient to change. The EIA outlines that especially smallholders and agricultural workers would have a “great capacity for adaptation” (EIA, 2008, p. 1351). Earlier in the document it explains: One of the adaptive strategies consists of complementing the economic income of their properties, using themselves as day laborers in haciendas and farms in the area, mainly growing coffee, rice and cane. This work is performed by adult and youth family members, both male and female. They also move to other municipalities or villages to work as day laborers, depending on the harvest season. (EIA, 2008, p. 1172)

The diversity in income-generating activities is a valuable finding which should have been represented in the census data. But it was not (more in Chapters 7 and 8). The association with “adaptability” served however as an argument for considering the impacts associated with resettlement and income loss as of high but manageable risk (EIA, 2008, p. 1758). Nevertheless, within the same section of the EIA, the difficulty of some of the farmer’s cooperatives to repay their agricultural loans serves as an argument for poor organisational capacity (EIA, 2008, p. 1209). And because more and more people celebrated the traditional festival of San Pedro in the municipal centres instead of at the veredas, the EIA argues

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that a disintegration of the community was already taking place (2008, pp. 1170–1171, 1174). This serves as an argument for the impact on local culture being again manageable (EIA, 2008, p. 1796). Similar contradictions are visible in the case of political organisation. On the one hand, the EIA states that “the community action boards are the fundamental axis of the vereda’s relationship with the institutions through which institutional programs and projects are developed” (EIA, 2008, p. 1175) and accordingly the councils would be good channels for distributing information and receiving “representativeness”. “Through telephone calls, the presidents of the community action councils will be informed about the economic census, its objective, [and] the start date” (EIA, 2008, p. 821). However, in a later evaluation in the EIA, it says: Situations that prevent real participation due to lack of belonging, awareness, selfishness and politiquería [politicking, political chicanery], and due to the deficiency of an administrative entity that supports them are evident in these meetings. [... Furthermore,] Due to the lack of autonomy vis-à-vis regional politicians and organizational and political independence towards the State, the JAC [Community action councils] present weaknesses in their actions and in their management to successfully complete the projects of the communities they represent, which is why it is frequent to find in these Councils, inconclusive projects and inactive representatives. (EIA, 2008, p. 1326)

The community action councils as line of communication had its weaknesses as many people claimed to have been left in the dark regarding the census. While devaluing their political organisation, the experts still considered the councils as being the appropriate space for achieving participation. Not all of these discrepancies are necessarily explained by a lack of coordination among the experts and heads. It has however been accepted as weakness within consultancies. Since 2008, the EIA division of Ingetec would have constantly updated its frameworks. Pinzón and Quevedo (2019) analyse and compare the methodologies to evaluate environmental impact within the renewable energy sector in Colombia and Panama. One of the five compared methodologies is by Ingetec. The authors state that since 2015, the consultancy firm has been technically combining and adapting various methods to adjust and simplify its methodology.

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“Ingetec’s methodology offers advantages in the analysis of environmental impacts and seeks to be an interdisciplinary and systematic methodology” (2019, p. 88). Pinzón and Quevedo positively highlight the application of the Delphi method: “The way to evaluate the degree of importance of each parameter is supported by the implementation of the Delphi method, based on a panel of experts which gives a certain degree of confidence” (2019, p. 75). The procedure of “technical forecasting” would use the “wisdom of a crowd” without biasing each other in one’s opinions. Each expert of a panel is asked to answer a questionnaire to get their professional opinion and on what data they rely on. The results are discussed in the panel which then reaches a consent. I would consider this practice as still multidisciplinary. ∗ ∗ ∗ The studied shortcomings so far—the god trick, short-sightedness, weak peripheral vision and convergence insufficiency—lead to blind spots. Blind spots are holes in the pictures that are meant to represent the worlds to be affected and therefore limit the full comprehension of risks and their possibilities for mitigation. So far, I have granted these incoherencies the benefit of the doubt. Time constraints, clear definitions of tasks and difficulty in coordination are rather structural than up to the single expert to change. The next chapter will discuss more intentional choices that are made in the simplification process of EIA data.

Notes 1. Based on personal, informal conservations. 2. Based on personal visit to El Hobo in early 2017 and interviews with fisherfolk. 3. According to the official response letter shared with me at the time. 4. The Occurrence Probability can be certain, very probable, probable, unlikely, or improbable. Relative magnitude indicates the comparative relationship between the dimension or coverage of the impact and the wider environment affected (low to high). The Non-quantifiable incidence measures the effects of the impact that are not quantifiable or difficult to estimate, like secondary and tertiary effects (low to high). The Vulnerability Level evaluates the ability of the affected element to assimilate the changes introduced by the project (low to high). The Duration refers to

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the persistence of the impact over time. It can be permanent, temporary or occasional. And the Character of Impact is either positive or negative (EIA, 2008, pp. 1595–1596). The methodological description sets “below one year” as impact of short durée, but in practice all risks below four years are evaluated of short durée. This formula does not yet include the possibility of mitigation/ management. The highest impacts calculated by the EIA is the impact on human settlements (5.31) and the impact on productive activities (4.86). After counting in mitigation strategies, these values are 5.26 and 3.89 (manageable). Based on local accounts shared with me at La Honda in 2012 as well as in Rioloro and Nueva Veracruz (Montea) in 2017, also explained in Atarraya film shown in the Congress (Comisión Quinta - Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). The Constitutional Court of Colombia is the final appellate court for matters involving interpretation of the political constitution. The Supreme Court of Colombia is the highest authority with regard to the interpretation of administrative law, constitutional law and the administration of the judiciary (see Nagle, 1995). Also, many people that had depended on the resources available at the river stream for generating income without living there were not included in the census; next to fishing, they extracted sand, water, wood or other materials (including gold) from the riverbank to secure their livelihood. With the lands being declared of “public utility”, the extraction of these resources (including crops) became prohibited. This is an acknowledged discrepancy in the environmental management plans. The main problem lies in the temporal gap between the execution of the environmental harming investment and the mitigation activities. While it would be socially and ecologically more appropriate to initiate compensation schemes prior to project execution, this would be difficult to justify economically in front of investors. Based on personal conservation with coffee farmers in El Agrado in 2017 and speeches given at the public hearing in November 2016. Based on visits to and conservations with both communities in 2017. In the case of Colombia this is often associated with a long history of violence and forced displacement and disappearances. Also at El Quimbo, many communities had struggled in remaining on their lands specifically in the 1970s and 1980s (see Chapter 4). There was a sense of dark humour connected to the fact that years of armed conflict could not evict the people, now the state succeeded. An additional trauma had been caused in the aftermath of Betania dam construction in the 1990s. One night, a few drunken guys roamed the streets of Neiva and shouted out “Betania se

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fue”—Betania went down. The city of Neiva is located right at the shore of the Magdalena River downstream of Betania. The message implying that the dam structure collapsed caused mass panic among the sleepy urban settlers. Within the chaos, one man died and several more were injured. Years later, at the time of El Quimbo dam realisation, trust in the technology had not yet returned (based on local accounts in Neiva in 2016). 14. Based on informal conservations with Emgesa staff in 2017.

References ANLA. (2018). Instructivo Metodológico de Impactos Acumulativos. Arboleda, J. (1998). Una propuesta para la identificación y evaluación de impactos ambientales. In Ministerio de Medio Ambiente (Ed.), Manual de evaluación de impactos ambientales de Colombia (pp. 1–16). Backhouse, R. E., & Fontaine, P. (2010). Toward a history of the social sciences. In R. E. Backhouse & P. Fontaine (Eds.), The History of the social sciences since 1945 (pp. 184–233). Cambridge University Press. Baker, J. M., & Westman, C. N. (2018). Extracting knowledge: Social science, environmental impact assessment, and Indigenous consultation in the oil sands of Alberta, Canada. Extractive Industries and Society, 5(1), 144–153. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.12.008 Barandiarán, J. (2020). Documenting rubble to shift baselines: Environmental assessments and damaged glaciers in Chile. Environment and Planning e: Nature and Space, 3(1), 58–75. https://doi.org/10.1177/251484861 9873317/ASSET/IMAGES/LARGE/10.1177_2514848619873317-FIG2. JPEG Benson, P., & Kirsch, S. (2010). Capitalism and the politics of resignation. Current Anthropology, 51(4), 459–486. https://doi.org/10.1086/653091 Bravante, M. A., & Holden, W. N. (2009). Going through the motions: The environmental impact assessment of nonferrous metals mining projects in the Philippines. Pacific Review, 22(4), 523–547. https://doi.org/10.1080/095 12740903128034 Carmona, S., & Jaramillo, P. (2015). Números, conmensuración y gobernanza en los estudios de impacto ambiental. Revista Iberoamericana De Ciencia Tecnología y Sociedad, 10(30), 61–79. Carmona, S., & Jaramillo, P. (2020). Anticipating futures through enactments of expertise: A case study of an environmental controversy in a coal mining region of Colombia. The Extractive Industries and Society, 7 (3), 1086–1095. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.EXIS.2020.06.009 Carr, E. S. (2010). Enactments of expertise. Annual Review of Anthropology, 39, 17–32. https://doi.org/10.1146/ANNUREV.ANTHRO.012809.104948

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Comisión Quinta - Cámera de Representantes Colombia. (2023, April 12). Debate de Control Politico Hidroeléctrico El Quimbo. Youtube. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=gpMGyCEciyE Contraloría General de la República. (2006). Estado de los Recursos Naturales y del Ambiente 2005–2006. www.contraloriagen.gov.co Contraloría General de la República Colombia. (2020). Informe Auditoría de Cumplemiento - Obligaciones Ambientales Establecidas por la Autoridad Ambiental -ANLA- al Proyecto Hidroeléctrica del Quimbo - PHEQ . www.contra loria.gov.co Sentencia T-135: Participación y concertación de personas afectadas por el desarrollo de megaproyectos. (2013). Cox, K. R. (1998). Spaces of dependence, spaces of engagement and the politics of scale. Political Geography, 17 (1), 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1016/S09626298(97)00051-6 Dussán Calderón, M. A. (2017). El Quimbo - Extractivismo, despojo, ecocidio y resistencia. Planeta Paz. EIA. (2008). Estudio de Impacto Ambiental del Proyecto Hidroeléctrico el Quimbo - Emgesa S.A. Ingetec-S.A., Emgesa-S.A. Fabio Arenas. (2023, March 28). Huila: alerta por mortandad de peces en la represa de Betania. El Tiempo. Fals Borda, O. (1979). Investigating reality in order to transform it: The Colombian experience. Dialectical Anthropology, 4(1), 33–55. https://doi.org/10. 1007/BF00417683 Fent, A. (2021). Overflow: The oppositional life of an environmental impact study in a Senegalese mining negotiation. Environment and Planning e: Nature and Space, 4(4), 1622–1644. https://doi.org/10.1177/251484862 0969341 Fiske, A. (2017). Bounded impacts, boundless promise: Environmental Impact Assessments of oil production in the Ecuadorian Amazon. In K. Jalbert, A. Willow, D. Casagrande, & S. Paladino (Eds.), ExtrACTION: Impacts, engagements, and alternative futures (pp. 63–76). Routledge. https://doi.org/10. 4324/9781315225579-5 Grupo Kavilando. (2011, March 12). Memoria de los abuelos (video completo). Youtube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE187-473X4 Haraway, D. (1988). Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective. Feminist Studies, 14(3), 574–599. https:// doi.org/10.2307/3178066 Harvey, D. (1990). Between space and time: Reflections on the geographical imagination. In Annals of the Association of American Geographers (Vol. 80, Issue 3, pp. 418–434). https://www.jstor.org/stable/2563621

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Hébert, K. (2016). Chronicle of a crisis foretold: Risk scenarios and the politics of imperilment in Coastal Alaska. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 22(S1), 108–126. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9655.12396 Lebel, L. (2006). The politics of scale in environmental assessments. In W. V. Reid, F. Berkes, T. Wilbanks, & D. Capistrano (Eds.), Bridging scales and knowledge systems concepts and applications in ecosystem assessment (pp. 37–58). Island Press. Lebel, L., Garden, P., & Imamura, M. (2005). The politics of scale, position, and place in the governance of water resources in the Mekong region. Ecology and Society, 10(2). https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-01543-100218 Leifsen, E. (2017). Wasteland by design: Dispossession by contamination and the struggle for water justice in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Extractive Industries and Society, 4(2), 344–351. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.02.001 Li, F. (2013). Contesting equivalences: Controversies over water and mining in Peru and Chile. In J. R. Wagner (Ed.), The social life of water (pp. 18–35). Berghahn. Li, F. (2015). Unearthing conflict: Corporate mining, activism, and expertise in Peru. Duke University Press. Li, F. (2016). Engineering responsibility: Environmental mitigation and the limits of commensuration in a Chilean Mining Project. In C. Dohlen & D. Rajak (Eds.), The anthropology of corporate social responsibility (pp. 199–216). Berghahn. Merry, S. E. (2016). The seductions of quantification: Measuring human rights, gender violence, and sex trafficking. The University of Chicago Pre. Ministerio de Ambiente, V. y D. T. (2006). Terminos de Referencía - Sector de Energía - Estudio de Impacto Ambiental Construcción de Presas, Represas y Embalses. www.minambiente.gov.co Nagle, L. E. (1995). Evolution of the Colombian Judiciary and the Constitutional Court. Indiana International & Comparative Law Review, 6(1), 59–90. Pinzón, J. P., & Quevedo, J. D. (2019). Análisis de Impactos Ambientales Provocados por el Aprovechamiento de Recursos Naturales Renovables, Reconociendo Metodologías que Desarrollan Nuevas Fuentes Generadoras de Energía en Panamá y Colombia. UNIVERSIDAD CATÓLICA DE COLOMBIA. Reid, W. V., Berkes, F., Wilbanks, T., & Capistrano, D. (2006). Introduction. In W. V. Reid, F. Berkes, T. Wilbanks, & D. Capistrano (Eds.), Bridging scales and knowledge systems concepts and applications in ecosystem assessment (pp. 1–18). Island Press. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state. Yale University Press. Skewes, J. C., Guerra, D., Rojas, P., & Mellado, M. A. (2011). ¿La memoria de los paisajes o los paisajes de la memoria? Los enigmas de la sustentabilidad

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socioambiental en las geografías en disputa. Desenvolvimento e Meio Ambiente, 23, 39–57. Soto Barrera, V. C., Suárez Soto, N. H., & Arrieta Pérez, S. C. (2018). Análisis Comparativo de los Métodos de Evaluación de Impacto Ambiental Aplicados en el Subsector Vial en Colombia. Revista de Investigación Agraria y Ambiental, 9(2), 281–294. https://doi.org/10.22490/21456453.2174 Toro, J., Martínez Prada, R., & Arrieta Loyo, G. (2013a). Métodos de Evaluación de Impacto Ambiental en Colombia. Revista De Investigación Agraria y Ambiental, 4(2), 43–53. Toro, J., Requena, I., Duarte, O., & Zamorano, M. (2013b). A qualitative method proposal to improve environmental impact assessment. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 43, 9–20. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.eiar.2013. 04.004 Villarreal Ruiz, F. (2023, March 27). Análisis de laboratorio determinará causal de mortandad de peces en Betania. Caracol Radio. https://caracol.com.co/ 2023/03/27/analisis-de-laboratorio-determinara-causal-de-mortandad Wallace, B. A. (2004). The Taboo of Subjectivity: TOwards a New Science of Consciousness. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195173109.001. 0001

CHAPTER 7

Simplification

“Scientific work”, writes Susan Leigh Star (1983, pp. 205–206), “involves the representation of chaos in an orderly fashion. When scientists (like everyone else) describe nature, their descriptions make the complicated turbulence of the world appear, at least in part, orderly, predictable, and bounded”. With these two sentences, Star introduces the important debate of choices made within scientific analysis—choices made over how to order, categorise and generalise phenomena, over the formulations of problems and the data to consult. This “fact-making” process implies simplifying the manifold processes encountered (ibid.). Also, within environmental auditing, as Fabiana Li (2015, p. 193) points out, strategies include creating an inventory that makes “the socionatural landscape quantifiable and intelligible in scientific terms”. In line with both authors, I identify three steps to simplification: first, the fragmentation of inherently linked processes into bounded units; second, the abstraction and generalisation of the single units; and third, rendering these equivalent and as such replaceable. I will walk through each of these steps in detail before returning to the question of what simplification means for the EIA process.

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7.1

Fragmentation

Socioeconomic, biotic and abiotic aspects of the environment to be altered are all equally addressed within the EIA. But their analysis is separated from each other. The artificial separation of interconnected spheres of the same living landscape is the direct result of the experts’ preoccupancy with their own task (weak peripheral vision) and the limited interdisciplinary exchange (convergence insufficiency). It is also an intended divide needed for the simplification of complexities in motion, to design mitigation and compensation strategies (F. Li, 2016b, p. 120). Dissecting a complex system into single manageable units is termed “fragmentation strategy” by Machado et al., (2017, p. 1084). While several EIA scholars have criticised the forceful distinction between humans and nonhumans (Fiske, 2017, p. 70; F. Li, 2016b, p. 120; Skewes et al., 2011, p. 43), I go further in the context of the El Quimbo EIA and criticise the fragmentation of the ecological, economic, social-political, and cultural-historical realms of life. To illustrate this fragmentation strategy and its consequences, I will start by describing the original biome of the El Quimbo valley: the tropical dry forest. Only eight per cent of Colombian surfaces are left which can be classified as tropical dry forest. Most commonly, these ecosystems are found in the Cauca and Magdalena River basins. Because of its biodiversity and endangerment in Colombia and worldwide (Pizano & García, 2014), this biome is formally protected. Approximately 95 per cent of the El Quimbo valley was part of the Amazonian Forest Reserve, as constituted in the Law 2° of 1959. The tropical dry forest is generally located at an altitude of 0–1,000 metres above sea level in the tropics. It is characterised by annual precipitation of between 700 and 2,000 millimetres with an extended dry season. The temperature is warm all year round, at above 24°Celsius (AgudeloBerrío, 2016). And indeed, the climate in the valley of El Quimbo is warm and dry. Approximately 1,571 millimetres of rainfall each year (EIA, 2008, p. 625). The humidity is on average between 76 and 86% (EIA, 2008, p. 707). March is normally the driest period, followed by a rainy season in July. However, the area has experienced increasing weather extremes connected to El Niño and La Niña in recent years (such as heavy rainfalls, which led to floods and landslides, or long dry periods). Further characteristics of the valley are the low winds and the high sun radiation (EIA, 2008, appendix map “PL-EIAQ-39B”).

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These somewhat difficult conditions offer a habitat for broadleaf trees, which provide shade for other species to grow. Epiphytes are a wellknown example of an important species in these forests. Epiphytes, like certain orchids, mosses and bromeliads, live on trees, absorbing moisture from air and rain. They provide important ecosystem services to their surroundings by offering habitat and nutrition to birds, insects, fungi and bacteria. They are not parasites because they do not live off the system of another species, like the tree; they only live on it.1 Many examples of these species are listed as endangered. For instance, in the studies that have been done so far, it has been reported that the dry forests of Colombia have almost 2,600 species of plants of which 83 are endemic, 230 species of birds of which 33 are endemic, and 60 species of mammals of which three are endemic. (Instituto Alexander von Humboldt, 2014; see also Pizano & García, 2014)

The Cauca and Magdalena River basin is the most populated region in Colombia. Its soils are usually very fertile and are therefore used for intensive agricultural production. Urbanisation and mining activities further threaten these ecosystems, which are fragile to deforestation. Pizano and García (2014) state that 65 per cent of the deforested dry forests underwent a desertification process. Yet, they provide important ecosystem functions: The forest also provides fundamental services for human communities such as water regulation, soil retention, and carbon sequestration that regulates the climate and the availability of water and nutrients. Finally, dry forests provide forage legumes, ornamentals and fruit trees that are important for the livelihood and well-being of the people who live near them. Because of their location within mosaics of landscapes dominated by agricultural and livestock areas, these dry forests offer the possibility of maintaining insect species that help in the control of pests and vectors of diseases. (Instituto Alexander von Humboldt, 2014; see also Pizano & García, 2014)

The authors emphasise the human–environmental interaction, which contributes to the constitution of this type of biome. This interdependency is particularly visible in the case of cacao production. In tropical dry forests, cacaoteros (cacao farmers) take advantage of shady broadleaf plants to cultivate cacao trees in the understorey. Cacao species originate from humid tropical forests, where plantations are more

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threatened by fungal attack. Consequently, cacao production moved towards the dry forests (Agudelo-Berrío, 2016). Some of the labranzas (local name for cacao cultivations) in El Quimbo Valley are over a hundred years old and by now hard to eradicate from the ecosystem and the culture established around it. The cacao trees need shade, which is provided through mixed cultivation with fruit trees (like banana, citrus, and avocado), and timber trees (like matarratón, iguá, cachimbo, caracolí, cedro, nogal ). One labranza of one hectare usually provides space for 1,100 cacao plants, and an additional 140 to 300 shade trees. The EIA (2008, p. 1122) considers this an inefficient use of land: “The cacao cultivation is not profitable”. It argues that farmers could have upgraded their cacao production by implementing newer technologies/clones and that the choice not to do so appears to be the result of poor organisational capacity and adaptability (EIA, 2008, p. 1225). The separated ecological assessment of the so-classified multilevel forest considers the ecological importance of the ecosystem as low, as it has been altered by humans (see the following section on abstraction). In general, the EIA (2008, p. 244) describes an inefficient (and in parts illegal) use of large quantities of water, poor water treatment and poor waste disposal as well as high rates of deforestation (slash and burn practices) in the valley. This poor environmental management would be connected to the lack of local environmental consciousness (ibid., p. 792). The experts argue that the dam project could be used to “reconnect” habitats and to provide environmental education to the local inhabitants (ibid., pp. 1999, 2069–2072). The EIA (2008, p. 177) states: “[At an expert meeting] It was indicated that the El Quimbo hydroelectric project is an opportunity to conserve ecosystems in the area, which otherwise—given the degree of intervention necessary—would have been very difficult to realise in the short term”. This perception of degradation of the experts does not necessarily represent the perception of the local campesinos and cacaoteros, who “profited” from the landscapes in multiple ways. While the large scales tobacco and rice plantations certainly degrade local water sources, the cacao trees have integrated well into the dry biome and accepted typical species such as amphibians, epiphytes, mosses, mushrooms and insects (Pizano & García, 2014).2 Providing a range of ecosystem services, the labranzas require few inputs but signify a stable income almost all year round.3 Moreover, cacao is intrinsic to Huilan culture and identity. Hot drinking chocolate together with a sweet bun or Achiras (crackers made

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of Canna edulis and cheese) is the traditional Huilan breakfast. It is also common practice to put a piece of fresh local farmer’s cheese into the drink to melt it and consume them together. The experts limited their analysis to purely commercial values of cacao production, but the local farmers worked with the ecosystem, to which they associated economic as well as sociocultural values (see Gómez Baggethun et al., 2016, p. 102), heritage, pride and the quest for an independent but secure subsistence. Cacaoteros Don Jaime and Doña Rosa, for instance, lived very well from the income of the cacao harvest and subsistence farming, growing vegetables and fruits and keeping pigs and chickens at La Honda.4 Mixed cultivation is crucial to the farmer’s subsistence and contributes to local biodiversity. Agudelo-Berrío (2016) describes cacao cultivation in tropical dry forests as an agroforestry technique beneficial to the ecosystem and the human population. The mutual benefit is not visible in the EIA, as the analysis of ecological potential ignores economic and sociocultural values, and the analysis of the economic potential ignores ecological and sociocultural values. It seems that the EIA experts require a piece of land either to be used economically to its fullest commercial potential leaving no space for the natural environment or to be completely spared for ecological regeneration with no space for any human activity. This logic reflects what Fiske (2017, p. 70) has observed: EIAs often presume the existence of wilderness without culture and its natural ideal would always imply the complete absence of humans (environmental doxa, as also described by Skewes et al., 2011, p. 43). The presumption allows assessing any human activity in an ecosystem as negative. At the same time, it renders culture and community independent from place. The EIA lists two cultural-historic impacts: the loss of archaeological patrimony and of cultural patrimony. The first loss refers to 73 locations of “archaeological interest” (e.g. rock engravings) within the valley, but which do not represent “new”, yet undiscovered cultures (EIA, 2008, p. 1803). The impact is of medium potential and highly manageable. The second loss focuses on the relevance of the San José de Belén Chapel, in terms of having heritage status and in terms of being the “physical space” for customary festivities of the community. While the EIA recognises the importance of the chapel for the cultural and religious identity of the inhabitants, it specifies that it is primarily the more senior population that holds on to connected celebrations. The impact would be high

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but manageable: the EIA suggests the chapel be dismantled and relocated with the community (2008, pp. 1794–1796). Restricting the impact on local culture to the loss of historic artefacts and of one building not only disregards the existence of other sites of cultural relevance (for instance, the cemetery of San José, the chapels of Veracruz and La Escalereta, and several other places of worship), but ignores the intrinsic connection between manmade sites, their place-specific environment and social-political organisation, in other words, between history, memory and place. The fragmentation justifies suggesting that a site of heritage can be relocated. Traditional science and legal regulations generally validate the “fragmentary vision” requiring the isolated analysis of single manageable units (Skewes et al., 2011, p. 43; see also Scott, 1998, p. 289). The breaking up of the environment to be assessed in fragments, is followed by abstraction and commensuration.

7.2

Abstraction

Abstraction, generalisation and classification, are essential steps of theorisation in science. I, as any researcher, take the findings of a concrete case/sample/experiment and see how they have wider applicability, fit into existing theories, or require new ones. Scott (1998, p. 13) agrees that “some level of abstraction is necessary for virtually all forms of analysis” but it would not be surprising if the abstraction of the scientist reflects the interests of their employer. The way the experts classify and categorise concrete interconnected systems will influence the generalisations and comparisons possible. To illustrate the risks associated with abstraction in the EIA, I will explain two important categorisations by the experts: the ecosystem and the employment types affected. For the estimation of the project’s impact on the natural environment, the EIA classifies the formerly described biome into different ecosystem types, and thereafter measured each their extent and ecological potential. The experts estimate that 40 per cent of the land of direct impact was covered by natural vegetation, while 53 per cent was used for agriculture and cattle ranging, and another 7 per cent for human settlements and infrastructure (EIA, 2008, p. 1760).5 It identifies seven ecosystem types outside the area of human settlement. The ecosystem of “high canopy” forest (tree heights of 12–15 metres; 14.8% of the total area), the secondary forest (closest to original forests, 0.1%) and the riparian

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forests (10.8%) are all classified as natural forests with little human intervention and therefore higher ecological potential. The multilevel forests (among others, cacao plantations, 10.4%), together with “low canopy” areas (trees/shrub height approximately four metres; 16.8%), pastures (former cultivations and grazing areas; 31.8%) and crops (transitory: rice, tobacco, sorgo, cotton, sesame, corn, etc. and permanent: oranges, plantain, yucca, lime, avocado etc.; 15.6%) are classified as modified systems and therefore of low to no ecological potential (EIA, 2008, p. 194). The chosen categorisation implicitly carries presumption about what plants are crops, and what are weeds, some are considered natural, others introduced or invasive (see also Scott, 1998, p. 13). It subsumes/conflates the complex interacting and evolving systems that enable the free circulation of water, air, plants, spores, bacteria, animals, and humans into abstract categories that then allow to measure their extent in hectares and their ecological potential in general terms. Which definitions have been followed to make these distinctions is not apparent. A similar abstraction is visible, I argue, in the classification of productive activities in the El Quimbo area of direct impact. Based on its census data, the companies identified a residing population of 1,537 people of 369 families distributed among 420 individual houses on 809 plots. Of those registered people, 1,056 persons were of working age (above 10 years old): 354 classified as housewives, 416 as adolescents attending school, and 286 persons who generated an income (EIA, 2008, p. 1163).6 The experts further classified each registered worker as holding one of the following occupations: campesinos of farmers’ cooperatives (peasants as beneficiaries of the agrarian reform programme [see Chapter 4], 320 plots), campesinos minifundistas (peasants as smallholders [less than 50 hectares] or non-owners, 317 plots), recently migrated campesinos (later than 2003, with no formal title, 12 plots), finqueros (farm owners of 50–200 hectares, 45 plots), hacendados (large farm owners of more than 200 hectares, 19 plots), jornaleros (day labourers on fincas and haciendas), partijeros (informal partakers/lease of fincas; EIA, 2008, p. 941), mayordomos (farm managers of fincas/ haciendas), or traditional fishermen/women; EIA, 2008, p. 931). This classification simplifies the diverse productive activities and ownership regimes in the valley. Firstly, the above numbers suggest that only 286 people (18.6% of the total population) worked and provided for the household income. The rest of the population would be merely housewives, children and elderly. However, every person in a household who

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was able to work usually contributed to the family income. Next to their domestic tasks, “housewives” take up essential role in subsistence farming, labouring during the harvest season, helping neighbours and fulfilling community chores. For example, an interviewee, Fernanda, was working in the cacao harvest and was also registered as such, but later appeared in the census as ama de casa (housewife).7 An elderly woman of Rioloro spoke of the pindo palm tree that used to grow beside the river and of women who used to bind the leaves into artisanal farmers’ hats to sell at the market. Children often helped after school. These and other activities allowed the family members a certain independence from the main earner but disappeared with the rising water level. This loss remained unrecognised by the compensation mechanisms.8 Secondly, the number of plots indicated for each ownership type does not add up. This is because the formal distribution of land tenure did not necessarily comply with informal user agreements and sometimes the formal titling process was still ongoing. Figure 7.1 illustrates the diversity of land ownership just for the case of the farmers’ cooperatives. According to the census in 2007, only 33 plots were still managed collectively, some without formal title. The majority were by then privately owned: 111 plots with formal title and 135 without formal title yet. Despite this advancing “privatisation”, the management of many plots was still characterised by informal and reciprocal relationships. There were private often informal agreements between neighbours regarding the land use based on work (partijeros, mayordomos, jornaleros),

Fig. 7.1 Farmers’ cooperatives: Land tenures in 2007 (EIA, 2008)

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based on kin (inheritance, marriage), or based on share-cropping and non-market exchange. For example, one household might own a few hectares of forest which the family did not use and therefore allowed the neighbours to let their cattle seek shade under the trees or to put up beehives. Cacao producer and former partaker of La Escalereta cooperative Alejandra explained: They [the experts] do not value the economic affectation that happened at a general level. Because we depended on other people as well; because if one produces the money, that person moves and produces for others, and if one has nowhere to work, there is something to give them work and they will eat from that. It is a cadena [chain].

Thirdly, many people relied on several income-generating activities to maintain their livelihood. Nearly 50% of all people living in the “area of direct influence” (formerly) owned less than one hectare of land. Many families in this category did not own any land but lived on farms owned by someone else. For example, on the 19 haciendas within the valley lived a total of 109 people from 36 families (EIA, 2008, p. 939). Another 32% of the residing population owned less than 50 hectares of land (EIA, 2008, p. 1216). These smallholders, farm managers, and partijeros grew partly cash crops but also kept fruit trees, pigs and chickens for their subsistence. The EIA lists hectares used for subsistence agriculture (pancoger), but it is not clear how this contributes to the calculation of household incomes and informal labour demand. Furthermore, the majority of smallholders received additional income as jornaleros on other farms or as fisher, like in the case of Veracruz.9 Putting these people into one labour category ignored alternative sources of income and made families appear poorer than they were. The case of Don Jaime and Doña Rosa at La Honda is particularly emblematic. The couple was not counted as residents, cacao producers and subsistence farmers, but merely as a labourer (mayordomo) and a housewife, who qualified for financial compensation only. This classification puts both into the “without property” category which ignores the specific circumstances and values attached to their former life. It conceals the fact that the couple lost not only their income and subsistence but also their home, their community and life project (proyecto de vida) which is connected to their daily practices and relations, built knowledge and skills and aspirations for the future.10

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Statements from Alejandra, cacao producer from La Escalereta, highlight these relations. She explains that cacao cultivation was her proyecto productivo (productive project), but what she had lost was what she had inherited from her father and had invested in more than 30 years of her life (energy, time and care)—her life project embodied in the labranzas. Related agricultural practices had formed the landscape over generations and connected the people with the territory. For the cacaoteros (cacao cultivators), Don Jaime, Alfredo and Alejandra, their profession built on memories, local/relational knowledge, experience and routine (“ya uno es enseñado vivir por acá”). It was the source of stability and tranquillity as well as aspirations (“aspiraciones”, “para salir adelante”), hopes and a “vision of the horizon”. Also other campesions and especially the fisherfolk expressed how they missed the freedom and independence they had enjoyed in their former daily labour. The life project refers not only to what one chooses to commit their strength and time to on a daily basis, an activity that provides subsistence, food and shelter for the family, but also to an implied connection to the territory and the community and feeling proud of one’s own contribution to it.11 The necessary collaboration between neighbours and communities, for instance for organising and maintaining the irrigation system, contributed to a sense of belonging. Related statements were: “They pulled me out of my territory”, “The river is ours”, and “The river beaches were for fisherfolk and others, but now they are owned by a multinational”. Professor Leyla Rincón explained that only through her fight against El Quimbo dam could she understand what territory really meant. As a natural scientist, she had learned about geographical spaces and habitats, but was now seeing the territory from the perspective of the fishermen or the rural women, in terms of how they constructed the territory by creating bonds. Taking away the foundation of a life project, like the land and the river, affects not only the livelihood, but also pride, community and identity (Helmcke, 2013). It is difficult to capture such relations in a census. Census-taking is of course a technical procedure demanded by the law and the problems related to the census-taking are certainly not unique to the case of the El Quimbo dam project. Merry (2016, p. 4) points out that governance requires “knowledge that is classified, categorized, and arranged into hierarchies”. The resulting figures would seem reliable, free of ideology or political bias. Part of the parcel, as Espeland and

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Stevens (1998, p. 317) show, is that a census always quantifies complex relationships and “renders unproblematic the coherence of the relations among diverse people”. Most quantification and classification, they argue, is a form of commensuration which “creates relations between different entities through a common metric” (Espeland & Stevens, 1998, p. 316). Common metrics in the case of the El Quimbo census would be the size of the household, the formalised income-generating activity and individual assets in economic terms (e.g. hectares of property, number of commercial crops or livestock). The quantification makes families comparable respective of their formal wealth and renders their livelihoods exchangeable. It ignores other-than economic values, context-specific relationships of exchange, and access that existed independent of the formal wealth of households. As such, classification and quantification worked as a form of abstraction that distorted the image of the socioeconomic reality of the affected population. In the case of the ecosystem categorisation, it led to the downgrading of risks associated with the loss of the biome and its intrinsic socionatural systems by focusing on human alterations in the quantification of “ecological potential”. The risk of such abstraction becomes now tangible: the described categorisations and chosen metrics represent a specific value system that can determine an object’s substitutability (Robertson, 2012; Sullivan, 2009, 2013).

7.3

Equivalence

With fragmenting and abstracting something interrelated and concrete, it is rendered comparable and replaceable. The theory of equivalence by Fabiana Li captures this process. It gives name to the multiple mechanisms that attempt to make distinct entities measurable under a common metric, as such commensurable, and with it any impact technically manageable if not neglectable (F. Li, 2013, p. 31, 2016a, p. 201). I have described how the agroforest system of cacao cultivation was fragmented into two different domains of analysis in the EIA and was as such assigned to two distinct metrics: the commercial-economic potential and the ecological potential. The first assessment focused on and abstracted the system into the category of fields of low economic efficiency and the second assessment focused on and abstracted the system into the category of multilevel vegetation cover of high human interference—therefore of low ecological potential. In the following section, I will outline how this made the agroforest disposable/interchangeable.

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After having dissected the overall biome into abstract categories of ecosystem types, the EIA takes the hectares of (semi-)natural vegetation (4,143 ha; crops and pastures excluded) and compares their extent to the extent of the total area of “vegetation cover with similar ecological characteristics” within the “area of indirect influence”: 70,842 hectares. Choosing this scale of analysis, allowed the experts to relativise the impact on the “natural” flora as low: The relative magnitude of the impact is calculated based on the vegetation cover with similar ecological characteristics in the area of indirect influence. This area is 70,842 hectares. –The coverage of natural vegetation impacted, respectively to those hectares existing in the area of indirect influence, has a relative magnitude of 5.8%. –Low: 0.1. (EIA, 2008, p. 1712)

The same comparison is used in evaluating the relative magnitude of the impact on “natural” fauna: The relative magnitude of the impact corresponds to the percentage of terrestrial fauna habitat eliminated by the project, with respect to the total existing habitat in the area of indirect influence. This area is 70,842 hectares. Regarding the terrestrial fauna habitat represented by natural vegetation, including forests and stubble, the relative magnitude of the impact is 4.69%. –Low: 0.1. (EIA, 2008, p. 1732)

In the earlier description of the “types of vegetation cover found in the area of indirect influence” (the total area of all six affected municipalities), the EIA lists high and low canopy (11,400 ha), woody vegetation (riparian forests and multilevel forests; 24,400 ha), pastures (natural, improved and with stubbles; 32,000 ha) and crops (temporary and permanent; not quantified but probably amount to 3,042 ha to reach the total sum of 70,842; EIA, 2008, p. 158). It is curious that in the evaluation the considered vegetation cover of direct impact excludes pastures and crops (as ecosystems of low to no ecological potential), but these seem to be included when comparing them to the vegetation cover of similar characteristics not directly affected. Quantifying riparian forest and multilevel forests of cacao cultivation within the same category serves to hide the fact that the main riverine system of all six municipalities will disappear and that the valley provided the best conditions for cacao cultivations. The hilly parts of its flanks are more suited for coffee cultivation.

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In the previous chapter, I have outlined the risk of short-sightedness in the making of EIAs and how delimiting scales of analysis might be necessary for feasibility but might lead to critical blind spots in the assessment. With the above relativisation, the significance of scale-making becomes even more apparent. Widening the scale of comparison to the area of indirect impact, which was delimited according to the municipal borders of the six affected municipalities (of no biophysical relevance) has been the standard practice in Colombia.12 In this case, it serves the purpose of minimising the apparent ecological loss caused by the dam project. This is even more pronounced in the evaluation of the impact on soil. The EIA (2008, p. 1702) compares the hectares of identified types of soil not only to the extent of similar soils in all six municipalities but additionally to the extent of it in all the province of Huila. For example, in the case of the soil of multilevel forests, the experts estimate that 5.2 per cent of such soils would be affected on municipal level and 0.2 per cent on provincial level. This translates into a very low relative magnitude and a very manageable negative impact (EIA, 2008, p. 1704). I call “politics of scale” the power of scale-making in the framing of environmental problems, similar to previous scholars critically engaging with the negotiation of temporal and spatial scales in environmental conflicts (Cox, 1998; Haarstad & Fløysand, 2007; Kirsch, 2014; Lebel, 2006; Lebel et al., 2005; Leitner & Sheppard, 2009; Reid et al., 2006; Smith, 2008; Swyngedouw, 2009; Swyngedouw & Heynen, 2003). Specific to the making of environmental assessments, Lebel and colleagues (2005, p. 1) argue that such studies are “subject to biases arising from choices of scales” (see also Lebel, 2006). It can “intentionally or unintentionally privilege certain groups” (Reid et al., 2006, p. 8). This has already become apparent in the discussed census case (Chapter 6), where the temporal and spatial restrictions to the census led to the exclusion of many affected people not represented at the particular time and space considered by the census taker. Following the line of thinking, an additional problem of scale-making comes to the surface. Reid et al., (2006, p. 8) explain: “Adopting a particular scale of assessment limits the types of problems that can be addressed, the modes of explanations, and the generalizations that are likely to be used in analysis”. With this, the authors highlight that the choice of scale does not only determine, who or what is excluded or included, but also what comparisons can be drawn and what solutions are offered. The above relativisation of the impact on soil, as well as on the habitat of

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flora and fauna, illustrates the potential for manipulation of the calculation and assessment of impact potential. The politics of scale acted in this case as a mechanism of equivalence that made the loss of a territory seem irrelevant. The same mechanism, I argue, is characteristic of the “greater good” narrative attached to many development projects, such as hydropower plants. The scale of potential benefits is widened (i.e. to the whole nation), while the costs are narrowed (i.e. to the local, the already poor). This narrative was visible in Nehru’s speech at the beginning of his legislation as Indian prime minister (see Chapter 2) and was also adopted by El Quimbo dam promoters in Colombia (see Chapter 9). More temporal scale adjustments, such as focusing the socioeconomic impact analysis on the first ten years of the project’s lifespan, can highlight short-term benefits, for example, rise in construction employment, while hiding long-term costs, for example, the general decline of employment and associated outmigration caused by the transition from labour intensive industries (agriculture, artisanal fishery, sand extraction, construction) to mechanised and investment intensive industries (aquaculture, livestock). Also, the Pascua Lama mining conflict as discussed by Fabiana Li (2016a) is interesting in this regard. The proposed mining pit would be located underneath a system of three glaciers. To spare such endangered and fragile Andean habitat, the first EIA suggested their “relocation”, divorcing the glaciers from the watershed they are part of. The company would “use a hydraulic digger to remove almost 20 hectares of ice” and place it on top of another glacier “of similar geological and geomorphological characteristics” and “where they would fuse together over time” (F. Li, 2016a, p. 206). The mechanisms of fragmentation, abstraction and commensuration are clearly visible. As this strategy was contested, the company endeavoured to render the glaciers insignificant using the politics of scale. The experts questioned if the permafrost constituted “true” glaciers and instead called it “ice reservoir” or “glacierettes”. They argued that the ice would not contribute much to the hydrological balance of the watershed. I requote Li’s conversation with a company engineer: According to the EIA, the water that will be used for the project is not even one percent of the river flow.... Let’s imagine that all this [he motioned to the office where we were sitting] is the Huasco River watershed. This

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is the glacier [holding up his keychain]. […] If you see photos you will realize that [the glaciers] are very small, they are irrelevant.... (F. Li, 2016a, p. 207)

The company used the total size of the watershed to make the contributions of the glaciers seem small. Furthermore, it compared the “ice reservoirs” with glaciers around the globe to downplay their size and importance. For the people living nearby, however, the glaciers are a significant water source because the local climate is characterised by low precipitation rates and periodic droughts. Seeing the impact proportionally to the very slow amount of water otherwise available locally, it is indeed a significant loss (F. Li, 2016a, p. 207). Returning to the case of El Quimbo, another evaluation of impact— the one concerning the water system—shows that a choice of scale independent of municipal borders is possible. The experts calculate that El Quimbo will dam the Magdalena River for a length of 55 kilometres with an additional affection seen for another 10 kilometres downstream till it reaches Betania reservoir. The length of the Magdalena River, upstream of the Betania project, with similar characteristics of the type of slope, channel, and water characteristics, would be approximately 130 kilometres. “Therefore, the percentage of affectation is 50% –High” (EIA, 2008, p. 1660). However, this impact is considered as of positive character as the reservoir would improve downstream water conditions and would provide a good environment for aquatic life and aquiculture (EIA, 2008, p. 1661). This again brings the logic of equivalence to the surface: the riverine ecosystem is abstracted in terms of water quality and economic potential, and it is rendered substitutable with an artificial lentic system of “equal” or even better water quality and economic potential. The logic is also visible within the assessment of the water discharge regime of the El Quimbo dam project. The experts assume that the deviation of the river through artificial tunnels during the construction period does not change the natural river flow, because the risk assessment does not include the years prior to the filling into the period of risk analysis (EIA, 2008, p. 1608). Local fisherfolk however noticed increased currents that hindered fish from travelling upstream soon after the deviation was completed.13 During the filling of the reservoir, the EIA considers a decreased discharge equally to dryer periods during the dam’s operation. The powerplant would however always maintain an “environmental flow”

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that would sustain the freshwater ecosystem and human use for the first 1.5 kilometres until the Páez River adds its waters to the flow regime, balancing out the impact (EIA, 2008, p. 1616). In general terms, it would stabilise the flowrate and level of sedimentation downstream (EIA, 2008, p. 1661). The output would be even better than the input.14 The commensuration is very similar to what Fabiana Li observed in studying mining struggles in Chile and Peru (2013). The company experts equated treated wastewater from the mines to the freshwater sources the local farmers relied on before the mining activity had started, as it met legal standards of quality and quantity necessary for the purpose of the water: irrigation. The logic assumes equivalence between input and output, focusing on generalised measures while ignoring the different temporal, spatial and qualitative availability of water (F. Li, 2013, p. 22). A more farfetched, and inappropriate equation is described by Baker and Westman (2018, p. 148) in the case of oil sand extraction in Alberta, Canada. The company claimed that the sudden industrial noise caused by their mining activities would have no impact on moose behaviour and movement within their territory because a study in the UK has shown that traffic noise has no impact on domestic sheep behaviour. Even though the comparison seems unreasonable as the level of animal domestication and the nature of noise differ widely between the two cases, the opposition struggled to argue otherwise as they had no scientific evidence. Using scientific studies for commensuration, even if farfetched, can render uncertainties technical and scientific without providing casespecific evidence. It creates an image of environmental responsibility and accountability, depoliticising the issue by hiding power asymmetries connected to the knowledge constructed (F. Li, 2013, p. 31, 2016b, p. 111; see also Ferguson, 2003; T. M. Li, 2007). In total, the logic of equivalence can make any project technically and environmentally feasible (F. Li, 2013, p. 30). In the case of the El Quimbo EIA, a characterisation of the riverine and terrestrial biome as cultural-ecological landscape, unique in its tropical dry forest conditions and its traditional cacao cultivation, endangered on national and global scale, protected under the Amazon Forest protection act, would make the valley incommensurable (Espeland & Stevens, 1998; F. Li, 2016a). But the EIA experts fragmented and abstracted the life worlds to be affected into isolated units of manageable impact that allowed for the mitigation and compensation of any impact. For example, the EIA suggests that the zone of environmental harm—the reservoir—can be traded with a

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future zone of environmental health, an environmental conservation area (Sullivan, 2013; see Chapter 10.1). The same holds true for the economic characterisation of the area as described earlier. The abstraction of local livelihoods and relations into the commercial value of formal income generated allows equivalence: its substitutability with any employment of equal income. In the case of Veracruz this meant providing fisherfolk with grazing areas for keeping livestock. And providing “better” living conditions was translated into building new houses for the resettled families (see Chapter 10.3). These are very technical solutions that are possible thanks to the processes of simplification—fragmentation, abstraction and equivalence, either through direct commensuration or through the politics of scale—of the complex life worlds at stake. ∗ ∗ ∗ In this chapter, I have discussed the simplification intrinsic to scientific studies, but which rely on researchers’ choices—choices that necessarily create biases, potentially to serve certain interests. The power and risks associated with the identified processes becomes apparent in the detailed analysis of impact assessments. Already the most fundamental aspect, defining the area of direct influence, can be regarded as political. As Carmona and Silva (2020, p. 1085) point out, the classification of an area of “immediate influence” functions as a “homogenizing device” that fails to consider “the specificities of places, resulting in quite similar management plans for very different experiences”. The classification delimits scales of analysis and allows for the homogenisation of “chaos” to find common denominators and technically viable management strategies. This leaves no space for variation from the norm, for equality in difference and for more holistic compensation plans that respect interrelations between different realms of life (Chapters 10 and 12). After having discussed blind spots that seem to emerge through administrational and institutional restrictions out of the control of individual EIA experts, I turned attention to the substantial simplification process that is necessarily part of any environmental assessment, but which is guided by the experts’ choices of classifications, scales and comparisons. These can intentionally or unintentionally bias the studies allowing for interpretations of risks in favour of powerful interests. This tendency has been noted in a variety of individual impact calculations of the El Quimbo

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EIA. However, the malintent of targeted manipulation cannot be assumed to be behind each of the experts’ choices. The chosen classifications, for example, the ecosystem and employment categories, as well as the selected metrics, hectares and money earned, are commonly applied and expected within the EIA practice. They can be associated with the expert’s and institutional experiences and wider traditional EIA methodology. There are however strategies of relevance to the making of the EIA that actively exploit legal, political or economic advantages to serve power.

Notes 1. Intervention by Biologist of South-Colombian University at the public hearing, November 2016. 2. According to intervention at the public hearing and personal communication with Biologist at the South-Colombian University in Neiva. 3. A cacao producer from La Escalereta, said that the cacao trees carried fruits between April and June and between October and December. In these periods, they harvested every two weeks. One week, they were in La Escalereta, the other in El Balseadero. In this way, the inhabitants of both communities would have had a constant income nearly all year round. The EIA (2008, p. 1121) only lists June and December as main harvest periods. 4. Interviews in 2012. 5. The EIA states 0.7% for human settlement and infrastructure. However, I consider this number to be too low and the authors do not indicate how the other 6.3% would be used. Seven per cent however adds up with 40% and 53%, to a 100%. 6. The EIA (2008, p. 26) considers the working age to start with turning 10 years old (after having completed the primary school). Around 315 kids under an age of 10 were living in the “area of direct influence”. The rest probably accounts for the people too old to work. 7. Story shared by one interviewee and by one intervention at the public hearing, Nov. 2016. Also a fisherman from Veracruz, was included in his wife’s compensation, because she owned the house they both lived in. 8. Even adult children, having graduated from school and worked, but who were still living with their parents, were included in the núcleo familiar (household) and not compensated separately (according to one interviewee and several interventions at the public hearing Nov. 2016). 9. According to several affected people. 10. Interviews in 2012. 11. This pride was expressed (non-verbally) during my field visit in 2012, first, when Don Jaime showed me around at the labranza and described

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the treatment of the trees and the fruits, and second, when resisting campesinos explained to me the working of the irrigation cannels. 12. According to the EIA consultant. 13. Interviews in 2012. 14. Also in this case, the fisherfolk downstream report of a different reality (see Chapters 7 & 10).

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scales and knowledge systems concepts and applications in ecosystem assessment (pp. 1–18). Island Press. Robertson, M. M. (2012). Measurement and alienation: Making a world of ecosystem services. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 37 (3), 386–401. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1475-5661.2011.00476.x Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state. Yale University Press. Skewes, J. C., Guerra, D., Rojas, P., & Mellado, M. A. (2011). ¿La memoria de los paisajes o los paisajes de la memoria? Los enigmas de la sustentabilidad socioambiental en las geografías en disputa. Desenvolvimento e Meio Ambiente, 23, 39–57. Smith, N. (2008). Uneven development: Nature. University of Georgia Press. Star, S. L. (1983). Simplification in scientific work: An example from neuroscience research. Social Studies of Science, 13(2), 205–228. Sullivan, S. (2009). Green capitalism, and the cultural poverty of constructing nature as service-provider. Radical Anthropology, 3, 18–27. Sullivan, S. (2013). After the green rush? Biodiversity offsets, uranium power and the calculus of casualties in greening growth. Human Geography, 6(1), 80–101. https://doi.org/10.1787/9789264222519-en Swyngedouw, E. (2009). Producing nature, scaling environment: Water, networks, and territories in fascist Spain. In R. Keil & R. Mahon (Eds.), Leviathan undone? Towards a political economy of scale (pp. 121–139). UBC Press. Swyngedouw, E., & Heynen, N. C. (2003). Urban political ecology, justice and the politics of scale. Antipode, 35(5), 898–918.

CHAPTER 8

Serving Power

While the two previous chapters have dealt primarily with EIA issues relatable to traditional science, this chapter will delve into the domain of corporate science—the appropriation of the authority intrinsic to scientific research to realise and legitimise corporate interests and actions (Kirsch, 2014, p. 128). For this endeavour, I will focus less on content and form of the EIA and more on the process surrounding the generation of knowledge. As discussed previously, scientific studies and the scientists carry a form of legitimisation that is missing from “non-expert” accounts based on lived experience. This creates an “unlevel playing field” (Li, 2015, p. 207), where civil society organisations, opposing a project, feel they need to produce scientific evidence themselves to provide “valid” counterinformation, but lack the economic and administrational resources to do so. This disadvantage extends into the legal and political arena of contestation as decision-makers privilege scientific studies and the oftenvoluntary lawyers and representatives of civil society struggle to argue differently against corporate legal teams. This power imbalance between project proponents and project opponents can be exploited within the making of the EIA. In this chapter, I will analyse four strategies that follow the direct intent of serving power through weakening the opposition and actively supporting the projects realisation. First, I will introduce the concept of enclosure that captures the tactic of limiting the imagination for what © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_8

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is possible. Second, I will discuss the building of anticipation through overstating benefits and understating risks. Third, with the identification of alphas I will analyse the singling out of social leaders and outspoken critiques to convert them in their position or to silence them. And forth, with corporate control I will critically reflect on the exclusive EIA ownership and responsibility that corporations generally enjoy. Finally, I will return to the question of what these four strategies of serving power mean for the EIA as a key tool for environmental auditing and accountability.

8.1

Enclosure

Enclosure is a Marxist concept that has evolved into different meanings and applications over time. In the classic Marxian sense, enclosure is understood as the process of land privatisation that alienates peasants from their modes of production, namely labour and land, and turns these into fictitious commodities to be traded on the market (Polanyi, 2001). The centralisation and accumulation of capital by dispossession enforced through neoliberal politics illustrate the ongoing nature of enclosure; the continues expansion of the commodity frontier causes new enclosures on the global scale such as through the privatisation of public services, housing speculation and offsetting practices (e.g. Benjaminsen & Bryceson, 2012; Cavanagh & Benjaminsen, 2014; De Angelis, 2004; Dunlap & Sullivan, 2019; Harvey, 2004; Hiraldo, 2018; Perreault, 2013; Svampa, 2015). But enclosure can also reach the realm of discourse and knowledge, enclosing information and imagination. Leifsen (2017, p. 346) calls enclosure when the risks of a project are confined “within a scientific and technical vision of the management of anticipated consequences”, addressing only those risks which the experts find technically manageable and externalising others (Kirsch, 2014; Li, 2009, p. 224, 2015, p. 197). Tactics of concealing, obfuscating or directly ignoring certain risks within impact assessment have been uncovered by a range of scholars in cases around the world. For instance, Leifsen (2017, p. 347) reports of an “imprecise representation” of the area to be affected by the Mirador mining project in Ecuador: The heterogeneous mix of data sources includes sections copied and pasted from earlier impact assessments, random sampling that complicates the comparison with earlier studies in the area, rapid ecological evaluations, and an extended use of thematic maps, cartography, and satellite images.

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This convolution and inaccessibility of EIA and related information is also noticeable in the El Quimbo EIA and has been described in Chapter 6.4 on convergence insufficiency. As argued, the intricacy can be a result of poor communication and institutional (time) pressures but can also be purposeful; for example, when EIA documents and communication is not translated into the language of those affected as described by Baker and Westman (2018, p. 148). Both authors have direct experience as EIA consultants working in Alberta, Canada where they witnessed that EIA “editors” required hired experts to make their sections of EIAs “as confusing as possible” (Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 148). Next to convoluting information, the Mirador EIA mentions longterm effects only in general and positive terms. The construction of the tailing deposit for the toxic waste materials and the therefore required diversion of the local water flow is presented as favourable to the protection of the environment—it would mitigate the risk of flooding. Worst-case scenarios, like the collapse of the tailing dam or the failure of the water treatment plant, are briefly addressed within the emergency plan but this is merely used to emphasise the need to comply with legal environmental parameters. This can be interpreted as a tactic of redirecting attention to more favourable aspects of the project (Leifsen, 2017, p. 347). In the Yanacocha mining case in Peru, Li identifies a similar diversion strategy. The company draws a clear distinction between the terms “impact” and “contamination” arguing that any human activity has an impact, and contamination would only occur if an impact is not managed and becomes “significant or critical” (Minera Yanacocha, 2007, p. 4; quoted in Li, 2009, p. 223). Because all impacts are managed by the company, as claimed in the EIA, the experts speak exclusively of “changes” caused in the environment of largely minor importance (ibid.). Attention is directed to the mitigation strategies that would turn an impact, like using a large quantity of the groundwater for mining activities, “reversible” or neglectable, as in this case the water would be treated and returned to the water cycle (see Chapter 7.3). In the case of El Quimbo, the EIA mentions events and accidents that could affect the main dam structure, such as earthquakes, landslides, heavy rainfall and flooding, fires and terroristic attacks. But analysing the occurrence and intensity of such events in the region in prior years, it estimates a low risk of the dam infrastructure being affected, and no risk in it being seriously damaged. For example, experts considered the seismic

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activities in the region to be of low to medium range, which would not affect the primary dam structures as they were built to be seismically safe. Consequently, the contingency plan in the EIA describes only ways of evacuating employees from the work site in case of an earthquake (EIA, 2008, p. 2244). The document limits the plan to the technical feasible and manageable, restricting the consideration and debate of potential worst-case scenarios in which (part of) the dam infrastructure collapses. It is not problematised that the data used to estimate seismic activity lasts only until 1995 and that a large body of water and dam structure puts additional weight on the lithosphere with the potential to increase seismic activity (Chutubtim, 2001; Tullos et al., 2010). El Quimbo is the second large reservoir in the region; a situation which can have actual cumulative impacts. International statistics in this regard were not taken into account.1 Huber (2019) sees a “knowledge politics” behind obscuring the riskladen nature of dams. In the case of large dam development, and failures, in the Himalayas he identifies a political project of negating the fallibility of dams, and “to erase such ‘accidents’ from collective memory”. Also, Baranderian notices such ignorance of the “global knowledge” of wellknown industrial impacts in the case of mining in Chile. This applies to environmental degradation as well as to related health impacts. Scrutinising EIA practice in Alberta’s oil sand industry, Baker and Westman (2018) state: “Important health concerns, including high rates of cancer, which call for further research, are instead soft-pedalled and obscured”. The motivation behind such enclosure of information is described by Wood (2003, p. 3): presenting environmental impacts as manageable is so central to EIAs, because “decisions on proposals in which the environmental effects have palpably been ameliorated are much easier to make and justify than those in which mitigation has not been achieved”. By leaving out risks that cannot be avoided and mitigated, the EIA can actively help legitimising the project’s realisation. Ignoring certain risks or downplaying the impact in terms of scale (see also Barandiarán, 2020), the EIA limits the imagination for what is possible. Hébert (2016, p. 112) argues that the focus of the EIA on the impact on salmon, next to all the other species affected in case of mining in Alaska, illustrates “how risk-assessment frameworks can foreclose fuller pictures of potential impacts” (emphasis added) and as such “the possible futures that might be envisioned”. Cavanagh and Benjaminsen

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(2017, p. 208) explain that when intrinsically political ecological “problems are reframed as simply requiring technical and expert-led solutions”, it forecloses “upon possibilities for more broad-based debates and deliberations concerning the pursuit of more socially just alternatives”. And Jaramillo and Carmona (2022, p. 11) describe such strategies as “temporal enclosure” used by corporation with the “aim to restrict imaginable outcomes to those that favour them, producing the sense of a manageable and inescapable future in which forthcoming activities are presented as both inevitable and desirable”. As Fiske (2017, p. 64) puts it, “the question of whether the project should proceed at all becomes unthinkable” (emphasis in original). At El Quimbo, this temporal enclosure was visible in the making of the EIA and in the political discourse surrounding it. Next to neglecting the risk of dam collapse, the EIA does not include an Environmental Diagnostic of Alternatives (Diagnóstico Ambiental de Alternativas ). Decree 1753 of 1994 states in Subsection IV that an environmental diagnostic of alternatives is required for hydroelectric dams. It should also be noted that the company Betania-S.A. considered a variety of alternatives for El Quimbo’s design in the 1990s—none representing the final plan elaborated by Emgesa. However, the Environmental Ministry decided in favour of Emgesa’s request to dispel this diagnostic from the list of requested studies in 2007 (Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, 2009, p. 1). The population received no coherent argument to explain why the dam had to flood the most fertile lands of Huila, had to be the size it was and needed the amount of land it ended up taking.2 El Quimbo needs more than twenty hectares to generate one gigawatt while most other large dams use on average less than ten hectares, many even below two hectares (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 46; Ledec & Quintero, 2003). Leaving out this information limits the discussion (if not the imagination) of alternative scenarios. Furthermore, decision-makers, most notoriously the Colombian presidency, used discourses that made the project seem inevitable from the start. During one concertation event between civil society and national politicians in Bogotá in 2009, then-president Álvaro Uribe replied to dam critics that nothing was going to be settled besides terms of mitigating impacts, “El Quimbo comes because it comes” (“El Quimbo iba porque iba”; quoted in Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, p. 127). In several communications, Uribe made clear that the “investors’ confidence” was of national priority and rejecting a project of high economic importance, such as El

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Quimbo, would scare away investors (3527: Política Nacional de Competitividad y Productividad, 2008; Salcedo Montero, 2010, p. 74; Uribe Vélez, 2013). An ANLA official admitted later that the environmental licence was granted “for the political interest of President Álvaro Uribe Vélez” as “this project was decided upon before the licence had to be granted; that is, it is a project in which the political criteria weighed more than the technical one” (quoted in Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, p. 127). In this case, the technical criteria set out in the EIA helped legitimising the political interest by underlining the project’s feasibility. Contrary to this admission, Juan Manuel Santos, who followed Uribe’s presidency, continued to highlight El Quimbo’s necessity for the national development and energy security throughout the dam’s construction and surrounding conflicts. In his opening-day speech of the dam in 2011, he said, “It is a great day for Huila and Colombia. This dream has lasted fifty years. With this dam, the Magdalena River will be controlled so that in winter the coast and the rest of the country will not flood” (quoted in Argüello, 2011). He continued by noting the importance of the day “for us, for the confidence of the world in Colombia, for the confidence of the investors in Colombia, for what this means for our economy, for what this means for the well-being of Huila, for the welfare of the country” (quoted in Dinero, 2011). He concluded his speech by explaining that the objective of “these great works” was “to find a balance, a balance between the financial economic and the preservation of the environment, the social responsibility” (quoted in Dinero, 2011). In response to the increasing tensions in central Huila in 2012, Santos clarified: “It is certain that the government will exercise the principle of authority, where it must be exercised. We are not going to allow a few to prevent the general interest from prevailing”. He further stated: I see that there is a documentary circulating about a case in Huila, where after many negotiations and much conversation, there was a group of people who manipulated, who wanted to prevent such an important work as that of El Quimbo, which will generate clean energy, necessary energy […] They wanted to prevent that from happening. […] There was an incident; a person actually suffered a mishap in one eye, but in general terms that eviction developed in a normal way, [not only] using the strictest protocols in the defence of human rights and the rights of citizens, but fulfilling a constitutional duty. (quoted in El Espectador, 2012)

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Ex-president Uribe also expressed his opinion on the matter on Twitter: “It is of grave importance [es grave] that the communities of Huila do not understand that the Magdalena River is a usable source of energy. The hydroelectric plants will bring development to the country” (Tweet by AlvaroUribeVel, 19 March 2013). The above statements stigmatise the local opposition presenting its members as being only a few (unos pocos ), who do not grasp the wider importance of the project for the nation. They would be “enemies of development” (Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, p. 115). During the inauguration of the viaduct El Balseadero (crossing the reservoir, as part of the commitments to the region), Santos again emphasised the importance of the investment: “This infrastructure results in [tiene como efecto] prosperity and well-being”. And he added: “There is not a longer viaduct than the one we have just inaugurated. The reason behind it is to bring development and prosperity to this whole region of Colombia, which has been abandoned for decades” (quoted in Canal RCN, 2015, emphasis added). This resonates with the weak state discourse. An abandonment of economic investment seems to mean an abandonment by the state, and now the state complies by bringing development to the region. That the state apparatus has been anything but “weak” in its push for the dam’s realisation but continues to abandon its population in the region will be further discussed in Chapters 9 and 10. For now, I would like to briefly highlight the power of the development narrative. Arce and Long (2000, p. 37) point out, development practice is not just a parenthesis of normative linguistic constructions—the language of development cannot stop or control actors’ actions—but it does provide selected, and not necessarily correct, information, data, images, representations, idioms and interpretation of the development issues. It permits and legitimises the activity of international policy makers to misrepresent local ‘realities’, the agency of people and their effect on the production of identities and subjectivities in processes of development.

Narratives of development, the national interests and inevitability (as also described by Fiske, 2017, p. 73) contributed to creating a “politics of resignation” in the region—the mentality of making the most out of a situation one believes cannot be changed (Benson & Kirsch, 2010;

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Jaramillo & Carmona, 2022, p. 19). Threatened to lose everything, it pressured families into signing compensation agreements and local officials into signing an official letter of agreement with the company which was needed for granting the Environmental Licence. In March 2009, Emgesa reached a compromise with the Huilan government, the municipalities of El Agrado, Garzón, Altamira, Gigante, Paicol y Tesalia, the Ministry of de Mines and Energy and of Agriculture. All parties agreed to 30 commitments of the company to the region, including the large-scale compensation for the loss of productive activities and irrigated lands (see Salcedo Montero, 2010, pp. 82–84). Only 20 of the commitments were consequently adapted by the Environmental Licence (see Chapter 9.1). Besides this compromise and individual compensation settlements, the wider Huilan population was not convinced by the promised development or safety of the dam project. Negative environmental and socioeconomic consequences were felt early on (see Chapter 10) and rumours of leakages at El Quimbo and the use of inappropriate material for the dam wall, which were later confirmed (La Nación, 2015; Pérez Trujillo, 2019),3 together with an accumulation of earthquakes and landslide in and around Huila in early 2017, the near collapse of another mega-dam project, HidroItuango in Antioquia, as well as collapses of tailing dams in Latin America due to extreme climate events, have increased the distrust of the stability of the dam among the Huilan population. Alternative studies done by geologists of the Colombian organisation Terrae in 2017 highlight that there are indeed risks related to the fault lines and planar fractures in the rocks underneath the reservoir.4 In 2020, the Office of the Comptroller General of Colombia called out “the absence of a contingency plan that meets the needs of a project of this magnitude” (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 35). The tactic of enclosure is powerful, if not always successful. It works hand-in-hand with another strategy of serving power, which deserves a separate discussion, the creation of anticipation.

8.2

Creating Anticipation

While enclosure seeks to limit the imagination of what is possible, creating anticipation contributes to painting an image of the future associated with the projects realisation that is desirable for everyone. The political discourse of development associated with the necessity of the dam project brings this relationship to the fore. But also, the EIA document itself can

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support the picture. Evaluating EIAs in Colombia till 2006, the Office of Comptroller General stated that in impact studies, socioeconomic benefits generally prevail over (priman sobre) ecological costs (Contraloría General de la República, 2006, p. 187). Negative impacts are underestimated, and positive ones overestimated (Fent, 2021, p. 1624). Fiske (2017, p. 74) sees in this creation of bounded impacts and boundless promise a strategy of “asymmetric accounting”. Benefits of investments would be taken for granted, like the wider development potential for the nation, without relativising this (seeing it proportionally) or providing evidence for it, but negative impacts would be dissembled into isolated units, compared to the bigger picture and as such relativised and their importance downplayed. Similarly, Carmona and Silva (2020) observe that negative impacts are often considered on a short-term basis while positive impacts are analysed on a long-term scale. And Kirsch (2014, p. 135) argues that “the actual impacts of mining projects regularly exceed the predictions of environmental impact assessments”. The World Commission on Dams (2000) concludes the same in the case of large dams. The El Quimbo EIA shows signs of such asymmetric accounting, especially when analysing the positive impacts outlined as part of the evaluation. Among 32 impacts analysed, the EIA names four impacts as being of positive nature. This does seem like a reasonable ratio considering the predominant socioeconomic and environmental effects a large reservoir typically has. All of these positive impacts had negative components, some that the experts decided could be outweighed by their positive influences, some that were only considered in a separate assessment. I will critically debate this decision in each aspect deemed positive. First and most straightforward is the point that the six municipalities affected will experience an increase in tax revenues. The yearly benefits are calculated for each administrational entity. The impact is exclusively discussed in positive terms, and it is highlighted that the municipalities and environmental authorities could very much use the additional funds (EIA, 2008, p. 1818). What is not mentioned is the potential for corruption and that the financial resources might not reach the territory as suggested. It is also not directly taken into account that the municipalities will experience costs as consequence to the dam development. Economically, the agricultural production chain breaks down and causes unemployment and possible migration into urban centres. Together with collective resettlements, these processes demand changes to the land-use plan and the extension of public services that imply administrational costs.

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Both these impacts are outlined separately without detailing the financial costs. The next positive impact is the temporal generation of employment. The EIA considers the jobs created primarily in construction during the construction period as of better conditions than those related to the agricultural-fishing and commercial sector. Campesinos and fisherfolk would potentially disagree. The young men of Rioloro that I spoke to in 2017 reported of only short-term contracts of up to three months and of hard long working days. Women were mainly employed as cooks and cleaners at the worksite of equally insecure contracts of minimum wage. Besides the technological advancement and operation of large machinery on construction sites nowadays, the EIA experts used the number of workers employed during the Betania construction in the early 1980s to calculate labour demand of El Quimbo (EIA, 2008, p. 1797). The potential immigration of people seeking employment and the temporal relocation of high-skilled workers, such as engineers, is regarded as a separate, unrelated negative impact. Local townships experienced a rise in unemployment, prostitution, drug use and crime following the years of construction start (La Nación, 2012). The final two positive impacts I discuss in relation to each other. First, the impact that the dam would have on water quality downstream is generally seen as positive, as sedimentation levels at Betania would decrease and El Quimbo itself would provide habitat for fish. Therefore secondly, the EIA considers the “possible development of fishing and tourist activities” in the reservoir as of positive impact too. In a separate evaluation, the impact on aquatic life is deemed negative as the lentic system changes into a lotic one. However, the impact on the fishing sector would be only of medium duration (4–10 years) with the potential of increasing local employment through fish repopulation, aquaculture and tourism, as it happened at Betania. That El Quimbo follows the single purpose of energy generation, and its waters are in the ownership of Emgesa is only mentioned as a side note (EIA, 2008, p. 1814). In the years that followed the dam’s operation, the people living near the reservoir were informed via the radio that any activity, including fishing, was not permitted in the reservoir and the company would not take responsibility for accidents, injuries or deaths. Indeed, two youngsters of Rioloro drowned in the reservoir intending to fish within months after its filling.5 The impact assessment also neglects a fact that the EIA problematises at another point: the advanced age of Betania dam which is primarily

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noticed through its sedimentation level and which in the long run will restrict fishing activities. El Quimbo will decrease the sedimentation as the water discharge will be filtered (EIA, 2008, p. 1616).6 However, this does not apply for El Quimbo itself which receives its water directly from the tributaries, many of which are contaminated with chemicals and sewage from settlements, agriculture and mining activities (EIA, 2008, p. 1221). These materials are accumulating in the reservoir and affect the water quality and productivity along the shores of the reservoir and downstream.7 The contradiction could suggest the intent of the EIA experts to let impacts appear in a positive light. They also highly rely on their claims on the “benevolence” or social responsibility of the investor. While promising jobs of better conditions and proposing tourism and aquaculture in the reservoir, the company is not obliged to guarantee these. It is the Environmental Licence that based on the EIA outlines the requirements and commitments. The two points mentioned were not part of it. An equal practice of promising things that the EIA cannot guarantee, is noted by Baker and Westman (2018, pp. 148–149). In their case of oil sand extraction, experts proposed new extraction procedures without addressing the “unknowns” inherent in such inventions. Another aspect of asymmetric accounting becomes visible—the promise of generous compensation. In ecological terms, it has already been mentioned that the EIA suggests the creation of an area of “compensation and conservation” to restore habitat lost (2008, p. 1947). However, it does not specify how this would look like. In socioeconomic terms, the census experts promised the compensation of land of equal or better conditions to those losing land. Owners of up to five hectares of land would receive five hectares of land and owners of more than five hectares would receive the equal amount of hectares that they lost. Those with more than 50 hectares would be encouraged to sell directly (EIA, 2008, p. 1993). As Leyla Rincón pointed out in her speech to the congress, the direct sell, not only of larger properties, drastically decreased agricultural production—income and food that was lost to local families and the wider region (Comisión Quinta—Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). Affected farmers at La Honda in 2012 additionally remembered that the company representatives even promised five hectares to landless inhabitants, like jornaleros and moyordomos. But when it came to signing papers of agreement, this was not part of the deal any longer. Women of Veracurz and Rioloro describe the enchantment that

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many experienced at the start, envisioning a new house and productive lands for them and their families. Especially, those that did not own much more than a little hut developed hope for a more luxurious life. However, this hope evaporated after the Environmental Licence was granted and compensation negotiation started. It became soon apparent that the primary objective of the company was to settle for monetary compensations only. “Beneficiaries” of the resettlement scheme state that everything has been a fight with Emgesa; they would not want to give away anything. By being on site and questioning people early on, Emgesa sought to gain knowledge of the families, not simply to make a compensation assessment. The company soon knew about internal family difficulties, such as a sick member of the household or a disagreement concerning living in the town or at the vereda. Therefore, if a household head would not agree to Emgesa’s offer during the compensation negotiation, Emgesa could make use of the additional information, for instance to argue for benefits the family would have by moving to a township (closer to medical treatment), or the company would seek to talk with a family member who was more positive about the idea of moving.8 The affected population found different expressions for the strategy of creating incentives and offering what people wanted to hear. Fernando, displaced from Veracruz, remembered: “Nos pintaban pájaros de oro” (They painted golden birds) and Pablo from Rioloro said: “Crean películas en la cabeza con el dinero” (They create pictures in your head with the money). This is what Dunlap (2020, p. 4) classifies as the soft technology of social intervention that aims at “disciplining, enchanting and engineering the ‘hearts’ and ‘minds’ of target populations” of extractive industries, promising social development. In cases where the company did not encounter easy cooperation, it turned incentives into pressure. It would then use the information gathered to make household heads feel guilty for not cooperating (e.g. that they disregard the needs of a sick wife), or feel ashamed that they would hinder the ability of the family or community to thrive (e.g. that their children could receive a much better education in the town; see also Aguilar-Støen & Hirsch, 2015). Here the company turned towards (covert) coercive tactics to manipulate behaviour, which begins to approach what Dunlap (2020, pp. 11–12) identifies as hard technologies of social pacification. These are more violent or forceful interventions, such as false arrests, surveillance and intimidation of activists.9

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Also, on the community level, Emgesa looked for internal disagreements. One former fisherman of Veracruz described the strategy with one hand. He stretched out all five fingers, showing that everybody in unison stood against the displacement. But then Emgesa would find a weakness within the first family and pushed it until that family accepted negotiation. Only four fingers left. Then Emgesa would see a conflict between two of the remaining families, and a moment later, both choose to relocate. Now the two remaining families no longer have a strong position and are more inclined to give in, too. In this instance, as also Baker and Westman (2018) and Barandiarán (2020) point out, “local knowledge” was actually valued as it fit the purpose of the expert’s mission. Emgesa refused to negotiate with whole families, neighbourhoods or veredas. Usually only a single person was invited for an “interview” (referred to more often as “negotiation” and also described as “interrogation” by a fisher in El Hobo). There the person, generally the head of the household, would be questioned by two or three employees of Emgesa. A wife who had no formal employment was registered as a housewife without income-generating activity. Children were registered as students, regardless of their subsistence work and/or informal employment. Ana María, a young woman from Rioloro, was one of few wives who was able to receive individual compensation separate from the compensation of her husband, only because she had suffered from an injury some years back and had acquired documentation of her employment at that time for her insurance. These documents helped her to prove her income-generating activity before El Quimbo dam began.10 The best chance for being acknowledged as an affected person by the project was to have formal documentation (official register and certificates) regarding one’s possessions and employment before the project’s initiation. However, many labour activities in the region, as well as land access, were managed informally and were based on relationships of trust and inheritance. Accepting only formal documentation of the economic activity is drawing a clear boundary around practices that are diverse and transgress the formal and informal. As the case of the fisherfolk at Betania shows formal documentation is not always enough. While many fishermen and women were able to document their status as fishers at Betania, they still had a hard time proving that the El Quimbo dam affected their income.

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Sometimes other written statements or pictures showing a person’s profession or possessions, in combination with other verbal accounts verifying the information, would satisfy Emgesa’s prerequisites. Nevertheless, people who claimed compensation were usually invited to several interviews spread out over long periods. In each setting, the interviewee would be confronted with statements that the interviewee or others had previously made, in order to test them. For example, if a former jornalero stated that he had worked in the valley at least six months annually, Emgesa would ask for the exact dates. For some people who do not live according to the calendar but according to the seasons, it can be difficult to remember exact dates. Consequently, the jornalero might be inclined to make up the dates. At a later interview, Emgesa would ask the same question again and if the exact dates did not match the former statement, it was taken as a sign for Emgesa that the whole employment was made up. Hamer said during his intervention at the public hearing in November 2016, “They treat one as a criminal, put a camera in front of you, without the right to be mistaken in what you say”.11 Emgesa always counter-checked information with former employers. For instance, Pablo worked as moyordomo on one of the fincas at El Quimbo valley. While he was still working in this position, the EIA experts questioned him about the people he had employed over the years. Because he was not aware of the importance of his statement at that time, he only named those who came to his mind at that moment. However, even of those people he did name, many did not appear in the later census. Only after a legal demand to access the original documents of his interview, Pablo was able to prove that he had indeed given the necessary information for many to receive compensation. By that time, he had fallen out with many former friends. There were accusations that employers did not provide all the required information about their labourers in order to receive more compensation money themselves. Controlling space and knowledge, Emgesa designed the negotiation settings in a way that would make the interviewee confused and insecure. This was achieved by allowing only one person to the negotiation table, who would face several “experts” and a camera, by presenting many apparent facts to the person that he or she had not been aware of. This person would then be made to feel foolish or uneducated (for not knowing about all the facts in the first place) or even framing the person as a liar and thief who was trying to take advantage of the company. Such

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defamation is another strategy of counterinsurgency (see e.g. Brock & Dunlap, 2018). If a farmworker or fisher was considered worthy of compensation, it was generally a one-off payment, also referred to as hush money. Once agreed, the person also accepts future (not yet noticeable) impacts resulting from the project. Again, the logic of equivalence comes to the fore represented in the idea that everything can be equated to a monetary value and “buying” people is often cheaper than actually compensating them. As Li (2016a, p. 205) explains: Some mining critics consider monetary compensation a way of co-opting local actors, and indeed, the way compensation agreements are negotiated is often legally questionable […]. For the engineers, however, the possibility of compensation meant that the potentially negative consequences of a project could always be mitigated—if not with a technical solution, with a monetary one (the latter being sometimes more economical).12

The tactic allows for the delegitimising of the arguments of critiques by stating that monetary compensation has been offered, and if it was not accepted, it was their own fault; if it was accepted there was no base for claiming anything else. Again, as Li (2016b, p. 126) shows, the agreements are of very technical character restricting language and terms to solutions that the company is willing to provide. Interestingly, the “building of expectation” has been identified as its own impact of the project in the EIA by Ingetec. The experts see a risk in the project generating hope for employment and selling of properties (leading to spontaneous migration, rising land prices) and fear regarding the changes it would bring (loss of infrastructure and resource access). This could lead to conflict, which should be mitigated with a “programme of information and participation” (EIA, 2008, p. 1782). The own responsibility of the experts in creating false expectations is not addressed. The company Emgesa and the national government both promoted (and further constructed) a narrative about the El Quimbo dam connected to discourses of progress, development, energy security, clean and renewable energy, and environmental management, as indicated above. Emgesa itself has distributed this narrative in its public communications. For instance, it claimed that El Quimbo would generate, together with Betania, eight per cent of the national energy demand and create

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3,000 jobs. Despite producing clean energy, Emgesa would socially invest and reforest habitats in the region that it otherwise presented as economically inefficient and ecologically degraded based on the EIA. Lucio Rubio, general director of Emgesa, stated in several interactions with the affected community that – “El Quimbo will bring investment in generation and transmission of energy”, – “El Quimbo generates poles of development and investment”, – “Betania is the main producer of tilapia and mojarra [commercial fish] in Colombia”, – “Of the 8,500 hectares to be flooded, around 5,200 hectares […] are for agricultural use; out of this potential, only 2,000 are actually in production”, – “We are going to put 2,200 hectares into production”, – “The communities are the ones deciding where they want to relocate”, and – “Twenty years of transfers will generate COP 140 billion, according to Law 99” (quoted in Salcedo Montero, 2010, p. 68). The investors in El Quimbo and the political leaders used the large hydroelectric project to create a “dazzling picture” of progress and national modernisation (Bridge et al., 2018, p. 5; Dye, 2016; Harvey & Knox, 2012; Larkin, 2013). The discourse of development, invented by the Western world, is a powerful tool to not only promise well-being with technological advancement, but also to devalue and subjugate existing localised socioeconomic structures as “under-developed” or “backward” (see Escobar, 1984). Using the idea of evolution (modernisation), it justifies the sacrifice of these life forms (similar to the discourse of race; see Foucault, 2003, p. 256). With creating anticipation, I outlined the biased accounting of potential positive impacts and the unsubstantiated promises made to populations and local authorities. The next strategy of identifying alphas works complementary to this.

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Identification of Alphas

Even though the compensation strategies followed the idea of “one scheme fits all”, not every affected person at El Quimbo was treated equally. It was indeed the largest land owners that Emgesa first approached to negotiate their terms of selling. The more you owned, the more you were able to demand. As mentioned in the preface to this book, the local population used a popular saying to describe this procedure “The snake is killed at its head” and implied with this also the silencing of former social leaders. An emblematic case offers the farmers’ cooperative La Escalereta. Characterised by strong social cohesion within the EIA, the community’s president was “bought” by Emgesa and agreed to their terms of compensation while most of the community members were opposed to them (Salcedo Montero, 2014). In this manner, Emgesa increased distrust among the population, which eroded the existing social ties and in part dismantled the social unity against the project. Similar tactics are described in other cases. For example, Baker and Westman (2018, p. 149) witnessed “backroom-oriented” talks with social leaders during the carrying out of impact assessments associated with oil sand extraction in Canada. These were largely private negotiations, also referred to as “meet-and-greets”, with the company staff to reach an agreement. In the case studied by Aguilar-Støen and Hirsch (2015) the company “turned” social leaders or civil society organisations, recruiting them as mediators between the company and the people affected. This divided and caused internal conflicts. In 2017 in Rioloro, there were many rumours of leaders being “bought” or “turned”, who suddenly shut their mouths, after being outspoken dam critiques for years. Some families suddenly afforded building a new house while their neighbours had not received any compensation. All of the former contributed to envy, mistrust and hostility among former friends and family members and distracted from the company’s proceeding. In the final section, I will discuss the extent of control Emgesa had over the data, its composition, use and sharing.

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8.4

Corporate Control

The sections so far illustrated the discursive power Emgesa hold over the local population determining what is true and what is not. The extent of its control reached not only the process around the EIA’s making but also applies directly to the document’s content. The standard practice of the EIA system is that corporations that seek to make an investment pay for the carrying out of the EIA. Usually, “independent” consultants with EIA experience, like Ingetec, are contracted to fulfil the task. This independence is challenged in two substantial ways: first, through the financial dependency between client and consultant and second, through the single authority the company holds over the data. As pointed out earlier, consultancy firms are often financially entangled with the contracting companies through diverse projects, and future contracts might depend on a positive assessment. The EIA engineer interviewed by Li (2016a, p. 204) expresses this entanglement very well: Our commitment is to the client, and we have to help clients carry out their project. We [cannot] get fundamentalist with environmental themes. We help clients so that they can abide by the legal norms, and we try to also inculcate ‘good practices.’… But in the end it’s their decision…

Baker and Westman (2018, p. 148) talk in this regard of a corporate “capture of consultants and regulators”. From their own experience as consultants, they report of the company reminding Baker of who was paying for her work. This “strongly reveals how the science-for-hire practice in the EIA consultation industry is anything but objective”. Their article further describes: “Baker did not change her report but it is likely that the project manager made the requested changes independently. Indeed, changing consultants’ results is a common practice in the EIA editing processes, as witnessed by Baker on several occasions” (Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 148). In the case of El Quimbo, Ingetec lost control over the EIA content the moment it submitted the document to their client, the energy company Emgesa.13 In Colombia, it is up to the project proponent to deliver the final EIA version to the environmental authorities. It is difficult to determine what aspects of Ingetec’s EIA might have changed as only the final version submitted to the authorities is publicly available. What is notable though is that some sections seem incomplete and end

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mid-sentence. For example, within the impact assessment of infrastructure loss, the sub-section of cumulative impacts is merely followed by the start of a sentence: “The process developed by Betania”. The section stops there (EIA, 2008, p. 1780). If this was a formatting error (unintentional delete), or whether the expert or Emgesa deleted it is impossible to know. Also, the section on methodological limitations on page 790 ends with a comma. This entrusting of the EIA process to corporations has been criticised by multiple scholars. It would allow a sort of “self-regulatory regime” in which the company measures its performance against the parameters it itself established (Barandiarán, 2020, p. 61; Fiske, 2017, p. 68; Li, 2015, p. 199). “There apparently is not sufficient oversight from regulators, academics, and professional bodies to push back against such abuses” (Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 148). At another point, the same authors state (2018, p. 147), “Significantly, there is nobody with oversight as to the quality of these assessments, nor any professional designation similar to that required in contract archaeology, nor are the peer-review processes (if any) transparent. […] the proponent company is effectively in charge of making the output fit its needs”. Emgesa does not only enjoy ownership over the EIA and related studies but also exclusive access to monitoring data, like the data on water quality, air quality or dam wall stability/filtrations. These measurements should be monitored but are rarely released to the public. As the Environmental Minister points out, the government has to request the data from the company, which it needs to comply with. However the process might take some time and the officials have to trust the source and generation of data (Comisión Quinta—Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023; see Chapter 9.2). At El Quimbo, the employees of the ANLA (or the Environmental Ministry) would only appear in the region accompanied by Emgesa. Sofia, resettled from San José de Belén, said, “The ANLA has partnered [ha alcahueteado] with Emgesa. It [ANLA] has been very permissive with it [Emgesa]. If they [ANLA staff] come to make a visit for verification, they always come with Emgesa. There you see that there is no support for us”. Li (2015, p. 198) problematises this control over information. She argues that the EIA is usually “one of the few public sources of technical, ecological, and demographic data”, and as such “company-sponsored studies often became a definitive source of technical information about a region”. The data would not only serve as a reference throughout the

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development of the project but also for the realisation of future projects in the region. As Sally Merry (2016, p. 7) points out, generating new data is more costly and time intensive as relying on existing data. This “data inertia” implies potential long-lasting and severe bias in environmental data of a region (ibid.). ∗ ∗ ∗ With the analysis of forms of enclosure, creating anticipation, identification of alphas and, finally, corporate control it has become apparent that the EIA process offers multiple pathways to serve power, to weaken the opposition and to facilitate the legitimisation and therefore successful realisation of the investment proposed. I conclude that the EIA as an application of traditional science is less a strategy of knowledge creation and more a strategy of knowledge control and appropriation. Public participation and the environmental licencing process that accompany any EIA should be able to counteract the chances of appropriation. In the next chapter, I will scrutinise related possibilities and limitations.

Notes 1. The missing of updates, consistent monitoring, and communication of results to the public on the side of the company has been criticised by the opposition for years and was backed up by the report of the Office of Comptroller General in 2020. It says that the lack of effective followup and control (also by the corresponding environmental entity ANLA) creates “permanent uncertainty among the population regarding the risks, which events of major magnitude, seismic or rapture in the dam structure, can cause (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 32). 2. A general counterargument is that another “El Quimbo” would not have been possible in any other location along the upper Magdalena River because of the geological requirements of such infrastructure. This does not explain why this particular technology of that size was needed to be placed along this particular part of the stream. 3. The EIA addresses the risk of “filtration” which to a certain degree would be unavoidable but controllable (EIA, 2008, p. 1900). The Contingency Plan mentions the hazard in using inappropriate materials but does not further specify what this would mean in terms of emergency planning (ibid., p. 2202). 4. Results presented at a roundtable meeting in April 2017. Five fractures exist directly along the dam valley. All fractures showed activity over the

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years preceding the impact evaluation, most pronounced with the eruption of the Nevado Volcano at Huila’s border to Cauca in 2007. Ground activities lead regularly to avalanches along the Páez River and the carrying of high sedimentation rates, which flows into the Magdalena just downstream of the built dam. This could block the river Magdalena partly and rapidly increase the water level, leading to further landslides. Based on local accounts shared with me in Rioloro in 2017. This is estimated on the long-run and neglect the short-term impacts of the extraction and construction works that caused increased sedimentation and pollution downstream (see Chapters 6 and 10). Based on visits to different sites in 2017. Fernando, who resisted his resettlement from Veracruz, said that when he was not home, Emgesa came to talk with his sick wife to convince her to cooperate. As a result of the stress of the “eviction” in 2015, she had a diabetic shock leading to blindness and her later death early in 2017. A tactic of the company which is somewhat located between creating incentives and formulating threats is what Emgesa’s staff said to Alejandra, outspoken dam critic of La Escalereta: “What is it that you want? How much is your silence worth?”. The documents were only acknowledged after one year of intensive protest in Veracruz. One activist affirmed that Emgesa would treat the affected like criminals and it would use legal persecution and defamation to damage one’s credibility. A compensated woman from Rioloro described the constant questions Emgesa asked as a fachada (façade) to occupy the people and make them fatigued. EIA consultants would always recommend against monetary compensation instead of resettlement (or other programmes to re-establishing productive activities) based on the risk of impoverishment documented around the world (see Cernea, 2000; Cernea & McDowell, 2000). For companies, the former strategy would however be preferable in economic terms, and even affected people would be often blinded by the large sums of money. This is one important reason why I do not cite the EIA with Ingetec as the sole author.

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Larkin, B. (2013). The politics and poetics of infrastructure. Annual Review of Anthropology, 42(1), 327–343. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-anthro092412-155522 Ledec, G., & Quintero, J. D. (2003). Good dams and bad dams: Environmental criteria for site selection of hydroelectric projects (Latin America and the Caribbean Region: Sustainable development working paper, 16). The World Bank. Leifsen, E. (2017). Wasteland by design: Dispossession by contamination and the struggle for water justice in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Extractive Industries and Society, 4(2), 344–351. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.02.001 Li, F. (2009). Documenting accountability: Environmental impact assessment in a Peruvian mining project. PoLAR Political and Legal Anthropology Review, 32(2), 218–236. Li, F. (2015). Unearthing conflict: Corporate mining, activism, and expertise in Peru. Duke University Press. Li, F. (2016a). Engineering responsibility: Environmental mitigation and the limits of commensuration in a Chilean mining project. In C. Dohlen & D. Rajak (Eds.), The anthropology of corporate social responsibility (pp. 199–216). Berghahn. Li, F. (2016b). In defense of water: Modern mining, grassroots movements, and corporate strategies in Peru. The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology, 21(1), 109–129. https://doi.org/10.1111/jlca.12198 Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, Pub. L. No. Resolution 899 (LAM4090), 1 (2009). Merry, S. E. (2016). The seductions of quantification: Measuring human rights, gender violence, and sex trafficking. The University of Chicago Press. Minera Yanacocha. (2007). La gestion del agua en Yanacocha: Cuidados, controles, y la generacion de activos ambientales. Naranjo Aristizábal, S. P. (2014). Conflictos territoriales generados por las macropolíticas y sus respectivos impactos, en relación con los pobladores del territorio donde éstas se materializan. Estudio de caso del Megaproyecto de la Hidroeléctrica El Quimbo. Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Pérez Trujillo, C. A. (2019, August 10). El Quimbo es una represa que nació mal. Diario Del Huila. https://diariodelhuila.com/-el-quimbo-es-una-rep resa-que-nacio-mal-?fbclid=IwAR27-_o700vz4UeFHNysDzfKDVJt5p13m 5HtkulNhnGrfgz5uBsdgjl0Ho8 Perreault, T. (2013). Dispossession by accumulation? Mining, water and the nature of enclosure on the Bolivian altiplano. Antipode, 45(5), 1050–1069. https://doi.org/10.1111/anti.12005 Polanyi, K. (2001). The great transformation—The political and economic origins of our time (2nd ed.). Beacon Press books.

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Salcedo Montero, C. A. (2010). Negociaciones y Coaliciones de Política: El Caso de la Hidroelectrica El Quimbo - Huila, Colombia (2007–2010). Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Salcedo Montero, C. A. (2014). Campesinos y conflictos sociales por el proyecto hidroeléctrico el Quimbo - Huila, Colombia. Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro. Svampa, M. (2015). Commodities consensus: Neoextractivism and enclosure of the commons in Latin America. South Atlantic Quarterly, 114(1), 65–82. https://doi.org/10.1215/00382876-2831290 Tullos, D., Brown, P. H., Kibler, K., Magee, D., Tilt, B., & Wolf, A. T. (2010). Perspectives on the salience and magnitude of dam impacts for hydro development scenarios in China. Water Alternatives, 3(2), 71–90. Uribe Vélez, Á. (2013). Confianza Inversionista. https://alvarouribevelez.com. co/confianza-inversionista/ Wood, C. (2003). Environmental impact assessment: A comparative review (2nd ed.). Pearson Education Limited. World Commission on Dams. (2000). Dams and development—A new framework for decision-making. In Report (Issue November).

CHAPTER 9

What About Accountability?

The starting point of this Part II of the book was that the Environmental Impact Assessment is a mechanism of accountability. After having discussed the multiple shortcomings connected to EIA practice, the question is pressing: what about processes of public control part of the EIA system, namely citizen participation and the environmental licencing process? In this chapter, I will critically analyse these processes as they played out at the El Quimbo dam case and as they are discussed in the EIA literature. I will start by focusing on the spaces of participation before turning attention to the state entities responsible for granting and monitoring environmental licences. The last section of the chapter will address the wider political economic structures that influenced decision-making around the contested dam, and ultimately what all this meant for the EIA as a tool of accountability.

9.1

Participation: From Technicality to Mode of Contestation

That public participation is critical to any impact assessment is agreed upon by most EIA scholars (see e.g. Morgan, 2012; Nita et al., 2022; Wood, 2003). Fischer (2018, p. 260) considers the participatory principle “enshrined” in environmental impact assessment law: “Such assessments

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require public consultation and participatory input on the part of citizens—in theory if not always in practice—throughout the research and decision processes”. Berkes and colleagues (2006, p. 317) argue that EIAs present opportunities for mutual learning—for “bridging scales and knowledge systems”. In this section I will discuss participation as applied in the El Quimbo-EIA and in light of wider experiences with EIA participation as discussed in literature. I will identify two different enactments of participation, first as a technicality, second as mode of contestation. 9.1.1

A Technicality

As outlined in Chapter 5, EIAs were included in Colombian law in 1993 (Ley 99: Por La Cual Se Crea El MINISTERIO DEL MEDIO AMBIENTE, 1993). The same law considers “environmental public hearings” as possibly being included in the licensing process (Article 72). These spaces follow the purpose of bringing together the different stakeholders of the project (including the affected population and local public authorities) and to inform them about the EIA content, including the project’s associated risks and mitigation/compensation strategies. It demands participation in the form of “prior consultation” only if “indigenous and black traditional communities” are potentially affected by the project (Article 76). Prior consultation is a process in which the public is invited to participate in the formulation, application and evaluation of projects, works and activities that may directly affect them (Línea de Investigación en Derecho Ambiental, n.d.). Prior consultation is a participatory space with theoretically more decision-making power than public hearings, which coheres to the Colombian Constitution of 1991 and the Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention ratified the same year.1 In 2002, the Ministry of the Environment further specified community involvement in the environmental licensing process. Decree 1728 of 2002 states in Article 30: The communities located in the area of direct influence of the project must be broadly and adequately informed in relation to the nature of the environmental impacts identified, and the measures provided in the environmental management plan; likewise, once the licensed activities have begun, they must be periodically informed and participate in the results

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of the implementation of the environmental management plan and the corrective measures derived from it. (Decreto No. 1728: Por El Cual Se Reglamenta El Título VIII de La Ley 99 de 1993 Sobre La Licencia Ambiental, 2002)

Even though the vague formulation remained, this law was soon modified. With Decree 1180 of 2003, the government erased Article 30 and limited consultation again to projects that affect indigenous or Afro-Colombian territories only (Decreto No. 1180: Por El Cual Se Reglamenta El Título VIII de La Ley 99 de 1993 Sobre Licencias Ambientales, 2003).2 The organisation of public hearings has been and continues to be the principal requirement for public involvement within the environmental licence legislation in Colombia. Decree 330 of 2007 regulates environmental public hearings as required by every environmental licensing process. The environmental authority should carry out a public hearing prior to the granting of a licence, its modification, or in case of occurring violations during the project’s realisation (Article 3). The mechanism seeks to inform social organisations, the community, or public and private entities about the request for a licence, permits or environmental concessions, and about the mitigation measures proposed or implemented to correct or compensate for their impacts. The Decree states explicitly that “the public hearing is not an instance for debate or discussion” (Article 2). It states further in Article 2: In the public hearing, opinions, information and documents will be received, which must be taken into account at the time of decision-making by the competent environmental authority. No decisions will be taken during the public hearing. This participation mechanism does not exhaust [agota] the right of citizens to participate through other instruments in the corresponding administrative action. (Decreto No. 330: Por El Cual Se Reglamentan Las Audiencias Públicas Ambientales y Se Deroga El Decreto 2762 de 2005, 2007)

In practice, “participation” became a technical procedure to inform the public about the project and its plans for mitigation and compensation (see Sánchez Vanegas, 2012, p. 34). Nevertheless, even the implementation of only technical procedures for the provision of information has been highly irregular in Colombia. By February 2011, a total of 2,142 environmental licences had been granted, of which only 60 included a

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public hearing and 141 included a prior consultation (Rodríguez, 2011).3 It can however be assumed that the number has increased drastically after February 2011, as the “mining-energy locomotive” (see Sect. 9.3) put up speed just then, and communities increasingly demanded the law to be recognised. Until 2018, around 1,300 prior consultations were held within ethnic communities (Held, 2018). One of the environmental licences granted before 2011 which included public hearings was for the El Quimbo dam project. At El Quimbo, the elaboration of the EIA itself involved some form of interaction between experts and affected families. The EIA document lists several meetings and workshops, organised by Ingetec and Emgesa, with the six municipal offices of mayor and with the community councils within the area of direct impact as well as within areas for possible resettlement. For each event, it outlines date and location, number of attendance (attendees were asked to sign sheets with their identification number), topics presented and issues raised. The latter could be in form of listing the general theme discussed, like “the negative history of Betania” (EIA, 2008, p. 855), or in detailing questions and comments put forward, like “what would be alternative productive activities?” and “it is considered impossible to move a place as it is; what is required is that the new spaces provide the same function that our lands currently provide” (EIA, 2008, p. 878). The company’s response to these concerns is not registered. Only the thematic roundtables at a later stage of local “consultation” are mentioning partial responses, for example “Ingetec clarifies that the climate will not be affected by the execution of the project” (EIA, 2008, p. 909). Concerning critiques of the way the census had been carried out, the minutes state: the community was informed about the preparation of an instrument, by the economic and social team of Ingetec, which complements the information contained in the EIA. Based on this information, the impacts will be adjusted and the measures to be adopted will be elaborated. This new instrument allows detailed economic inventories to be carried out that account for the zones, municipalities, villages and number of jobs and activities impacted by the project. (EIA, 2008, p. 909)

In general, it was pointed out that beyond the EIA the census will need to be constantly revised to make sure every person and asset would be included. As discussed earlier, this only occurred after corresponding

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court rulings. Despite early communication efforts and promises made, not all people felt adequately informed about their options and remained sceptical of the strangers roaming their lands. After the submission of the EIA to the environmental ministry, Emgesa was required to carry out formal mechanisms of participation: public hearings and so-called mesas de concertación (consultation tables, or more concretely roundtables to reach agreement).4 Four public hearings took place in different municipalities of direct influence on 4 July and 16 December 2008, and on 21 January and 12 February 2009. The last hearing was the largest, with 1,500 participants in the town of Gigante. With about 170 interventions and the representation of many local and national state actors, it was also considered the most important space of participation prior to the granting of the environmental licence (Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015). The hearings were open spaces, according to Gaventa’s classification of participation (2004, p. 35). They were organised and designed by the authorities (Environmental Ministry and Emgesa), being open to the public to listen and to speak up about the investment project. Indeed, the events revealed the different positions of the actors at that point. Some fully supported the project with their interventions and highlighted the dam as a guarantor of progress and investment for the region (among them the then governor of Huila, the Minister of Agriculture, two representatives of the Huilan chamber, and the mayors of Altamira and Garzón). Others raised doubts and demanded certain commitments from the company, such as a higher share of profits with the local administrations (among them then-senator and later governor Carlos Julio Gonzáles and three other senators, a councillor of El Agrado and the mayors of Gigante, Pital and Paicol). Again others totally opposed the project, emphasising the impact on the agricultural sector and related economies (among them the representative of the Huilan assembly, the mayor of El Agrado, professor Miller Armín Dussán Calderón and a representative of the regional environmental agency—CAM; Salcedo Montero, 2010). A commentator of the national newspaper El Espectador stated that in total 80% of all interventions during the final hearing expressed a position in disagreement with the dam project (Molano Bravo, 2009). Professor Miller Dussán, who later became the dam opposition’s leader, estimated that around 90% were against it (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 177). However, as the law on environmental public hearings (Decree 330 of 2007) specifies, during these events, no decisions are made; the raised

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opinions and shared information is “taken into account” by the authority granting the environmental licence. Participation is limited to being informed about the investment and voicing one’s opinion of it. The roundtables, organised by Emgesa in parallel to the hearings, did not make up for the restriction. In general, these meetings should facilitate dialogue and consensus among the different stakeholders. In this case, they were used to negotiate the terms of conditions of the project, specifically to define commitments by the different parties (ministries, receiving administrations and Emgesa). The first three roundtables (in December 2008 and January 2009) were open to the public; however, the events took place in the cities Neiva and Bogotá (Salcedo Montero, 2010, p. 78). For members of the affected communities, this entailed a long and expensive trip to attend only one meeting. The final roundtables (February and March 2009) were closed. Closed spaces, as defined by Gaventa (2004, p. 35), pretend to be participatory but allow only certain guests to attend. According to Salcedo Montero and Cely Forero (2015, p. 16), Emgesa only invited leading politicians of Huila and the affected municipalities to the final meetings, to make room for private negotiation with these local decision-makers. It is telling that during the last meeting on 16 March 2009, the Huilan governor and the mayors of all six affected municipalities signed an agreement with Emgesa (see Chapter 8.1). This included only superficial commitments by the company and did not address key issues such as the single purpose of the reservoir or the lack of an environmental diagnostic of alternatives (for complete list of commitments, see Salcedo Montero, 2010, pp. 82–85). The resulting compromise was essential for the issuing of the environmental licence to show that local authorities had been consulted and were in favour of the project’s realisation (Salcedo Montero, 2010, p. 74; Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015, p. 16). When inhabitants from the affected village of Rioloro asked their mayor (of the municipality Gigante) why he had signed the document having promised not to collaborate, he stated that “they” had cornered him and made offers, so he signed (Salcedo Montero, 2010, p. 81). During the earlier EIA workshops as well as the public hearings, contributors had raised many concerns and issues they saw with the proposed project but were not sufficiently considered in the proposed mitigation plans. With the private agreement, these earlier efforts partially lost their meaning. Salcedo Montero (2010; also Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015) describes the participation spaces therefore as spaces where

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opposing positions came to the surface, but which neither changed the content of the EIA, nor had much impact on the outcome of the environmental licence granted a few months later. From the private agreement with the officials, the granted environmental licence did only include 20 of the 30 total commitments to the region (Article 10.2 of Resolution 899, “LAM4090”—Environmental Licence), which makes the pressuring for the realisation of the remaining ten commitments juridically difficult (as stated by the Minister of Environment at the public debate Comisión Quinta—Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). Participation was of symbolic character (Perreault, 2015; Rodríguez Garavito, 2011), or what Arnstein (1969) classifies as process of tokenism, far removed from active citizen involvement (see also Bravante & Holden, 2009, p. 543). The company had the power to control the spaces, to decide if they were open or closed, and to organise the set-up of speakers.5 In light of many similar experiences of participation in the licencing process of hydroelectric projects in Colombia, researchers Soler et al. (2014, p. 150) observe a “participation for exclusion” and explain: “it is evident how participation has become a discourse of the companies, where spaces are opened to summon only those who agree with the projects” (see also Suárez Gómez, 2017, p. 154). Their critique echoes a wider concern which increasingly emerged in the 1990s and 2000s in response to a mainstreaming of participatory mechanisms for development projects around the world. An edited volume by Cooke and Kothari (2001) brings these earlier critics together, coining the now famous phrase: “the tyranny of participation”. Because forms of citizen participation are widely considered as democratic tools to find compromises and solution to disagreements or even conflict, corporations started considering these spaces of environmental monitoring as a “knowledge-fix response”—to let the people feel heard and included and to quieten conflicts without necessarily incorporating demands (Himley, 2014, p. 1070). For instance, the company and corresponding authorities might interpret and sell high attendance rates in a consultation space as a form of consent to the project in itself, disregarding the critique and concerns raised throughout (Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 145). Many people opposing a project might therefore see their only option as staying away from these processes, which again might just help the company in arguing that no major contestation was visible at the participatory event (ibid.; Li, 2009, p. 218).

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Especially, indigenous populations have criticised that consultation platforms, often geographically detached from the actual affected area, are not the appropriate spaces to share information about their lands. Very similar to the EIA document itself, consultation is not always translated into the local languages and even if they are, they are dominated by technical jargon that is incommensurable to the relational knowledge and values of the people affected (Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 148; Hébert, 2016; Li, 2009). Substantial disagreements are translated into a procedural form (Leifsen, Sánchez-Vázquez, et al., 2017, p. 8; Rodríguez Garavito, 2011) and to every concern a technical solution is provided (see also Hébert, 2016; Li, 2009). This technical approach to participation “depoliticizes what should be an explicitly political process” (Hickey & Mohan, 2004). What was once intended to be a “political methodology of empowerment” turned into a “technical method of project work” (Hickey & Mohan, 2004, p. 11; see also Carmen, 1996; Cleaver, 1999; Cooke & Kothari, 2001; Ferguson, 2003; Rahman, 1995). Dagnino (2008) sees a trend in project officials appropriating spaces for participation to legitimise their actions that often cause further inequality. Cornwall (2004, p. 80) calls these spaces “pseudo-democratic instruments through which authorities legitimize already-taken policy decisions”. Consequently, “Participatory processes are […] not necessarily contributing to tame dissent. In many cases, new types of conflicts arise, which are often related to what constitute legitimate forms of information, knowledge, impacts and levels of compensation” (Leifsen, Gustafsson, et al., 2017, p. 1044). Also at El Quimbo this was the case—participation turned into a technicality that provided the formal conditions for granting the environmental licence of an already politically approved project (see Sect. 9.3). The resulting frustration gave rise to a widespread resistance and conflict around the affected lands in Huila, reaching its peak in 2012 (see Chapter 11). Part of the demands of the anti-dam movement was a follow-up public hearing to check Emgesa’s compliancy with the dam’s environmental licence. The demand was finally met in November 2016, one year after the dam had started operation.

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A Mode of Contestation

By 2016, the political environment in Huila had changed and a new powerful alliance between provincial politicians, the regional environmental authority CAM, the anti-dam movement and the Catholic Church pushed the national government to comply with Article 3 of the public hearing legislation, Decree 330 of 2007, as outlined above. It was one of the first environmental public hearings that were held after the environmental licence had been granted (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 260) and as such the affected population connected a lot of hope with its realisation (see Chapter 11). The Huilan government organised several thematic roundtables— without the energy company present—to prepare for the public hearing.6 For regional development planning, administrations are able to institutionalise thematic or technical roundtables (mesas temáticas/técnicas ) to consult with regional or local actors for better-informed decision-making. It is constituted by invited actors, mostly experts and representatives of key actor groups, who discuss a certain topic that can vary between meetings. At the same time, the roundtable is mostly open to everyone to listen and to raise concerns or ask questions. It is a participation mechanism, that, if the instalment is accepted by the national authorities, is funded by the public. Then-governor Carlos Julio Gonzáles assembled a variety of experts in his team and mobilised them to investigate the diverse impacts of the dam, former administrational failures, and possible demands. They reviewed studies, numbers, and laws, which the anti-dam organisation, Asoquimbo, had gathered over years of resistance and legal struggles. As the thenleader of the movement, Miller Dussán, notes: “The organisation and the preparation was in the responsibility of the Huilan government, but the public servants had no idea about how things work. That is why the juridical and environmental consultants of Asoquimbo worked side by side with the public servants.” Mobilising people and knowledge, the Huilan government and Asoquimbo played a substantial role in the organisation of el dia de la dignidad huilense (the day of Huilan dignity), as termed by the governor, Gonzáles. About 970 individuals signed up to speak at the public hearing and to hand in a written complaint. In the end, some 3,000 people attended the event and more than 150 people expressed their concerns

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and demands verbally. The contributions covered two full days: 11 to 12 November 2016. The Director of the National Agency for Environmental Licences (ANLA) as well as the Minister of the Environment attended to facilitate the event and to listen. The operating company Emgesa was represented by its Garzón director (Jhon Jairo Huertas), who had 40 minutes at the outset to present the advances of the company in complying with the environmental licence. Otherwise, Emgesa had no additional platform to react to the testimonials. After Emgesa’s presentation, governor Gonzáles took the podium and started by paraphrasing the first two verses of the Hymn of Garzón, which was played at the beginning of the hearing (quoted in Chapter 3). With this, he expressed the local pride for the region, the beauty and importance of the rivers and highlighted that it used to be an oasis of peace and love. During the following 40 minutes, he elaborated in detail on the financial losses Huila had to endure (because of the impact on agricultural production) and on the political and juridical contradictions which had led to the realisation of El Quimbo. He questioned whether the authorities had checked if their modifications to the environmental licence (outlined in the next section) did not reflect “violations of the human rights”, and that “the State” was made to be responsible. The people sitting in the hearing applauded him and cheered. The mayors of the six affected municipalities followed his example. Each of them exceeded their assigned five-minute time slot, denouncing the multiple impacts their communities and administration had faced, because of the dam. The mayor of Altamira said that El Quimbo did not bring “development” to the region but instead brought “sadness” (tristeza). The mayors of Gigante and Garzón demanded a new census of the affected population and the compensation of the agriculture sector and economy. The mayor of Paicol called Emgesa a “thief” and spoke of the “destruction of the social fabric” (tejido social ) of the municipality. The mayor of Tesalia demanded that Emgesa change the dam to multi-purpose use to re-establish economic activity. The strongest discourse came from the mayor of El Agrado, Waldina Losada Vega. She reminded the state of its responsibility to “defend its people” (defender el pueblo) and called upon it to “dignify its political constitution”. She claimed that Emgesa came to “divide and to reign the people” and said: “It is a sadness that a multinational deprived us […]; they blackmailed us, they destroyed our history and our cultural patrimony”.

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Following these interventions, the environmental authority of the upper Magdalena River, CAM, gave an environmental account of the situation. The CAM director explained that they tried to do their work, but their studies and demands were not considered. During his speech, the director presented the damaging effects on the forest, the poor water quality and the problems caused by displaced animals. He also expressed discontent with the way in which the decision-making process and the distribution of responsibilities had taken place: “[Emgesa] has not complied in its totality; it has not evaluated the epiphytes, there is no risk assessment […] It is illegal, a process against the authorities […] Emgesa has operated the Project with a Machiavellian attitude.” Also the bishop of the Diocese of Garzón spoke up: A project of national pride has devastated the environment, la casa común (common home), the biodiversity, the ecosystems […] They are insulting the human rights […] The state is not taking into account the community […] Everything indicates that it is better to pay fines than to comply with the law […] The conception of progress is not integral to the region - The Huilian population has no access to its own resources!

Professor Miller Dussán followed the bishop. He was accompanied by shouts from the audience, of “Water for life, not for death!” and “Asoquimbo!” The standard time slot for official representatives was five minutes, but the environmental authority ANLA was forced to allow him 40 minutes in order to prevent an uproar in the audience. He used his speech to directly attack the state and the multinational. He called the affected population “victims of the state” (victimas del estado), and continued: The state is internationally responsible for not complying with its obligations and for the human rights violations […] Politicians are business shareholders (accionistas empresarias ) […] Deliver the promised lands to reactivate production! […] Emgesa turned the river into a cloaca! It’s miserable (una miserableza) […] Fuera la Multinacional !

He even compared the congressional representatives with guerrillas and demanded those who had supported the hydroelectric project to apologise publicly to the Huilan population: “Like the guerrilla, all the congressmen and women who supported the project have to publicly ask forgiveness from the Huilian community”.

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After Miller Dussán, 132 people each spoke on the podium for three minutes. Of 132 interventions, 50 were statements of personal damage caused by the dam and individual demands for compensation. The other 83 speakers positioned themselves clearly against the project. Of these, 32 were representatives of certain communities who spoke either in the name of a vereda (farming compount) like Veracruz, or in the name of an association, such as that of fisherfolk, farmworkers or truck drivers. Another three contributions came from the dioceses in Garzón; another 11 from public institutions: the Huilan government (7), the CAM (1), the mayor of Pital (1), the national congress (1) and the national office of public prosecutors (1). A total of 15 interventions came from NGOs and four from individual experts. The NGOs were all Colombian, but many with international networks, such as Tierra Digna, Ríos Vivos and Planeta Paz. Some 17 speakers did not state any affiliation but still criticised the project apart from personal demands. Of the 132 speakers, approximately 80 used technical evaluation language to highlight flaws of the EIA, or to show how Emgesa had not complied with the environmental licence. Around 63 people drew from Colombian law, human rights or other legal or political documents, which were disregarded by Emgesa and/or the national government. Another 75 people talked about economic losses and damage to assets, while approximately 36 people brought up the issue of social impact, often relating to the destroyed social fabric of the communities and the disintegration of families. Damages to the culture were mentioned 37 times. This was usually expressed through the loss of the chapels, other archaeological artefacts and the history of the region, but also through the account of former existing tranquillity and peacefulness in the area. Ecological concerns, expressed through biodiversity loss or the loss of the river, were raised 17 times. Even though no intervention was in favour of Emgesa (or the ANLA), not all clearly positioned themselves against hydroelectricity per se. Nevertheless, many took up the language related to the anti-dam narrative as used by Asoquimbo over the years, with terms such as “the multinational”, “social fabric” and “ecocide”. Other important indicators of the influence of Asoquimbo can be observed. The dominating presence of techno-scientific, legal and political language, even among community representatives, is at least a partial result of the capacitation of the affected communities over eight years of resistance and Asoquimbo’s political advocacy during the recent months. A significant number of the

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132 speakers were (or had been) related to Asoquimbo—especially the NGOs, but also the community leaders. Among the 970 people who had registered for intervention, many decided not to talk as time moved on, and others had to leave before they were called to the microphone. One may assume that many of those who remained until the end were doing so because they had a certain responsibility to speak as group representatives. This would explain the high number of affiliated critics. If anyone had intended to speak positively about Emgesa or El Quimbo, they probably did not dare to do so. In any case, the hearing was not the space to defend a project which was already generating energy. It was rather a claimed space for those who wanted to change the attitude of the company and of the national government towards the region. The space was dominated by the discourse of the opposition, and the general order of speakers and their argumentations followed the strategy and preparation of the roundtables. This was contrary to the first public hearings held in 2008–2009, where Emgesa had a wider platform to present the project and in which counterarguments were more dispersed and unstructured. As noted above, participation is often merely symbolic, and attendance can be misperceived as a sign of project acceptance. The case of the anti-dam struggle in Huila shows that there is room for agency and change within participatory spaces. Claimed or created spaces are those spaces realised as a result of public demand or the collective action of less-powerful actors (Gaventa, 2004, p. 35). “The issue in this respect is not that people are included in spaces of so-called democratic participation, but that they include themselves in order to explore a potential for change” (Leifsen, Sánchez-Vázquez, et al., 2017, p. 12). This reappropriation of participation mechanisms and the reshaping of their organisation can change power relations in those settings and accordingly create openings for empowerment (Vasstrøm, 2016). At El Quimbo, after years of struggle which finally resulted in an alliance with more powerful actors, the opening was possible, and this time around, participation turned out an important mode of resistance (Cornwall, 2004, p. 81; Leifsen, Sánchez-Vázquez, et al., 2017; Mohan & Hickey, 2004, p. 70; O’Brien, 2007). The Huilan government, the Huilan press and Asoquimbo leaders celebrated the public hearing as a success and the affected population had high hopes for its outcome. Some expected the ANLA to withdraw the licence (as targeted by the resistance) and maybe even to dismantle

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the dam (a demand proclaimed in parts by Miller Dussán and Carlos Julio Gonzáles). This hope was enforced at another thematic roundtable which took place consequently, in April 2017. The research organisation Terrae presented its studies of the seismic activities in the proximities of El Quimbo dam and the fractures underneath the reservoir. The experts’ conclusion was that the EIA did not take the risk appropriately into account and Emgesa neither applied precautionary principles nor provided a contingency plan for dam failure (see Chapter 8 and next section). Asoquimbo leaders and the governor took the studies as proof of the extreme threat the dam poses, even for the city of Neiva (as located downstream), and again demanded the dismantling of the dam. The regional media covered the issue accordingly (Diario del Huila, 2017; La Nación, 2017; N-24.col, 2017). However, officials and civil society representatives had never really believed in this possibility. One commentator of El Diario del Huila (Artunduaga, 2017), referring to voices within the Huilan assembly, states that the demand for dismantling the dam is the utopia of some loquitos (crazy people) who treat El Quimbo as caballito de batalla (a showpiece). “One thing would be to ask for the respect of commitments, another to turn back time”. Miller Dussán expressed it in this way: Of course, the ANLA will not suspend the environmental licence, but we hope that it has an impact on the sector. Especially in the south of the country, the resistance against the energy sector is very concentrated. The roundtable is the product of eight years of fight. It is not a product of bureaucracy; it is representative and participative with many actors of the civil society and the local politicians. The 37 municipalities of Huila are against the mining-energy politics (locomotora minero-energético). Nobody is talking positively of El Quimbo. That is why they stopped the other hydroelectric projects in the South for now. […] For us, the most important is what we do now, changing the governmental attitude. We demanded the public hearing via the constitutional court. Because of the ANLA – the ANLA is the only problem.

In the end, it took the ANLA half a year to respond to the public hearing, and it did not suspend the environmental licence. The issues were “resolved” by Emgesa reviewing the submitted complains and agreeing to additional environmental monitoring. For example, the ANLA demanded, for the first time, of Emgesa to register and report

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on the dam’s greenhouse gas emissions and to evaluate if the large hydropower plant is actually a net-emitter or a sink. Such considerations were not part of EIA practice back in 2008 but adopted by the Colombian legislation in 2011 (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 86). Also, this renewed commitment to monitoring did not change business-as-usual. By 2020, Emgesa had still not presented any emission data and commitments continued to be unfulfilled (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020). The governor of Huila expressed his dissatisfaction with the outcome soon after the public hearing, demanding an appropriate response from the ANLA via the Tribunal of Cudinamarca. In April 2018, the tribunal decided that the responses provided by the ANLA so far and the fines already paid by Emgesa were sufficient according to the law (Diario del Huila, 2018). The above analysis of participation allows for two conclusions. First, even though power structures were changed within the participatory spaces and their organisation, it was visible that the anti-dam alliance still needed to comply with the standard rules of the formal procedure—questioning EIA data and process by referring to legal regulations and providing scientifically evidenced counter-data, while also trying to express losses that are difficult to measure or put into words. This situation supports the observation of a wider trend, that “EIAs have become key sites of contentious politics” (Barandiaran & Rubiano-Galvis, 2019). Second, although, large dam project proposals are still unlikely to achieve public acceptance even outside of Huila (see Chapter 2), the successful mobilisation in this case did lead neither to a change in corporate behaviour nor to a change in the environmental licencing practice. The latter, I will outline in detail in the subsequent section.

9.2

Licencing Environmental Harm

Environmental licences are required for any investment that provokes environmental change. In Colombia, different environmental authorities are responsible for the granting and monitoring of environmental licences depending on the project’s scale of impact (Decreto No. 1728: Por El Cual Se Reglamenta El Título VIII de La Ley 99 de 1993 Sobre La Licencia Ambiental, 2002). As larger hydropower plants are of regional impact, El Quimbo dam was under the administration of the

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national authority—first the Ministry of Environment, Housing and Rural Development and, from 2011 onwards, the newly established ANLA. The decision to grant, or not, the environmental licence is officially based on the findings of the environmental impact assessment of the proposed project—what impacts are to be expected and what are their potentials for mitigation. However, there have not been many official guidelines concerning the content, scope, expertise and methodology required to carry out such studies (Toro et al., 2010). Only in recent years, the ANLA formulated related norms, among them the terms of reference for elaborating EIAs for hydroelectric projects (ANLA, 2017), the terms of reference for elaborating diagnostic of alternatives (ANLA, 2018b) and the guidance for citizen participation for environmental licences (ANLA, 2018a). These were not in place at the time of the impact evaluation of El Quimbo and the contracted consultancy Ingetec relied mainly on their own experience and international references. The resulting environmental licence of the dam project included many proposed mitigation strategies suggested in the EIA, such as guaranteeing five hectares of fertile land for people displaced by the project, and in parts even extended necessary commitments, such as economically compensating people who lost their productive activity, but not their home. The EIA (2008, p. 2076) proposed a programme to “re-establish employment levels” by for example offering jobs in the construction works. As such, the licence relied in this partly on the terms of the regional agreement, however, as mentioned above, one-third of the commitments made were not included. Furthermore, less than a year after granting the licence, in March 2010, Emgesa and the then-president Álvaro Uribe agreed that the compensations demanded by the environmental licence were too high to keep the hydroelectric project financially viable. Uribe himself stated: I met with the director of Emgesa [Lucio Rubio] and he was worried about the cost overruns. And I told him: what needs to be done is a dialogue that rationalises everything. There can be no abuse here. […]. If we demand what cannot be given, we are left without the project. That is why there needs to be a lot of balance. (Neiva, 8 March, 2010; quoted in Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015)

It was rumoured that Emgesa had threatened the national government that if the conditions in the licence were to remain unchanged, the

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project would be economically unfeasible (Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, p. 124). One critical point was the inclusion of land “occupants” in the resettlement scheme and economic compensation for wood and sand extractors, truck drivers, merchants and contractors.7 The ANLA modified the licence; accordingly, landless families who had been originally promised five hectares of land lost their entitlement to that land. Consequently, and just before the end of Uribe’s term, the national government enabled environmental authorities to more easily modify environmental licences after they had been granted (Decree no. 2820, 5 August 2010). Prior to this decree, changes to environmental licences needed to pass “a series of judicial institutions and consultation processes” (Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015, p. 17). Since the licence had been granted in 2009, it had been modified 29 times. The Colombian Office of Comptroller General (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, CGR) evaluated these changes and the environmental audit related to these in 2020 and summarised the focal point of each modification. Figure 9.1 shows those adaptations made in response to the company’s requests. Further seven changes were made that put forward additional measurements to the company, concerning among others the contingency plan, the water quality and the public hearings.

Fig. 9.1 Consolidated modifications to the environmental licence of the El Quimbo dam (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 5)

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Emgesa requested a 30th change in July 2022 which has been under ANLA’s consideration since December 2022. This latest request wants to substitute the agreed compensation of 2,700 hectares of irrigated land to the people who lost their productive activity (officially 427 people) with primarily monetary compensation (amounting to COP 42,500,000 or USD 9,678).8 Emgesa’s argument is that the land required by the licence is not available. The opposition claims, it would be just opting for the cheaper alternative (Comisión Quinta—Cámera de Representantes Colombia, 2023). The ANLA clarified in a press release in February 2023 that it has not taken any decision yet regarding the modification requested and that it carried out three participatory spaces in November 2022: one with local officials, one with the anti-dam organisation Asoquimbo, and one with the affected people. In total, it estimated an attendance of 430 people (360 in the final one) which it considers to be an “ample participation”. The ANLA concludes from this participation that the affected people, the local officials, and the company agree with the modification and ask for the speedy processing of it. Many families would have switched their productive strategies and would no longer require land but could use the offered money for investments in their new productive activities (ANLA, 2023).9 With this, the ANLA demonstrates its due diligence regarding consulting any modification with the region. In total, however, this effort has been lacking throughout the years of potential environmental monitoring. The CGR identified 18 cases of some form of administrational misconduct in the environmental monitoring of the El Quimbo dam project (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 28).10 Two factors, I argue facilitated such negligence. Firstly, as mentioned, Uribe’s change of the law in 2010 made it easier to accept modifications without providing studies of the associated risks, e.g. of new material extraction sites, or consulting with the local authorities, e.g. about compensation agreements.11 Secondly, the ANLA needs to rely on the expertise and statements of the company because they cannot enter the restricted areas on their own and do not have the capacity to execute studies themselves. Even though the ANLA reports 55 field visits, of 90 related administrative acts and of 1,142 environmental obligations that it imposed on Emgesa till September 2020, the CGR (2020, p. 21) observes an “absence of control and monitoring of the environmental, physical and socioeconomic components established within the obligations of LAM4090 [the Environmental Licence]” and “deficiencies in the

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control and follow-up mechanisms for the sanctioning administrative processes”. In other words, even when the ANLA imposes sanctions or additional obligations, it would only poorly follow up on the company’s compliance with those. For example, instead of acting preventively and monitoring the extraction sites of materials for the dam construction, the national environmental authorities raised fines against the company after the water was contaminated and only in response to the regional environmental authority—CAM—proving that the contamination was the result of Emgesa’s extraction works. Even though, additionally to fining the company, the Ministry of the Environment ordered the stoppage of the construction works (and the buying of lands) to allow for the investigation of the causes of these “unforeseen impacts” (impactos no previstos del proyecto, Resolution 1096, June 2011), the resolution was soon set aside (Resolution 1826, September 2011). Instead, the ministry decided on “preventive measurements” for Emgesa to take in October (Resolution 0025), but this was also set aside within a month (Resolution 0123). Emgesa continued with its activities in the same way as before (Contraloría General de la República, 2011; Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015).12 Another important aspect of contestation, highlighted by the CGR, is the missing elaboration of the contingency plan as described in Chapter 8. Regarding the Contingency Plan, it shows that the Environmental Authority continues to present deficiencies and gaps in the different actions. In the development of its monitoring and control functions, one perceives lack of clarity, opportunity, efficiency, and effectiveness, evidenced in delays and inaccuracies, and manifested in the continuous [unfulfilled] requirements posed by the natural and anthropic threat scenarios of the project.

Next to unconsidered risks and insecurities, many commitments of the company would still, after years of the project’s operation, be only partially or not at all be complied with. One important mechanism for the environmental authorities to be informed about updates and advances to the environmental mitigation strategies, are the environmental compliance reports (Informes de Cumplimiento Ambietal —ICAs). Such forms have to be compiled and submitted by the company twice a year and seem to be of rather superficial information with regards to the monitoring and compensations done (around 5 pages long).13 The ANLA needs

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to review each submission within three months to check if the criteria of the environmental licence are met. The CGR report (2020, pp. 57– 58) reveals that for most of these reports the ANLA used more than half a year to respond (even up to 17 months in 2016) and sometimes pronounced itself in several different administrational acts. Inefficiency is coupled with inconsistency and unclarity. In its reply to this critique, the ANLA mentions its responsibility over 4,139 active projects (as of September 2020) and that its workforce does not fully meet the needs for the affective follow-up and control of all related activities (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 63). Similarly, the director of the agency frankly stated in an interview early in 2019, that “with regard to the big megaprojects, there is no one to carry out the control” (quoted in Correa, 2019). The ANLA lacks the capacity to do the required monitoring, namely necessary staff, expertise, time and money to follow up on all aspects of environmental licences (Contraloría General de la República, 2006; Guevara Ulloa, 2016; Rodríguez, 2011; Toro et al., 2010, p. 255). As result of the above, many commitments the company made to the region adapted in Article 10.2 of the Environmental Licence are not yet complied with. With regards to the socioeconomic commitments, the CGR lists non as fulfilled (2020, pp. 11–14). Their realisation would not only depend on the ANLA pressuring the company but would also demand better coordination and communication between administrational authorities who often need to agree to proposed schemes and undertake the adaptation of territorial plans. The CGR (2020, p. 11) states: because these activities do not depend solely on the management carried out by the ANLA or the company EMGESA, but require inter-institutional coordination which, to date, […] reflects a contrary situation and an absent political will of those responsible at the national, regional, and local level. (emphasis added)

In the last section of this chapter, I will discuss this “absent political will”.

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State Support of El Quimbo

An absent political will as well as the weak state discourse are often repeated excuses for resource mismanagement and corporate control. In the Colombian context, the state would be unable to minimise the influence of external actors and their individual interest in the political system; it is fragile or weak. Some of the local responses at El Quimbo seem to reflect this discourse. Alfredo, resettled to Montea said, “Emgesa wins or it wins […] All of this under the responsibility of the same state”. He further argued: it has come to the point, where a foreign multinational comes to command the state – supposedly, in quotation marks the ‘constitutional state’ [estado de derecho] […] we turned backwards – back to the conquest, the colony in some form. […] And simply because of the repression of the same state, we had to accede that our best lands, were delivered to the company, because the state said, you have no right ... we as Colombians ... imagine.

Alfredo highlights the elite interests: “Here in Colombia, the toughest cancer is our political leaders. […] Everything is given for the benefit of foreign patrimony; Colombia is a state of foreigners, not of Colombians. […] Justice does not exist in this country for people, who do not have the economic conditions”. Pablo, former mayordomo and landowner at Veracruz said, “Our state is worse than the guerrilla FARC; […] the public force was created to defend the peasantry but when it comes to mega projects it is against the campesinos ”. Fernando from Veracruz asked at the public hearing in 2016: “Is it possible for the government to allow a multinational to displace the campesinos , leave them on the streets?” On another occasion, he declared: “The same government stabbed us … It is against us”. Former fisherman Orlando also raised his voice against national politics: “The government, at all moments, was in favour of the company, not of us”. He added, “In Colombia there are laws, there is a constitution! The company arrived in Huila, ignoring all rights and their authorities – impunity!” Others agreed: “The government is permissive; the only thing it has done is sacrifice the communities”; “The elite has invested in El Quimbo and so the government is with them”; “The project comes because it comes, it was a demand from the Huilan leaders, a national

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necessity”; “Many officials were in the hand of Emgesa”, and “the multinationals arrive with the same state already backing them […] for a development that fills their pockets”. All these statements identify some form of corporate-state entanglement on the national government level. Politicians would have been bought and were permissive. However, in total, it does not sound like the governmental institutions were weak or overruled by global capital but were directing their function towards it. In this section, I will take a closer look at the entanglement. I will start by critically interrogating the concept of the weak state. 9.3.1

The Weak State

In the terminology of international relations, a state is branded “failed” or “fragile” if it is unable to respond to the needs of its population. For example, the “Fragile States Index” (formerly “Failed States Index”) produced by the American-based think-tank “The Fund for Peace” classifies states according to their “sustainability” using a set of indicators, ranging from internal security threats and elite control to the adequate provision of public services, law and equal development for the whole society. Colombia has improved its ratings since this index began in the early 2000s. In 2019, however, it was still classified as a state of “elevated warning”. Call (2008) argues that most states which are classified as such, are not failed (completely collapsed), nor actually fragile. Western governments in particular would classify certain post-colonial countries as failed or fragile in order to justify interventions to bring more “stability and order” (Call, 2008; Lund, 2016). This was also the case with the United States-led “war on drugs” in Colombia.14 However, most often these countries face context-specific issues which require context-specific solutions. Call (2008) therefore introduces other more discriminatory categories, among them the “weak state”. States in this category have “weak formal institutional capacity”; their formal institutions partly fail to deliver all services and resources equally to their population. Consequently, informal institutions might fill these gaps, taking over state responsibilities and authority. Related issues are often observed in post-colonial countries (Hansen & Stepputat, 2001, p. 11), and also seem to represent the case of Colombia (Ávila Martínez, 2012; Garay Salamanca & Salcedo Albarán, 2012;

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Vargas & Uribe, 2017). Neoliberal globalisation would only advance this weakening of the state. Naranjo Aristizábal, who studied politics concerning the El Quimbo dam until 2014, perceives the permissiveness of state institutions as a process of “de-territorialisation” or “de-nationalisation”. Private corporations would increasingly take over territorial management and state responsibilities. Similarly, the Colombian scholar Víctor Manuel Moncayo C. (2012) points out that the “Hobbesian leviathan” is no longer the state but the global imperium; the state is subordinated to global impositions, and the result is a mutation. Studies in this line of thought create the image of a capitalist state as self-dismantling: a state which hands over its authority to the market (Ehrnström-Fuentes & Kröger, 2018; Gudynas, 2005; Santos, 2017; Sassen, 2006; Silveira, 2008). The structural adjustment programmes promoted by international financial institutions (World Bank and IMF) and forced upon Latin American countries in the 1980s, certainly suggested the decrease of state power. However, as Moncayo (2012) continues, the state still intervenes in market mechanisms, just increasingly in favour of “globality”. López Llanos (2014), reflecting on Moncayo’s work, suggests that the state is not disappearing but has transformed into a new intermediary of globalisation. Neoliberalism, as Sawyer (2004, p. 14) writes, requires the government to provide the necessary structures to function and therefore “aims to convert the state into an administrative and calculating organ” in service of the market. And Foucault (2008, p. 132) asserts, “Neoliberalism should not therefore be identified with laissez-faire, but rather with permanent vigilance, activity and intervention”. Accordingly, Bob Jessop considers neoliberalism less a threat to the state than a threat to democracy. In the following passage, he (2016, pp. 83–84) describes the change in the function of the state: [A]s the rhythms of the economy at different scales accelerate relative to those of states at different scales, state apparatuses have less time to determine and co-ordinate political responses to economic events, shocks, and crises […]. One response has been withdrawal from areas where states are actually or allegedly too slow to make a difference or would become overloaded if they tried to keep pace. This laissez-faire response frees up the movement of superfast and/or hypermobile capital – increasing the chances of crises generated by relatively unregulated activities with potentially global contagion effects. A second option is to compress decision-making

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cycles through the shortening of policy development cycles, fast-tracking decision-making, and engaging in rapid policy implementation to enable more timely and appropriate interventions. But this means that decisions could be made on the basis of unreliable information, insufficient consultation, lack of participation, etc., even as state managers continue to believe that policy is taking too long to negotiate, formulate, enact, adjudicate, determine, and implement. (emphasis added)

Colombian governance has moved along the trends of withdrawal and fast-tracking during the last decades.15 It privatised many public enterprises (withdrawal), as with the case of Betania-S.A. and Emgesa, and fast-tracked decision-making, as when allowing the easy modification of the environmental licence in 2010. I do not see this as a weakening of the state. First, instead of helping to understand the complex issues behind environmental conflicts, the weak state discourse functions as a myth used to distract from or even legitimise, for instance, hard development interventions in the regions (Hansen & Stepputat, 2001, p. 12) that have “clear political motivations”: to “empower capital at the expense of civil society” (McNeish, 2017, p. 501). Therefore, second, I agree with Fabiana Li (2009, p. 219) that “an emphasis on the absence or weakness of the state […] glosses over the complex ways in which the state and its legal structures operate”. It runs the risk of falling back to the believe that a stronger central state can diminish the influence of external and non-state actors in its peripheries. However, the El Quimbo dam case shows that this does not necessarily hold up as being the solution. It was a strong central state and a clear political will that allowed the project to be realised. I will support this argument focusing on two political strategies that were influencial: securitisation and serving global capital. 9.3.2

Securitisation

In May 2009, even before El Quimbo’s environmental licence had been officially granted, the national government provided armed security for the project’s realisation by establishing a special energy battalion “Batallón Especial Energético y Vial” (#12) close to the village La Jagua, Altamira. This special division of the army is responsible for protecting the road and energy infrastructure of the nation. Its website states that the 1,200 soldiers of #12 have “a firm commitment to monitor the department’s

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infrastructure […] and energy potentials such as the Betania Reservoir and the El Quimbo hydroelectric project” (Quinta División del Ejercito Nacional, 2011). At the time, a newspaper (El Confidencial Digital, 2009) quoted officials explaining the purpose of the division. A military official stated: The creation of the battalion has been planned for two years […]. The start of El Quimbo has accelerated its implementation, since it is concerned with avoiding possible delays, even stoppages in the construction of the plant, due to the strong opposition that the project has encountered from various groups of ecologists and indigenists. (emphasis added)

And a member of the regional government emphasised that “In particular, it [the battalion] seeks to guarantee the safety of the project and so we avoid having to suffer a paralysis because of the presence of irregular groups”. In general, the military divisions responsible for the protection of energy and road infrastructure are part of Colombia’s infrastructure security politics that should shield critical infrastructure against attacks from insurgency groups. During the more recent years of armed conflict, the FARC became known for attacks on oil pipelines and other private and public infrastructures. However, to place such a military division just south of El Quimbo dam, in an otherwise peaceful area (see Chapter 3), can be seen as primarily a source of intimidation for social movements opposing the dam project. Local news outlets titled: “The Army created an energy battalion in Huila to take care of the controversial project El Quimbo” (Quintero, 2009) and “Endesa will have its own military base in Colombia” (Radio Mundo Real, 2009). While the placement of the division became more symbolic over the years as military action around El Quimbo was limited, a second security force was directly involved in confrontations with the local population. The ESMAD (Escuadrón Móvil Antidisturbios, mobile antidisturbance squadron) is the Colombian national police riot control. It is nationally known for its aggressive and abusive use of force. Also, at El Quimbo, it was involved in demobilising protests, street blocks and peaceful reunions, and in evicting the resisting population from the valley (see Chapter 11.2). The process of state-led evictions is legally referred to as amparo policivo de perturbación a la posesión o a la tenencia (police protection from disruption of possessions or tenure), a law that

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protects private property and lands of public and social interest (Alcaldia Bogotá, n.d.). Mayors and governors can ask for this form of police protection. In the case of the forced evictions at Domingo Arias on 14 February 2012, it was the mayor of Paicol who responded to the request of Emgesa.16 For the rural population in central Huila, after years of fear of being displaced by paramilitaries or guerrillas (up to the 1990s), it is the state who finally succeeded (Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, pp. 121–122). It seemed ironic that the state is ambitious (officially) to protect a multinational investment against FARC activities while failing to defend much of its civil population against direct violence executed by informal armed actors around the country (Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, pp. 121–122).17 The presence of armed forces, in this case, can be viewed as a technique of counterinsurgency connected to many extractive projects in Latin America as described by Dunlap (2020) (see also Del Bene et al., 2018) and is fundamental to the wider securitisation strategy of the government at the time. The “war on drugs” and Plan Colombia gained new momentum with Uribe elected. His government had not only the objective to stop the production and trafficking of drugs, but also to debilitate guerrilla groups and to take control over territories and resources. Uribe rejected the existence of an internal war and framed the guerrillas as terrorist organisations that occupied limited areas of Colombia’s periphery (McNeish et al., 2015; Restrepo Echeverri & Franco Restrepo, 2011). The use of discourses of security to legitimise violence forms an essential part of “securitisation” (Vélez-Torres, 2014). As mentioned in Chapter 8, the former presidents Uribe and Santos defended the project with claims of energy security and the ESMAD-led eviction of the resisting population as a “constitutional duty”. When Emgesa started the operation of the dam in 2015, the key site of conflict became the courts, but the discourse continued. Disregarding an earlier ruling of the Huilan Administrational Tribunal that prohibited Emgesa from starting the energy generation before complying with all commitments to the region, the company initiated the reservoir filling in June 2015. The tribunal thereafter reissued its ruling and forced the company to keep its turbines shut off. In August, the national Mining Ministry tried to convince the tribunal to lift its decision—without success (Castillo, 2015). As a result, then-president Santos used the state of emergency, declared in response to the border conflict with Venezuela in September 2015 (Decree 1770 of 2015), to

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turn the ruling around, calling the dam’s operation a necessity for national security: We need water; we need more run-off in the Magdalena River. They tell me that Ecopetrol [national oil company] is already suffering huge losses that affect all Colombians. [...] There is a situation that prevents energy from being produced… Someone compared it to a situation of famine in which the state is throwing away food! (quoted in El País, 2015)

Hydroelectricity is often represented as a “vital national project on which the ‘fate of the nation’ depends” (Bridge et al., 2018, p. 2). There are also multiple examples in history of how “‘grand narratives’ that imply some form of universal benefit and/or urgent necessity” (Bridge et al., 2018, p. 2) have supported states’ investments in big hydroelectric projects. Santos said further, “It cannot be that because of the decision of one or some judges, millions of Colombians end up suffering dramatic consequences” (El País, 2015; see also El Espectador, 2016). He delegitimises the judiciary and presents the continued closure of the dam gates as a disaster for the Colombian people.18 The national government subsequently allowed Emgesa to start producing energy (6 October, Decree 1979 of 2015). This provoked the Constitutional Court to be involved and to decide that the decree is not legitimate as it did not see how the dam’s operation was relevant to the border conflict (Sentence C-753 of 2015, see El Espectador, 2015). After several months of standstill, in January 2016, Emgesa was finally allowed to produce energy as the lasting drought caused by El Niño had necessitated run-off for the flowing of the river downstream. It becomes apparent that the national elite supported and even pushed for the realisation of the dam project. The development narrative, together with the claimed demands for energy security and the investors’ confidence, were meant to legitimise the project and related controversial actions. The opposition would be only a few who would not grasp the national “common interest” in the project. The statements by the president described here add the dimension of urgency, extend the narrative of “only a few” to the judiciary and seek to criminalise the resistance against the dam. Emgesa’s court case against resistance leaders Miller Dussán and Elsa Ardila for public disturbance complemented this narrative. Many of the affected people who sought compensation felt stigmatised as “free

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riders” or opportunists and treated as criminals in compensation negotiations. All of this parallels the defamations that brand “environmentalists”, “indigenists” and generally social activists not just as “enemies of development” but even as terrorists, putting them into the same category as the guerrilla (Tamayo, 2003). The stigmatisation justifies violent interventions and forms part of securitisation that is targeted in strengthen the investors’ confidence in the name of “development”. Discourses of development, says Moncayo (2012, p. 39), allow neoliberalism to hide violence executed. While some states still use power of control and suppression, for example through forced land dispossession (sovereign power by Foucault, 2003; despotic power by Mann, 1987, p. 341), capitalism offers important governmental tools (biopower by Foucault, 2003) for states to mask unequal capital accumulation as being in the common interest.19 9.3.3

Serving Global Capital

The first political step towards the realisation of the El Quimbo dam was the national government declaring the lands of El Quimbo valley of “national interest” (Resolución No. 321: Por La Cual Se Declara de Utilidad Pública e Interés Social Los Terrenos Necesarios Para La Construcción y Operación Del Proyecto Hidroeléctrico El Quimbo, 2008). In so doing, it abused a mechanism established by the 1991 Constitution that allowed the state to legally expropriate property if its use does not correspond to “public utility and social interest” (e.g. with no productive activity, see Bonilla, 2011). While the old Constitution of 1886 emphasised the role of the state in protecting private property as an individual right (ibid.), the new Constitution of 1991 recognises that property has an additional social function and is therefore connected with certain responsibilities. In complete contrast to its envisaged legal intentions, the government under Álvaro Uribe used this mechanism to effectively centralise land and capital into the hands of a multinational company. But the El Quimbo dam did not come from anywhere; a chain of political decisions laid the path for its successful realisation. The operation of the Betania dam in Huila had been privatised in 1996 and Betania-S.A. became part of Endesa Chile. This capitalisation was also the result of the new Constitution of 1991. In response to global processes for economic liberalisation, the constitution specified that the central

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bank should have autonomy, education and health services can be privatised, and the state should liquidate rather unprofitable state businesses (Álvarez, 2016). Article 336 states: “The Government will sell or liquidate a monopolistic company of the State and grant to third parties the development of its activity, if it does not meet the efficiency requirements, under the terms determined by the law” (Constitución Política de Colombia 1991. Actualizada Con Los Actos Legislativos a 2016, 2016). Shortly after Betania-S.A, the public energy company “Empresas Energía de Bogotá” (today “Grupo Energía Bogotá”) was partially capitalised. Since its financial viability was at stake, it became a mixedeconomy entity majority owned by Endesa Spain and Endesa Chile (La Asociación Nacional de Instituciones Financieras & La Firma Comisionista de Bolsa, 2011, p. 9). As a result, two national subsidiaries were formed: Codensa (responsible for energy distribution) and Emgesa (responsible for energy generation). Betania-S.A. became part of the latter in 2007 (Enel Group, 2016, p. F-83). While in 1997, Betania’s plan to build El Quimbo was rejected by the then Environmental Ministry, by 2007, economic priorities had changed. With the election of Uribe as president in 2002, the government embraced a political platform of neoliberalism and security (see above and Echavarría Alvarez, 2010; Ojeda, 2013). To distract from Plan Colombia’s internal warfare at the international level the government focused on securing investors’ confidence (la confianza inversionista) and creating a friendly environment for transnational corporations. Uribe himself said: We believe in private investment, because we know that in the villages where it has been limited, laziness has been established, business creativity has ended, and essential freedoms have been affected. Finally, private initiatives are a source of prosperity that allows the collective enjoyment of freedoms and rights; it is a source of autonomy that prevents abuses of the poor. Without a path to prosperity, it is impossible to speak of freedoms, and the only path of prosperity known so far in the history of humankind is that of respect for private initiative. Investors’ confidence requires physical and legal security, political determination to stimulate it, good management of the economy and the ability to introduce adjustments at all times within the path that leads to clearly defined objectives. (Uribe Vélez, 2013)

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Uribe oriented governance along these lines during his presidency by liberalising the markets for foreign direct investments and by accommodating foreign capital. The Internal Agenda for Productivity and Competitiveness by the National Council of Economic and Social Policy of Colombia—Conpes (3297: Agenda Interna Para La Productividad y La Copetitividad: Metodología, 2004) and The Visión Colombia II Centenario 2019 by the National Planning Office—DNP (Visión Colombia II Centenario 2019—Fundamentar El Crecimiento y El Desarrollo Social En La Ciencia, La Tecnología y La Innovación, 2005) were important strategy papers in which Uribe’s government formulated the guidelines for future economic development. The vision statement puts the focus on expanding the export industry and taking advantage of Colombia’s natural wealth (DNP, 2005). Complementing this, the internal agenda states that every region has to identify its economic potential and strengthen its competitiveness. In both reports, a key factor was to expand the physical infrastructure including the energy grid. Colombia now aimed to increase its energy production with the support of the private sector, and to become more embedded in regional economic agreements (such as the Initiative for the Integration of the Regional Infrastructure of South America, called IIRSA, of 2000). In response to the position of the national government, the Huilan government officially formulated its own internal agenda in 2007. The agenda emphasised the potential of the Magdalena River basin for energy generation. Huila would have high competitiveness (specifically with El Quimbo, later also with potential dams at Pericongo and Guarapas) and could become a strategic area linking the Andean region economically with Central America. It is pointed out in the agenda that “in this sense, it is necessary to ‘dust off’ pre-feasibility studies for projects, such as El Quimbo, that offer a prospect of high competitiveness” (Agenda Interna Del Huila Para La Productividad y La Competitividad, 2007, p. 264). This statement already indicated that existing policies and laws should be adopted in such a manner that they support potential investments in the sector. The national government put several pieces of legislation in place that cleared the way for investors in hydroelectricity to encounter fewer obstacles and to secure profitability. An important mechanism was introduced in 2006: el Cargo de Confiabilidad (La Comisión de Regulación de Energía y Gas, 2006). The “Reliability Charge” gives certain guarantees to selected energy projects. In effect, the state is committing to

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pay the operating company a fixed price per kilowatt-hour installed, on a monthly basis during an agreed period, regardless of their daily participation in the wholesale market. In the case of El Quimbo dam, the state guaranteed payment for the first 20 years of the project’s operation (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 50). “In exchange, the generator commits to comply with the Firm Energy Obligations (OEF): the company must guarantee the supply of energy to the national grid, even in critical conditions of scarcity [e.g. during periods of droughts like El Niño]” (Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014, p. 38). In August 2008, the national government introduced Conpes 3527: The Development Plan 2006–2010 titled “The politics of competitiveness and productivity”, which makes guarantees to foreign investments, highlighting Uribe’s famous call for “investors’ confidence” (3527: Política Nacional de Competitividad y Productividad, 2008). It further emphasised the importance of hydroelectric projects for the development of the country. A few months earlier, the Ministry of the Environment had already pronounced its support for the El Quimbo dam realisation and assigned Emgesa to the project. In the month following the introduction of Conpes 3527, the lands of El Quimbo valley were declared to be of public utility and social interest. Shortly thereafter, Emgesa started construction. I argue that the above-mentioned policies which led to El Quimbo being approved, reflect the idea of the capitalist state. Harvey (2014, p. 28) explains: “The capitalist state must use its acquired monopoly over the means of violence to protect and preserve the individualised private property rights regime as articulated through freely functioning markets”. To have power over territory is to privatise it and to integrate it into the market. “The ultimate ‘landlord’ is the state; it controls non-human nature’s use values, and delivers these rents to capital” (Parenti, 2014, p. 837; Purcell & Martinez, 2018). Polanyi (2001, p. 187) had already pointed this out in the 1940s, stating that to separate land from man and to organize society in such a way as to satisfy the requirements of a real-estate market was a vital part of the utopian concept of a market economy. Again, it is in the field of modern colonization that the true significance of such a venture becomes manifest. Whether the colonist needs land as a site for the sake of the wealth buried in it, or whether he merely wishes to constrain the native to produce a surplus of food and raw materials, is often irrelevant.

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Polanyi’s analysis of the colonial project to enclose land to force people into the labour market by threat of starvation (Polanyi, 2001, pp. 171– 173), is applicable to Colombia’s history of land conflicts and continues to be relevant today. Even though Uribe’s government did not protect individual private property when it declared the lands of El Quimbo valley of public utility, it resulted in a new enclosure—centralised ownership for the sole function of profit-making. This is paramount for expanding the capitalist frontier (Moore, 2000; Peluso & Lund, 2011). The possibilities for subsistence agriculture were diminished and people became more dependent on the market; the energy generation produced bonuses, where capital was already accumulating. “By supporting (through midwifery), promoting (through husbandry) and protecting (through its custodian role), the state creates the foundations for extractivism, legitimises the presence of corporations and protects their interests now and in the future” (Ehrnström-Fuentes & Kröger, 2018, p. 206). President Juan Manuel Santos (2010–2018) followed the direction of his predecessor and focused further on the return of the primary commodities export sector (re-primarisation). A new national development plan, “El Plan Nacional de Desarrollo” of 2010–2014, put forward the direction of the newly elected government. It established the five core areas of investment: innovation, agriculture, housing, mining and energy, and transport infrastructure. These so-called “locomotives for the national economy” gave further juridical security to investors (DNP, 2010), and led to the creation of “PINES”, which is the Spanish acronym for “Projects of National and Strategic Interest”. In 2013, the National Council of Economic and Social Policy of Colombia (Conpes) identified the El Quimbo hydroelectric project and another 52 investments in infrastructure, hydrocarbons, mining and energy as PINES.20 The objective of the policy “Conpes 3762” is to facilitate the development of projects that generate a high socioeconomic impact on the country, and which have faced difficulties in their realisation: The main difficulties that affect the agility and viability of these projects […] are the acquisition of land, prior consultation with communities, permits and environmental procedures, relations with communities in different regions, and the internal difficulties of public entities in solving legal problems. (3762: Lineamientos de Política Para El Desarrollo de Proyectos de Interés Nacional y Estrategicos - PINES, 2013)

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Of the 53 projects identified in 2013 by Conpes, 80% faced problems (delays) because of environmental issues, 27% because of the development of community consultations and 23% because of issues surrounding property acquisition. Conpes maintained that all issues were linked to insufficient clarity regarding internal procedures by the authorities, a duplication of efforts by state entities, weak and reactive mechanisms, and dispersed and outdated information. By using the weak state discourse, Conpes established a way to guarantee PINES “greater efficiency, clarity of roles, responsibilities, objectives and greater impact” (3762: Lineamientos de Política Para El Desarrollo de Proyectos de Interés Nacional y Estrategicos - PINES, 2013). It was short-tracking the process of decision-making to allow more flexible movement of capital. Considering the above, the national state institutions had taken up a neoliberal role by guaranteeing “legal security” for capital and high corporate profitability (Svampa, 2013, p. 36). Together with the language of “dusting-off” feasibility studies for high competitiveness and of securitisation, I argue that the state directs its function towards meeting the needs of private global capital. ∗ ∗ ∗ This Chapter has shown, that even when participation became enacted by the people and the space was embraced by the opposition, their arguments and counter-data gathered over years of mobilisation, it did not change the politics that primarily sought to accommodate private investment. The felt disappointment among the affected population after years of repeating their stories has produced, as “cumulative effect”, “a psychological and spiritual fatigue” also visible in the case of the Kearl Lake Oil Sand project. Community members “are tired of expressing the same concerns and telling the same stories, which seem to have no effect on the course of development” (from the remarks of the authors of the Environment Impact Assessment—Kearl Lake Project, quoted by Baker & Westman, 2018, p. 145). The licencing process pretends to be a mechanism that, based on EIA data, defines the project’s scope and the responsibilities of the licence holder to comply with mitigation plans and monitoring schemes. But the possibly well-intended preventive strategies demanded will not hold the company’s actions to account if the political interest in institutional follow up and therefore auditory capacity is lacking. The analysis has shown that,

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even though continued consultation and auditing are essential to any project execution, these mechanisms cannot fully be relied upon in terms of fixing or outbalancing the flaws established with the EIA process. In light of the above-described political support that the project enjoyed, one might argue that the EIA document itself was obsolete in the process and that even the most rigorous and fair assessment could not stop hegemonic interests. One might argue that the EIA fulfilled its purpose but politics entered the scene abusing the data for their own interests. I contend that politics did not arrive from the “outside” diminishing the scientific value of the EIA, but politics were integral to its elaboration. It indeed always is. As Merry (2016, p. 21) states, The technical is always political because there is always interpretation and judgment in systems of classification, in the choice of things to measure, in the weighting of constitutive elements, and in decisions about which denominator to use for a ratio. The political hides behind the technical.

During the Chapters of this Part II of the book, I have brought this entanglement with politics, and abuses made possible in the system, to the surface. I started in Chapter 5 presenting the pessimistic perception that the EIA acts merely as a tool that allows the continued mismanagement of natural resources (Bravante & Holden, 2009, p. 542). It would serve the “audit culture”, which are “regimes of monitoring and accountability that fail to produce real change” (Benson & Kirsch, 2010, p. 466; Strathern, 2000). This does not make the EIA or the related auditing process meaningless. My analysis of Chapters 6–8 provides novel insights into the specific characteristics and the roots of each of the multiple shortcomings, of the document itself as well as the process of its elaboration and consequent (ab)uses. This process already manifested injustices to the project from the outset and helped engineering a reality favourable to the project’s execution, allowing its political legitimisation. To make the EIA not merely a tool of accountability but of justice and change, it is necessary to understand the full power of EIA knowledge. The focus so far has been to critically discuss the corporate truth produced of the space affected throughout the making of the EIA. In the subsequent Part III, I will turn attention away from knowledge and towards space within the assemblage of knowledge, space and power. Asking how the EIA knowledge controlled and even produced space, I

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will look at the reality as it played out at El Quimbo and the potentials for energy and data justice. To end this part, I will provide a brief snapshot into one of the life worlds uprooted.

9.4

Pitcairnia huilensis

“Pitcairnia huilensis: an attractive new bromeliad from Colombia”, titled a research paper by Betancur & Jiménez-Escobar in 2015. On a dry, warm day, a day as most days in the valley in 2014, a group of researchers contracted by the energy company Emgesa came across a plant that would not quite fit any of the specifications outlined in their species catalogue that guided their survey of the valley’s ecosystems. They had found a new species of the genus Pitcairnia, grass-like terrestrial bromeliads, and called it according to its origin: Huila (Fig. 9.2). The article announcing the discovery explains, “Recent botanical explorations in the upper basin of the Magdalena River in Colombia, in areas surrounding the construction of the El Quimbo Hydroelectric Plant, have yielded interesting taxonomic and chorological novelties for these dry enclaves and for the country.” Indeed, if it would not have been for the researchers roaming these “enclaves” for updating the dam’s baseline studies, no one might have ever registered this taxonomic anomaly within the landscape. Now that it was discovered and its single “erect stem” with “heteromorphic leaves” and green to bright red flowers catalogued, it was subjected to public attention and controversy. As the habitat and species distribution seemed limited to “the dry inter-Andean valleys of the upper Magdalena River basin”, Pitcairnia huilensis was immediately classified as endemic (Betancur & JiménezEscobar, 2015). If the dam construction would go ahead and the El Quimbo valley floods, it would eradicate a large chunk of this limited habitat, argued environmentalists at the South-Colombian University in Neiva opposing the dam. The energy company’s response was that it was thanks to their work that the plant could now be protected. It was resettled and bred in the nurseries within the project’s environmental compensation zone along the western hills of the reservoir. Once in the nursery, Pitcairnia huilensis found itself in a quite peculiar situation. It still enjoyed dispersed sunlight, but it was not its larger tree relatives that provided the shade. It was black netting spanned over

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Fig. 9.2 Pitcairnia huilensis by Betancur and Jiménez-Escobar (2015)

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lifted rows of seedlings. Each plant neatly placed within its own little soil cocoon (root ball) underneath. Back in 2014, Pitcairnia huilensis still nested in patches on familiar rocks, sharing its nectar with bees, butterflies and hummingbirds that highly appreciated the variety of bromeliads in tropical dry forests (Pizano & García, 2014). Bromeliads do not only find their niches on bare, dry ground but also on the stems and branches of trees. As epiphytes, they join the diversity of colourful orchids on the trees, living of the humidity in the air and providing nutrition and hiding spaces for birds and insects. Some of Pitcairnia huilensis ’ epiphyte relatives are now lined up on similar shelves under the same black net. They might wonder if their bird and insect friends will find them there.

Notes 1. The Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, also known as ILO Convention 169, was formulated by the International Labour Organisation (ILO) in 1989. In Article 7 it states: “The peoples concerned shall have the right to decide their own priorities for the process of development as it affects their lives, beliefs, institutions and spiritual well-being and the lands they occupy or otherwise use, and to exercise control, to the extent possible, over their own economic, social and cultural development”. 2. How prior consultation has been translated into practice, has been discussed in detail by authors such as(Leifsen, Gustafsson, et al., 2017; Leifsen, Sánchez-Vázquez, et al., 2017; Machado et al., 2017; Orduz Salinas & Rodríguez Garavito, 2012; Rodríguez Garavito, 2011; SchillingVacaflor, 2016; Weitzner, 2017). 3. The following table is a list of environmental licences granted between 1993 and February 2011 and the corresponding numbers on prior consultations (middle column) and public hearings carried out in these years (right column) (Rodríguez, 2011, p. 13). Año

Licencias ambientales otorgadas

Consultas previas

Audiencias públicas

1993 1994 1995 1996 1997

77 160 183 173 137

0 6 7 6 10

0 1 13 4 3 (continued)

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(continued) Año

Licencias ambientales otorgadas

Consultas previas

Audiencias públicas

1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 (up to Feb) Total

104 115 96 92 75 107 89 138 108 105 96 99 158 30 2142

11 6 4 11 4 0 3 1 21 16 10 8 16 1 141

6 6 3 3 1 0 3 0 4 3 1 7 1 1 60

4. The following section relies on local accounts as shared during interviews in 2017, as well on the account of Social Scientist Camilo Andrés Salcedo Montero who studied the project’s early consultation stage and produced several pieces of academic work on the topic (see Salcedo Montero, 2010, 2014; Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015). 5. While the company covers the costs for events of participation, the ANLA is responsible for the set-up and order of speakers. In this decision, the authority is usually advised by the company. 6. A thematic roundtable (mesa temática) is a space where different actors come together to discuss solutions to an identified problem and to overcome discrepancies between opposing parties. It is usually constituted by several meetings, organised and financed by the municipality and open to the public. 7. The original Environmental Licence states: “For all cases of involuntary displacement (settlements and productive activities), total or partial, the company will advance and implement the activities that guarantee the restoration of the socioeconomic conditions of the affected families […]. Among others, the following population groups will be taken into account as beneficiaries: Tenants, farm managers, wood extractors, sand extractors, farm-partakers, truck drivers, merchants, contractors, artisanal fisherfolk and fish farmers” (Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, 2009, pp. 246–247).

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8. According to the anti-dam organisation Asoquimbo https://www.asoqui mbo.org/en/news/la-anla-decidio-evaluar-y-tramitar-la-modificacion-ala-obligacion-de-tierras-a-favor-de-enel-colombia (accessed 01 May 2023). 9. Apart from the consultation with Asoquimbo, who positioned itself strongly against the requested modification (see previous endnote), I can see ANLA’s representation of the results of participation as being accurate. My reading of the described local response is that the people are tired of waiting and repeating their claims (which they were already in 2017) and possibly lost hope of ever having access to productive lands to build a livelihood for their families. Claimants have also aged by now and their children might have taken over the demands with different priorities then their parent’s generation. 10. Toro and colleagues (2010) assess environmental monitoring in Colombia until 2010 (before ANLA was established) and evaluate 14 out of 16 criteria as negative (unfulfilled). 11. List of resolutions up to 2020 accessible at https://www.anla.gov.co/ 01_anla/proyectos/proyecto-de-interes-en-seguimiento-proyecto-hidroe lectrico-el-quimbo (accessed 19 April 2023). 12. More examples of this negligence will come to the fore in Chapter 10. 13. Next to the ICAs, Emgesa released monthly public communiques between 2012 and 2016 in which it highlights its social and environmental corporate responsibility, showing pictures that illustrate local interventions and quoting positive responses from beneficiaries of those. It is not visible from these communications how far these interventions comply with official commitments, what has been merely a response to earlier damages caused by the project, and what was still missing in terms of compliances. 14. In the 1990s, the US started to invest in the Colombian military to successfully combat drug cartels and guerrilla on own grounds. This cooperation was formalised with Plan Colombia in 1999 and led to a strengthening of state military as well as paramilitary. President Álvaro Uribe (2002–2010) intensified the war on drugs supported by George W. Bush (2001–2009). As Colombia remains to be a major cocaine producer worldwide, the Plan has proven to be first and foremost a war against the guerrilla and the peasants of the country. The aerial eradication (fumigation) of illicit crops has destroyed food crops and left many farmers without livelihood. Furthermore, the military received incentives to kill guerrilla. In order to keep up numbers, soldiers would kidnap young men from marginalised areas, dress them in guerrilla uniform and massacre them – a phenomenon which came to be known as “false positives” (see for detailed account McNeish et al., 2015). 15. Colombian scholar Rueda Saiz (2010, p. 42) argues, “this process of economic liberalization did not entail the reduction of the size of the state apparatus. On the contrary, liberalization paralleled the establishment of a

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16.

17.

18.

19.

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new constitution that created a series of major political and institutional reforms that significantly increased state expenditures.” “On January 13, 2012 the company EMGESA S.A. E.S.P. requested before the municipal mayor of Paicol, based on Decree 1575 of 2011, the police amparo for the protection of the rights of ownership, possession and tenure of the property La Despenza and La Esperanza; the Mayor assumed the knowledge and notified to the company” (Sentencia T-581, 2014). A caricature published at the time (see http://polinizaciones.blogspot. com/2012/02/, accessed 20 February 2020), illustrates the polemic behind the involvement of the public forces. It shows an ESMAD in full armour in front of the dam, saying: “Here, recuperating the investors’ confidence maestro!”. The phrase is a modified version of the historic statement, given by a military official during the Palace of Justice siege in November 1985 which killed more than 100 guerrilla members, soldiers and hostages: “Here, defending the democracy maestro!” (see Lemaitre Ripoll, 2009). Because of the closed border, less petroleum was imported. To make up for the shortage, the president argued that more petroleum needed to be transported from the south, along the Magdalena River. The El Quimbo dam not operating would however restrict the navigability of the river downstream and hinder potential electricity generation (Decreto 1979: “Por El Cual Se Desarrolla El Decreto 1770 Del 7 de Septiembre de 2015 y Se Autoriza El Inicio de La Generación de Energía Eléctrica En El Proyecto Hidroeléctrico El Quimbo.,” 2015). The ostensible “common interest” has historically been grounded in the economic project of the state. Following Marx’s thinking on “who controls the labour process, controls men and nature”, any political system is necessarily linked to a specific economic order. Marxists see the state as an apparatus of the leading class to disguise their oppression of lower classes (Althusser, 1971). Following Engels, Abrams (1988, p. 76) says, “the state is brought into being as an idea in order to present the outcome of the class struggle as the independent outcome of a classless legitimate will”. It is the “coercive subjection of rural populations to noble domination through the invention of new apparatuses of administration and law” (Abrams, 1988, p. 80). The state would be an abstract idea to distract from class domination by creating the illusion of a neutral state apparatus that follows the sole function to act in the general interest (Abrams, 1988, p. 64; Marx & Engels, 1968 [1932]). A project is identified as PINES if it meets at least one of the following criteria:

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– It generates a significant impact on the creation of employment, directly or through capital investment. – It significantly increases the productivity and competitiveness of the national or regional economy. – It generates a positive return on the investment and is operationally sustainable. – It increases the export capacity of the national economy. – It generates significant income to the nation and regions. – The scope of the project contributes to the fulfilment of the goals detailed in the National Development Plan (2010–2014).

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Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1968). A critique of the German ideology. Progress Publishers. https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.12800 McNeish, J.-A. (2017). Extracting justice? Colombia’s commitment to mining and energy as a foundation for peace. The International Journal of Human Rights, 21(4), 500–516. https://doi.org/10.1080/13642987.2016. 1179031 McNeish, J.-A., Rojas Andrade, G., & Vallejo, C. (2015). Striking a new balance? Exploring civil-military relations in Colombia in a time of hope (CMI Working Paper). Merry, S. E. (2016). The seductions of quantification: Measuring Human rights, gender violence, and sex trafficking. The University of Chicago Press. Mohan, G., & Hickey, S. (2004). Relocating participation within a radical politics of development: Critical modernism and citizenship. In G. Mohan & S. Hickey (Eds.), Participation: From tyranny to transformation? (pp. 59–75). Zed Books. Molano Bravo, A. (2009, March 21). La mala energía del Quimbo (II). El Espectador. https://www.elespectador.com/impreso/articuloimpreso129588mala-energia-del-quimbo-ii Moncayo, C. V. M. (2012). ¿Cómo aproximarnos al Estado en América Latina? In M. Thwaites Rey (Ed.), El Estado en América Latina. Continuidades y rupturas. Clacso. Moore, J. W. (2000). Sugar and the expansion of the early modern worldeconomy. Commodity frontiers, ecological transformation, and industrialization. Review (Fernand Braudel Center), 23(3), 409–433. Morgan, R. K. (2012). Environmental impact assessment: The state of the art. Impact Assessment and Project Appraisal, 30(1), 5–14. https://doi.org/10. 1080/14615517.2012.661557 N-24.col. (2017). El Quimbo: los riesgos no previstos destacado. N-24 Colombia. https://n-24.co/la-region/huila/el-quimbo-los-riesgos-no-previs tos-destacado/ Naranjo Aristizábal, S. P. (2014). Conflictos territoriales generados por las macropolíticas y sus respectivos impactos, en relación con los pobladores del territorio donde éstas se materializan. Estudio de caso del Megaproyecto de la Hidroeléctrica El Quimbo. Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Nita, A., Fineran, S., & Rozylowicz, L. (2022). Researchers’ perspective on the main strengths and weaknesses of Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) procedures. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 92. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/j.eiar.2021.106690 O’Brien, K. J. (2007). Rightful resistance. World Politics, 49(1), 31–55. https:// doi.org/10.1353/wp.1996.0022

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Ojeda, D. (2013). War and tourism: The banal geographies of security in Colombia’s “retaking.” Geopolitics, 18(4), 759–778. https://doi.org/10.1080/146 50045.2013.780037 Orduz Salinas, N., & Rodríguez Garavito, C. A. (2012). Adiós río: La disputa por la tierra, el agua y los derechos indígenas en torno a la represa de Urrá. Dejusticia. Parenti, C. (2014). The 2013 ANTIPODE AAG lecture the environment making state: Territory, nature, and value. Antipode, 47 (4), 829–848. https://doi. org/10.1111/anti.12134 Peluso, N. L., & Lund, C. (2011). New frontiers of land control: Introduction. Journal of Peasant Studies, 38(4), 667–681. https://doi.org/10.1080/030 66150.2011.607692 Perreault, T. (2015). Performing participation: Mining, power and the limits of public consultation in Bolivia. Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology, 20(November), 433–451. https://doi.org/10. 1111/jlca.12185 Pizano, C., & García, H. (2014). El Bosque Seco Tropical en Colombia. Instituto de Investigacíon de Recursos Biologicos Alexander Von Humboldt. Bogotá. Polanyi, K. (2001). The great transformation—The political and economic origins of our time (2nd ed.). Beacon Press books. Purcell, T. F., & Martinez, E. (2018). Post-neoliberal energy modernity and the political economy of the landlord state in Ecuador. Energy Research and Social Science, 41(April), 12–21. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2018.04.003 Quinta División del Ejercito Nacional. (2011, February 15). Batallón Especial energético y Vial No. 12 Cr. José María Tello. https://www.quintadivision.mil. co/quinta_division_ejercito_nacional/brigadas/novena_brigada/unidades_tac ticas/batallon_especial_energetico_vial_277527 Quintero, J. (2009, May 12). Ejército creó en Huila Batallón energético para cuidar polémico proyecto El Quimbo. El Tiempo. https://www.eltiempo. com/archivo/documento/CMS-5181719 Radio Mundo Real. (2009, April 23). Endesa tendrá su base militar en Colombia. RMR. http://www.realworldradio.fm/Cadena-de-favores?lang=es Rahman, M. A. (1995). Participatory development: Towards liberation and cooptation? In G. Craig & M. Mayo (Eds.), Community empowerment: A reader in participation and development (pp. 24–32). Zed Books. Resolución No. 321: Por la cual se declara de utilidad pública e interés social los terrenos necesarios para la construcción y operación del Proyecto Hidroeléctrico el Quimbo, Pub. L. No. Resolución No. 321 de 1. Sep. 2008 (2008). Restrepo Echeverri, J. D., & Franco Restrepo, V. L. (2011). La toma de la tierra: lógicas de guerra y acumulación en el Bajo Atrato. In M. Romero (Ed.),

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La Economía de los Paramilitares. Redes de Corrupción, Negocios y Política. Random House Mondatori. Rodríguez, G. A. (2011). Las licencias ambientales y su proceso de reglamentación en Colombia. Foro Nacional Ambiental. Análisis 1(May). Bogotá. Rodríguez Garavito, C. A. (2011). Ethnicity.gov: Global governance, Indigenous peoples, and the right to prior consultation in social minefields. Indiana Journal of Global Legal Studies , 18(1), 263–305. https://doi.org/10.1353/ gls.2011.0021 Rueda Saiz, P. (2010). Legal language and social change during Colombia’s economic crisis. In J. Couso, A. Huneeus, & R. Sieder (Eds.), Cultures of legality: Judicialization and political activism in Latin America (pp. 25–50). Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO978051173026 9.002 Salcedo Montero, C. A. (2010). Negociaciones y Coaliciones de Política: El Caso de la Hidroelectrica El Quimbo - Huila, Colombia (2007–2010). Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Salcedo Montero, C. A. (2014). Campesinos y conflictos sociales por el proyecto hidroeléctrico el Quimbo - Huila, Colombia. Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro. Salcedo Montero, C. A., & Cely Forero, A. M. (2015). Expansión hidroeléctrica, Estado y economías campesinas: El caso de la represa del Quimbo, HuilaColombia. Mundo Agrario, 16(31), 1–34. En Memoria Académica. http:// www.memoria.fahce.unlp.edu.ar/art_revistas/pr.6743/pr.6743.pdf Sánchez Vanegas, M. C. (2012). Análisis de la participación ciudadana en los procesos de Evaluación de Impacto Ambiental. Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Santos, M. (2017). Toward an other globalization: From the single thought to universal. Springer. Sassen, S. (2006). Territory, authority, rights: From medieval to global assemblages. Princeton University Press. Sawyer, S. (2004). Crude Chronicles: Indigenous politics, multinational oil, and neoliberalism in Ecuador. Duke University Press. Schilling-Vacaflor, A. (2016). Who controls the territory and the resources? Free, prior and informed consent (FPIC) as a contested human rights practice in Bolivia. Third World Quarterly, 6597 (June), 1–17. https://doi.org/10. 1080/01436597.2016.1238761 Sentencia T-581: Legitimacion por Activa en Tutela (2014). Silveira, M. L. (2008). Globalización y territorio usado: Imperativos y solidaridades. Cuadernos Del Cendes Año, 25(69), 1–19. Soler Villamizar, J. P., Duarte Abadía, B., & Roa Avendaño, T. (2014). ¿Por qué y cómo se imponen las hidroeléctricas en Colombia? In T. Roa Avendaño &

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PART III

Engineering Reality

The EIA shapes a world that it purports to only represent. (Fiske, 2017, p. 64)

CHAPTER 10

Detachment—Materialising Fragmentation

The power to shape and control space is core to Geographical analysis and will be the focus of this Part III. I chose the term “engineering reality” to capture the techniques of social engineering to construct a certain reality and to highlight the role that engineers and experts play in this (Scott, 1998). Accordingly, this chapter will analyse the reality engineered at El Quimbo and how infrastructure has been used to inscribe knowledge onto space. I will show how the detachment of the spheres of life enshrined in the EIA, materialised with the project’s realisation. I contribute with this analysis to a better understanding of “the production of space and on the intersections between geographical [and other] knowledge and technologies for the inscription of that knowledge and how these articulate with structures of domination” (Brosius, 1999, p. 282 emphasis added). A dam, as any infrastructure project, shapes space, in terms of accessibility and connectedness and in terms of social-environmental relations, behaviour and subjectivities. It can function as a technology of engagement, connecting people with vital public services and as such thwarting marginalisation. But it can also act as a technology of detachment, dividing landscapes, divorcing people from their territory, each other and the nation.1 While related negative impacts are often branded as unforeseen or unintentional “side-effects” of projects that otherwise serve the

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greater good, I will argue in this chapter that the socio-political and environmental consequences of the El Quimbo dam were foreseeable and purposeful, rendering the energy of the territory extractable for global profit generation; they reflect what the EIA has purported to only represent, namely the fragmentation of life spheres, degraded ecosystems, inefficient economy and social-cultural disarticulation. As Fent (2021, p. 1624) points out: “Rather than representing an objective reality, EIAs rhetorically and discursively construct the environments they purport to [only] analyze”. Accordingly, I consider the making of the EIA, the obtaining and producing of knowledge of place, as a first step towards controlling space; infrastructural reconfiguration is the second step to it. Infrastructure is key for extending the economic order into territory. As a “technology of integration” (Harvey & Knox, 2012, p. 529), it connects products, people and energy with markets, facilitating the free circulation of capital across space and promising progress, profit and better life (Appel et al., 2018; Harvey & Knox, 2012, p. 534; Larkin, 2013, p. 332). Further than turning human and more-than-human relations into objects of the markets, infrastructure turns them into subjects of the “singular authority of the modern [capitalist] state” which strengthens its sovereignty (Anand, 2018, p. 158). As the state is able to facilitate, shape and constrain infrastructural development in its territory, infrastructures “operate as technologies for materialising state presence in people’s lives” (Harvey & Knox, 2012, p. 530; Uribe, 2019). Larkin (2013, p. 327) emphasises that infrastructural objects never operate in isolation but as systems. The more centralised the coordination of such systems, the more centralised is the power of the state (Bridge et al., 2018, p. 2; Meehan, 2014). The assembling of infrastructure in space is essentially a biopolitical project (Gupta, 2018, p. 65; Scott, 1998). Particularly, energy infrastructure is of vital importance to economic development as it is to state-building. As the European Commission points out, it is the “central nervous system” of any economy (2011, p. 7). McNeish and Borchgrevink (2015) explore the links between different energy technologies and exploitive practices, as well as energy and (state) power. They point out that “a national electricity grid is a powerful symbol of the internal socio-political coherency of the modern nation-state. […] Efforts to expand the grid are at the same time attempts at integrating the nation and extending the state’s reach” (McNeish & Borchgrevink, 2015, pp. 14–15). Similarly, Powell (2010) shows in her work Landscapes of Power, how energy infrastructure development in

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the Navajo territory (First Nation, US) is used to create not only new “objects”, economies and markets, but also new modes of production, knowledge, relation and identity. The “dazzling picture” of infrastructure as technology of integration is connected to several problems. Infrastructural development does not always bring what it promises and, in some cases, can obstruct citizenship formation. In what follows, I will uncover the different dimensions of detachment that emerged with the El Quimbo dam realisation, namely physical, social and political detachment. I start with elaborating on how El Quimbo caused physical detachment, first through ecosystem fragmentation, second through infrastructural violence.

10.1 Physical Detachment I: Ecosystem Fragmentation In two ways, the El Quimbo dam realisation should have been less “conflictive”. It did not interfere directly with nature protection nor with indigenous cultures—both spheres of advanced regulation and administrational hurdles. However, the project flooded endangered tropical dry forest of which around 7,000 hectares formed part of the Amazon Forest Reserve, constituted in the Law 2° of 1959. The law highlights the ecological importance of the Amazon Forest and aims to conserve natural renewable resources. Facing the prospect of the El Quimbo dam materialising in 2007, the regional environmental authority for the upper Magdalena basin, CAM, criticised the possible impacts the dam would have on the reserve. First it saw the risk of the corridors of conservation to be fragmented, endangered ecosystems to be irreversibly transformed and biodiversity lost. Second it highlighted the risk of losing the regulatory capacity of the watersheds, the decrease in surface water supply, the deterioration of water quality and inefficient use of water resources (EIA, 2008, p. 179). As described in Chapter 7, the corporate experts’ response was that the damage was already done through expanding agricultural interventions and the inadequate and inefficient resource use in the area. They sold the dam as opportunity to restore and conserve native biodiversity. As the environmental impact of the dam was difficult to avoid or to alleviate in place, the EIA suggests the subtraction of the 7,000 hectares of the Amazon reserve from the law and to compensate the impact. In the first instance, the 3,363 wooden hectares within the valley

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should be cleared of its biomass prior to the reservoir’s filling to prevent anoxic conditions in the artificial lake thereafter and to protect aquatic species. In a second instance, the biomass lost should be reforested in the surrounding hillsides. It was considered important to create similar ecosystem conditions, which would be best achieved in an immediate environment where the physical variables are similar. Successful management would increase the ecosystem connectivity and wildlife’s chances to adopt and transfer to nearby areas, where they would find ecologically appropriate conditions. The environmental licence accepted these forms of environmental management. In the first instance, the hectares of forest to be cleared were deemed sufficient even though the CAM revised the calculations in 2013 and agreed with Emgesa to adopt the hectares to be removed accordingly to a total of 4,961.7 hectares (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 70). Instead of updating the number in the environmental licence, Emgesa negotiated the subtraction of certain “areas of exception” with the ANLA in 2015. Emgesa argued that these areas were inaccessible for the equipment which made cutting trees a security threat. The areas of exception, the ANLA assured, would be compensated for by removing more biomass of smaller diameter in other accessible areas (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 70). At the end, the director of Emgesa, Lucio Rubio, stated that they had to remove at least 210,000 cubic metres and that they had removed an additional 260 cubic metres of wood (Güesguán Serpa, 2015). Next to it remained a huge amount of biomass in the valley. The EIA (2008, p. 1530) calculated the total amount of biomass (cultivations excluded) to be of 894,982 cubic metres. When Emgesa initiated the filling of the reservoir, the water soon covered the vegetation left on the ground. Its slow decomposition started to consume all the oxygen. The anoxic condition was not avoided, and waves of fish death were still reported in 2023 (see Chapter 6). The trees, which were removed by Emgesa, were left to pile up on the western shore of the reservoir at El Balseadero. Because the wood was fenced off with barbed wire and remained unused, the local population referred to the area as the “tree cemetery”. I visited the spot which was easily visible when passing over the hanging bridge in 2017 and witnessed the endless rows of tree stumps rotting away (see Fig. 10.1). A few months after my visit and after a longer dry period, a fire was

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Fig. 10.1 The tree cemetery. Located at the west flank of the reservoir, visible from the hanging bridge, El Balseadero (taken by the author, November 2016)

sparked burning a large part of the tree cemetery to the ground (Fajardo Cerquera, 2017). In the second instance, the environmental licence extended the area needed for conservation as indicated in the EIA adding the 7,000 hectares lost to the Amazon Forest reserve to a total of 11,079.60 hectares. The hectares of the ecosystems to be compensated were calculated based on their ecological importance as determined by the EIA: Ecosystems of high importance were calculated by a factor of 5, the ones of lower value were taken as equal (factor 1) and of no value were disregarded (factor 0, Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, 2009, p. 61). Emgesa acquired the lands needed for this conservation zone on the hillsides west of the reservoir (towards Matambo Mountain) which were mainly used for grazing. As this land acquisition did not imply resettlement or a significant loss of employment, the process was relative straightforward, however, at the time of the reservoir being filled, the area was still pasture. Emgesa had contracted the NGO Fundación Natura in April 2014 to run a pilot area of reforestation. By May 2017 the restoration of 140 hectares, 1.26% of the total 11,079 hectares, was close to completion. By that time, the Fundación Natura did not know if Emgesa planned to continue funding the project, and how it would proceed with the remaining hectares. After the Office Comptroller General requested information regarding the progress of environmental compensation, the ANLA shared the information that from a total of 209 plots to be restored, the company had bought 180, 12 were expropriated and 17 were still in the process of being acquired (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020,

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p. 92). The ANLA further emphasises that the environmental compensation is not a requirement of the environmental licence that demands for “immediate” compliance but is unrestricted in time. It would be an ongoing intervention. While some hectares of the compensation zone would be actively restored by nursing “resettled” species and planting trees, other large parts would be passively managed allowing vegetation to grow without human interference or use (ibid.). So far, Emgesa has invited officials, journalists, school and university classes to participate in tours through the nursery and adjacent reforested areas called Finlandia, promoting their work as the “biggest ecological restoration project of Colombia” (Emgesa’s Newsletter, Editions 11 and 13 of 2015). The visitors are present with a beautiful place recreated on pastures and long rows of seedlings (see Fig. 10.2). As mentioned earlier, the pastures did not provide habitat for the escaping animals in the time of the dam filling and especially coffee producers in the hills noticed damages to their crops caused by animals, like bats and snakes, that escaped the rising water level and were formerly not commonly seen in these areas. The reforestation of 140 hectares had arguable not made up for the dry forest and river ecosystems lost. Furthermore, inhabitants of Rioloro and Veracruz used hiking tracks through the area to climb Matambo before the project’s initiation.

Fig. 10.2 Seedling station at Finlandia (taken by the author, May 2017)

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Now Emgesa would restrict trespassing. It practises a form of enclosure which resonates with so-called fortress conservation: the physical and in parts violent creation of “people-less lands deemed to be natural” and to protect the “proper state of nature” (Brockington, 2015, p. 2). The conservation scientists share their advances and findings with the public, communicating their progress, to contribute to a green image of the infrastructure project—what Dunlap (2020, p. 674) calls a soft technology of pacification and green washing. What was once part of a social–environmental system has been turned into an abstract category “nature”, which should be protected from any human use. As discussed in the previous part, the EIA detached its impact analysis of the biotic and abiotic characteristics from the analysis of social, cultural and economic impacts. This implied the individuation and abstraction of an interconnected system into single units that ultimately facilitated their compensation (Castree, 2003; Robertson, 2012, p. 387). I argue that the EIA helped creating what Robertson (2000) termed an “incomplete capitalisation of nature”. Many scholars, first in political economy (with Polanyi, 2001 at its forefront) and later in political ecology and ecological economics, have critically discussed the commodification of nature and the expansion of capitalist frontiers into all regions of the earth and all aspects of life (Bakker, 2015; Benjaminsen & Kaarhus, 2018; Dunlap & Fairhead, 2014; Gómez Baggethun & Muradian, 2015; Rasmussen & Lund, 2018; Robertson, 2006, 2012; Sullivan, 2009, 2013). Commodification, in the most general sense, is a process of applying the logic of the market onto non-market relationships, values and norms (Benjaminsen & Kaarhus, 2018; Gómez Baggethun, 2015). When referring to the commodification of nature, scholars commonly mean the attachment of price to a service provided by nature and its trade on the market. The carbon trade (Benjaminsen & Kaarhus, 2018; Robertson, 2012), biodiversity offsets (Sullivan, 2013) and the valuation of ecosystem services (Arias Arévalo et al., 2018; Gómez Baggethun et al., 2016; Pascual et al., 2011) are examples of this nature commodification. As the environmental compensation zone at El Quimbo does not directly involve attaching a “price” to nature but was nevertheless “traded”, i.e. offsetted, it can be seen as incomplete commodification of nature. Biodiversity offsetting accounts for measures taken to compensate for any “significant residual adverse impacts on biodiversity” that cannot be avoided, minimised or rehabilitated on site (according to the

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mitigation hierarchy), in order to achieve “no net loss or a net gain of biodiversity” in the region (Business and Biodiversity Offsets Programme, 2009, p. 15; Sullivan, 2013, p. 83). At El Quimbo dam, a zone of environmental harm—the reservoir—was traded with a future zone of environmental health, the revitalised hillside. In Sullivan’s words, the “development impact” is traded with “the future conservation value of a designated offset area. It is this constructed commensurability between places and times that allows for both off-site mitigation of developmentrelated environmental harm and for temporal delay in offset provision” (Sullivan, 2013, p. 84). In line with the capitalist logic, the EIA rendered a living space commensurable, drawing artificial boundaries between ecosystems, categorising them according to vegetation cover. It measured and quantified the unique environment, its biodiversity and its ecosystem services in hectares. Finally, it attached the value of ecological importance based on degrees of former interventions. Through this, it disregarded the ecosystem value of vegetation resulting from human intervention, and the socioeconomic and cultural values these ecosystems had for the local people. Without a market, the riverine ecosystem is traded for an “ecologically restored” hillside. With the environmental compensation, Emgesa inscribed to the place the human–nature division which the EIA had already manifested. The environmental change caused by the project impacted the local infrastructure which amplified the physical detachment experienced by the people.

10.2 Physical Detachment II: Infrastructural Violence Soon after the “exploration works” of the dam started, the local population experienced restrictions to their mobility. Construction vehicles intensely rotated along the river causing the increased erosion of roads, noise and air pollution as well as security issues for people walking the roads. On 8 August 2011, the bridge “El Paso del Colegio” collapsed. The bridge had connected the western municipalities of Huila with the provincial capital Neiva and the South–North route of the country. Without the bridge, these municipalities became isolated. El Paso del Colegio is situated over the Magdalena River just downstream of the

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dam construction. Opponents of the dam argued that the daily circulation of loaded tippers going to the dam site had exceeded the capacity of the bridge and caused its collapse (Diario del Huila, 2011). Additionally, the company had extracted materials for construction from the riverbank, which had caused sedimentation affecting the stability of the bridge (Contraloría General de la República, 2011; Diario del Huila, 2014).2 Emgesa countered that the bridge was already poorly maintained, and therefore the collapse would fall under state responsibility (Emgesa, 2012). The EIA had not studied the impact construction vehicles would have on the road infrastructure. As nothing was done, truck drivers, merchants and cooperatives, who depended economically on the connection, blocked several roads several times in protest. As a short-term fix, Emgesa put a ferry into operation, which allowed the transfer of two passenger cars at a time, during specific hours of the day.3 People not seated in a vehicle had to cross the river by canoe (Contraloría General de la República, 2011; La Nación, 2012a, 2012b). After 17 months the bridge was partly useable again and only in December 2015, the government opened a new bridge to replace the old one (La Nación, 2015a). Also after the dam had started operation, it caused “unforeseen” damages to the local infrastructure. In August 2019, the record high water level at El Quimbo reservoir caused the erosion of parts of its banks. One segment was carrying the motorway connecting the north to the south of the country. For 21 days the connection was shut down completely and people had to travel via the west flank of the reservoir, a route which is mountainous and poorly maintained. As part of the environmental licence, Emgesa had committed to invest in the (western) road infrastructure by building a ring road to connect the municipalities of the left bank (Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, 2009). At the time of the road collapse, the highway was still only a plan on paper; its realisation in negotiation with regional and national administrative divisions lasted until the end of 2018 (Medina Torres, 2018). In 2020, final decisions depended on the new elected provincial legislation (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 13). It was the suspension bridge Emgesa focused on to demonstrate its social commitment to the region. The suspension bridge over the El Quimbo reservoir connected only what it had previously detached, the west and the east flank (previously connected by several bridges and cable cars). The lighting which Emgesa installed four months after the inauguration in October 2015, lasted only

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90 days. The length and straightness of the lanes turned the bridge into a perfect racecourse. Soon residents and local mayors complained about parties, races and excesses taking place on the bridge during night-time hours. After several fatalities early 2018, a Huilan newspaper described the viaduct as the viaduct of sex, drugs, alcohol, anger and death (Perdomo, 2018). Intended as a symbol of technological genius and progress, it became a symbol of insecurity. The dam itself was of course an attribution to the energy system. Prior to the dam development, the majority of local households were connected to the regional power distribution grid (provided by the public company Electrohuila). During the dam construction, local power grids were dismantled and the connection over the reservoir restored. This did not improve the existing local power distribution, which is known for its high costs (relative to the Colombian market) and regular blackouts. As the electricity generated by the El Quimbo turbines is channelled into the central power grid, the benefits of the project did not reach the populations carrying the burden of the project. This makes El Quimbo dam a case of distributional injustice. Energy justice would require the populations that bear the impacts of an energy technology to also benefit from its profit: access affordable electricity and shares (Siciliano et al., 2018). In total, the hydropower infrastructure did not improve local electrification but restricted people’s mobility and activities beyond the local. It raised costs and insecurities and had lasting consequences on local economies. As such, I see the dam as having produced “infrastructural violence”. Rodgers and O’Neill (2012, p. 404) identify this form of violence when infrastructure becomes the means to produce landscapes of harm—harmful social order associated with dispossession, displacement and increased inequality. The above-described impacts physically detached geographies and marginalised vulnerable population groups in central Huila. The compensation mechanisms did not re-establish connectivity but extended detachment into the social sphere, first by dispossession, second with territorial alienation and third, with ruins of the future.

10.3

Social Detachment I: Dispossession

When the national government declared the lands at El Quimbo to be a public utility, property owners lost their rights to take out loans, invest in or sell their properties. Emgesa became their sole negotiation

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partner. The restrictions and uncertainties led many farmers to leave their crops unattended even before an official selling agreement was reached. This process, Smith (2011) describes as process of “temporal dispossession”, where the inability to plan, predict or build futures create temporal enclosures, not only for the property owners but also for the labourers depending on the agricultural production in the region (see also Braun, 2020; Jaramillo & Carmona, 2022). Loosing access to land, meant in many cases losing one’s life project (see Chapter 7)—“se queda en cero” (you end up at zero). Emgesa further restricted access to former areas commonly used such as the beaches and the river itself, and prohibited all the work connected to the extraction of organic materials, like wood and fish, sand or other minerals along and in the river.4 People who continued with their productive activity and resisted their displacement were forcefully evicted. A former fisherman from Veracruz exclaimed: “They removed/extricated us from the river!” (“Nos sacaron del rio!”) and one farm worker from Rioloro explained that guards with dogs prevented people from entering the former accessible sites after they were handed over to Emgesa. The resulting high competition for employment diminished wages and labour standards, while the decrease of agricultural goods caused their prices to rise locally. This centralising of ownership and access can be understood as “new enclosure”. Rosa Luxemburg (2003) highlights that capital needs to expand constantly for survival, and in order to do so, there must always be something external or peripheral to capitalism that it can integrate. Primitive accumulation must be an ongoing process, as with further enclosure and the constant extension of the commodity frontier—a “zone beyond which further [capital] expansion is possible” (Moore, 2000, p. 412), for instance in integrating reproductive work (unpaid labour), river run-off (unpaid energy) or ecosystem functions (unpaid nature) into the market exchange (Purcell & Martinez, 2018). David Harvey (2004) expands on these ideas, arguing that contemporary capitalism (neoliberalism) relies primarily on accumulation by dispossession, the constant increase of wealth through the redistribution and ultimate centralisation of capital. This involves further privatisation of, for example, public services or intellectual property, and financialisation and speculation in terms of the credit system, gentrification, business mergers and bankruptcy (Harvey, 2004). During this process nothing is necessarily produced, but monetary value increases. Here the “new

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enclosure” plays an important role, where goods (or lands) already under the private property regime change ownership from public to private (Christophers, 2018) or from many hands to only a few (Li, 2009), as in the case of the El Quimbo dam development. The state transferred the lands, waters and resources of the valley into the hands of a private company, centralising ownership for the sole purpose of generating energy. This dispossession was extended in time and space through the environmental compensation zone and the resettlement areas, which replaced prior land use and ownership, as well as through the change of ecosystems in the region. The accumulation of pollutants in the river water, the accumulation of animals in coffee plantations (where they are regarded as pests), and the slow rise of air temperatures experienced on the hills thereafter5 led to the depletion of people’s livelihood bases (i.e. fresh water, fishery, coffee crops) beyond the spatial and temporal scales of influence set by the EIA. This is in line with what Perreault (2013) describes as “dispossession by accumulation” or Leifsen (2017) as “dispossession by contamination”. Perreault (2013) reverses David Harvey’s concept of accumulation by dispossession to explain people’s loss of access to resources through the accumulation of sediments, waste and toxins in soil and water. This dispossession by accumulation leads to the accumulation of capital, because these “externalities” are ignored by the contaminating industry, which increases the corporate profit. In Perreault’s case, the lands in question could not be integrated into the process of capital accumulation, because they were within the limits of an indigenous reserve. Therefore, they were wastelands in the eyes of capital and treated that way. A similar observation is made by Leifsen (2017) in his article “Wasteland by design”. He describes “a change of the material properties of water” as dispossession by contamination, because it “reduced, restricted, or disrupted access to water as a vital substance for human and non-human use, owing to contamination” (Leifsen, 2017, p. 347). Even without regarding land outside the “area of direct influence” as “wastelands”, Emgesa was able to deny responsibility and to disregard the impacts on the environment and its people relying on EIA data.

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10.4 Social Detachment II: Territorial Alienation Disregarding the multiple dimensions of dispossession, the collective resettlement programme at El Quimbo was meant to restore housing, to maintain the social fabric and to re-establish economic activities for the directly affected by providing new agricultural production schemes, education and technology (EIA, 2008). In practice, Emgesa “negotiated” compensations only with head of households individually and many struggled to prove their right for compensation (see Chapter 8). In general, the results of negotiations varied widely; some families received much more than others equally affected while some received nothing. This led to suspicious questioning among community members, wondering, for example, what the head of a household may have told the company in order to receive more money than other households. Ana María considered the company as “messing around” with the affected families by giving partecitas (compensation in small amounts), during several sorteos (drawings). She says that after years of resistance, she has finally been compensated in the fifth drawing. Most of the pay-outs could be enough to let a family survive for a few months. However, a farmworker usually lives off weekly payments, therefore he or she is not used to dealing with larger amounts of money. There are many stories in and around the area of El Quimbo of people having spent all their compensation money at once.6 Some fulfilled a long-held dream or spent the money in games of luck (gambling) in the hope of getting more money. Others tried to invest in equipment that would allow for a new income-generating activity. However, the possibilities were limited and many struggled.7 Also, people who qualified and opted for the collective resettlement had to fight for it. As fertile lands were limited and expensive, Emgesa had trouble acquiring enough lands of equal or better characteristics. It translated the promise of the environmental licence to improve living conditions into building modern houses (see Fig. 10.3). Even though many families have now more rooms, it did not increase utility. The former rural houses were quite open and wide, while the new rooms are closed up. As a result, they provide a different sense of space for each family member. Alejandra explained, “They turned out so compact… not appropriate for farm life”. They provide no space for chickens to run through and the neighbours would complain about the noise and

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Fig. 10.3 Nueva Veracruz (taken by the author, February 2017)

smell of chickens being kept outside: “There are confrontations caused by the nearness of the houses”. Sofía did not move into the new house. She was one of the household heads who Emgesa resettled individually. Emgesa built a new house onto the farm, but the family chose to stay in the old building existent on the property. It is traditionally shaped (cform), open with patio and many plants (see Fig. 10.4). Sofia, who shares the home with her kids, mother and uncle, said that they would not feel comfortable in the new house. Fisherman Fernando from Veracruz had no option. When Emgesa finally dismantled his home, he had no other place to return to despite the new white house in the resettlement Montea. He says that the building is not convenient for him; he has nowhere to leave his tools and equipment and there is no workspace. Likewise, Harvey points out that in his old house he was able to have a workshop to run a business, but that the new house does not allow this activity (La Nación, 2015b). Laura was resettled to Montea as part of her husband’s compensation. Because she had owned a shop at the entrance of Veracruz, a little corner shop was built into her husband’s house. There she offers packaged goods

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Fig. 10.4 Traditional cacao finca at La Honda (taken by the author, September 2012)

for daily consumption, like toilet paper, chewing gum, lemonade and beer. Laura explains how bored she is, sitting in front of the shop each day waiting for customers who do not come. Previously, her shop was the main meeting point for the labourers going in and out of the valley. In the morning, they would pass to get a coffee and, in the evenings, they would mingle to have some beers and listen to music. In the resettlement area, there are no labourers passing and the residents buy what they need in the towns. Laura says she is now much more dependent on her husband’s income. The design of the houses and the greater distances to the productive fields have enforced gender division. Women who formerly earned additional income outside their home, might now be restricted to domestic work. The gardens and fields do not offer space for subsistence or informal jobs and also the new agricultural lands drastically limited the

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production strategies of the “beneficiaries”. Without irrigation technology on most of the lands,8 inhabitants are only permitted to keep a handful of cattle—an occupation new to many of the inhabitants and without much prospect. The limited availability of land keeps the herd small. Fernando, resettled to Montea, declares: “For me it is a thousand times better to work down there [fish along the river] to my preference in a house of bahareque [bamboo and clay], but free”. The former flexibility was lost and experiences and acquired skills became, in part, superfluous. The situation resembles what Santos (2017) terms “territorial alienation”, where the new design of the living space, and the productive activity of primarily cattle herding does not align with past practices and the fisherfolk identity. The product of labour (milk, meat) has the single purpose to be sold on the market. Most products of daily consumption now have to be bought. On the former lands, this was only partly the case and subsistence combined with informal exchange formed an essential part of the livelihoods. An inhabitant of Montea says, “We were taught to live in the countryside, to live in a community, where what one lacked was supplied by the other. But here no one has anything” (La Nación, 2015b). Furthermore, the resettled population lost the feeling of independence, having no alternatives and relying on essential services of the towns, outside their decision-making capacity. What makes the situation even more drastic is that by 2020, 38% of the families resettled had not yet received the legal title to their property and therefore could not decide to make changes to the house or to sell it. The main obstacle to the legalisation of the new built settlements is that they lack the appropriate adaptation of the territorial organisation plans which lies within the responsibilities of the municipalities. As soon as the administrations change the plans from agricultural use to residential, they are required to provide the basic public services to these areas, like public access roads, and take over Emgesa’s services so far (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 13). The planning and implementation process of the compensation mechanisms brings to the surface issues of procedural justice and recognition (Siciliano et al., 2018). The people who experience the impacts and who are directly targeted by interventions are not consulted about their needs and wishes. Even in spaces of participation, like during public hearings and several community meetings, the local population did not feel being listened to or being taken seriously as knowledgeable actors of equal footing with the company’s experts (see Chapter 9.1).

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The resulting separation of living and workspace as well as the monotonous design and function of the houses and neighbourhoods reflect key characteristics of capitalist organisation, like individualisation and market dependency (Harvey, 1985; Suárez Gómez, 2017, p. 48; Tyner, 2012, p. 31). Scott (1998, p. 8) sees related ideals reflected in modern forestry science and what I identified within the EIA in Chapter 7: large-scale capitalism is just as much an agency of homogenization, uniformity, grids, and heroic simplification as the state is, with the difference being that, for capitalists, simplification must pay. […] Today, global capitalism is perhaps the most powerful force for homogenization.

To put the consequence of such homogenisation in a context tangible to academics, Scott used a compelling analogy: “Telling a farmer only that he is leasing twenty acres of land is about as helpful as telling a scholar that he has bought six kilogrammes of books” (Scott, 1998, p. 26). This phrase captures, I believe, the experience of smallholders affected by El Quimbo. That they were compensated with the equal (or higher) number of hectares of land to what they previously owned, is as meaningful as someone destroying all the books of a lecturer and replacing them with the same number of a random choice of books. They might be of use, but they might just as well not. The experienced territorial alienation restricted people’s range of activity, caused isolation and social tensions. It detached people from each other, their local cultural and economic organisation. This was not limited to the resettlement areas.

10.5

Social Detachment III: Ruins of the Future

The large-scale land enclosure led to the drastic decrease of employment in the region, which caused outmigration and the shutdown/merger of many public institutions. For instance, as the number of households of Veracruz came down to 19 in Montea, it was difficult to legitimise an own community council. It could not claim an own school or kindergarten. Even though Emgesa replaced former community buildings in the resettlement area, like school and chapel, these remained unused while requiring constant maintenance.

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For Eva, agricultural worker of the village Rioloro and the sister of Laura (shop owner in Montea), these problems of the resettlements are problems of the spoiled: “They are ungrateful. […] The place which suffered is Rioloro”. Eva has always lived in Rioloro, a village considered only indirectly affected by the dam, and had worked in the valley before the project’s realisation. For her and her colleague Juan, it is astonishing that the fisherfolk of Veracruz now lives in new houses, while Rioloro, the former prosperous entrance to the agricultural fields of El Quimbo valley, is left behind forgotten. Inhabitant Tea confirms, “Rioloro is totally run down” and neighbour Ana María says it is in “standby” mode. Pride and envy have enforced past disagreements between the sister communities. Neither of them likes to be dependent on the other. However, Montea is equipped with a new and technologically advanced water treatment plant, in contrast to Rioloro whose tap water comes directly from the heavily polluted Loro River.9 By 2022, the plant at the resettlement had not been put into operation. The problem is that it is a very modern and technically elaborate plant, which could provide water for around 500 people. Financially it makes no sense for Montea to activate the plant. The community would need to employ a technician to run the plant (in 2017 one employee of Emgesa still maintained the plant). It would also demand too much energy for only 19 households. The people of Montea hope to use the plant together with Rioloro and share costs. Rioloro has had drinking water issues for many years. Some inhabitants claim that they once had a well-functioning treatment system, but the construction of the dam damaged the pipeline network and the plant decayed. Others state that the tap water has never been drinkable. In 2016, the community council of Rioloro appointed a water committee to take charge of resolving the issue. The committee’s position was that the plant in Montea is too expensive and that Rioloro has a functioning plant itself; it just needs to be repaired. Emgesa denies responsibility, but the municipality had assigned funds for the project. By August 2022, Rioloro and Montea were still relying on water tanks coming to town.10 In light of the poor infrastructure of the area, one might ask why Emgesa decided to concentrate on one water treatment plant, while ignoring all the issues surrounding it. One reason is symbolism. Together with the “longest suspension bridge of Colombia”, the technically advanced water treatment plant lends enchantment to the project as a symbol of progress and modernity. It is the soft technology of promising social development (Dunlap, 2020, p. 13). Emgesa used these

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single projects as showpieces to underline their social investment in the region and to distract from the other problems it neglected. I argue that the water treatment plant as well as many of the new community spaces built, like chapels and schools, are what Gupta (2018) terms “ruins of the future”. These are infrastructural projects which were never finished or never used as intended. Their function was primarily symbolic or aesthetic, to reflect an idea of progress, order and beauty (Gupta, 2018, p. 67). They do not serve their apparent purpose, but work as technologies of social detachment in that they fuel dependencies and resentments between neighbours, beneficiaries of resettlement and people “left behind” (Alderman & Goodwin, 2022). The vanishing of former social and cultural anchor points, like the original chapels and irrigation systems build and shared over generations, further disrupted customs which had traditionally connected community members to each other, to their history and environment (see Li, 2013). The EIA saw the cultural anchor points as of diminishing importance and to be easily replaceable within the collective resettlements. In total, the compensation mechanisms functioned as an extension of the process of detachment initiated by the new enclosure of the lands. In combination, physical and social detachment left their imprint on local state–citizen relations.

10.6

Political Detachment: Marginalisation

The spatial reconfiguration together with the energy injustices experienced throughout the project’s realisation increased uncertainty, insecurity and mistrust towards governmental institutions that had failed to protect the interests and rights of its people. While the environmental licence and ministry should guarantee that the mitigation plans maintain and rebuild community structure, and achieve social inclusion, it became apparent that it permitted the company to opt for faster, easier and cheaper solutions triggering processes of detachment between people, communities, humans and their environments, production and consumption. The compensation scheme acted as what Suárez Gómez (2017, p. 48) calls “a new device of capital subalternization” that created “extremely fragile and disposable communities”. The new built environment disrupted living spaces and inhibited people in counteracting the capitalist vision.

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At the public hearing in 2016 (see Chapter 9), people expressed their frustration with state authorities, calling the government’s relationship with the energy company a “matrimony” and claimed that the government would “mock” the communities: “There you see that there is no support for us”. As also the public hearing did not change much for the affected populations, the feeling of political detachment, being marginalised from decision-making institutions and one’s citizen rights (for e.g. participation, compensation), was reinforced. It had become clear to the affected populations that the energy project did not serve the greater good, but the expansion of capital into territory and life spheres as well as the centralisation of state (elite) power. A mega-dam is not only a symbol of state power over nature and modernisation, it supports capital accumulation and the political centralisation of a nation. Rusca et al. (2018, p. 871) note that “large water infrastructures, like dams, are observable representations of the modern state imaginary and a powerful means of production and reification of state-space”. They further open territories for energy-intensive ventures like mineral extraction. Mining concessions have been granted at high speed along the western and central Andean cordilleras (El Quimbo dam is located in between both) and Emerald, part of the Chinese Sinochem corporation, has extracted oil and continuously expanded its activity in the protected mountain wetland east of the El Quimbo valley since 2011 (Wu, 2019). Being no longer “abandoned” by the state (see Chapter 8), people feel disempowered; they witness obvious profits generated through the exploitation of their territories, over which they cannot decide or benefit from. The situation weakened citizenship formation, and caused resistance and conflict, which will be the subject of the next chapter. ∗ ∗ ∗ Infrastructure mediates between states and citizens, politics and life (Amin, 2014; Hope, 2022, p. 14). This chapter has shown that infrastructural development meant in the El Quimbo case the forceful assimilation of local cultures to the capitalist project of the state (Powell, 2010), as also well described by Dunlap (2018) in the case of massive wind farm expansions in Oaxaca, Mexico. Along the line, several researchers have highlighted that infrastructure projects might indeed exclude certain population groups from benefitting from the built system, or might even inhibit them from practising their daily life, marginalising them

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further (e.g. Bichsel, 2016; Dunlap, 2018; Harvey & Knox, 2012; Loftus et al., 2016; Mains, 2012; Powell, 2010; Strang, 2016; Uribe, 2019). I contribute to this literature, having outlined the different dimensions that make an infrastructural project a technology of detachment and by having shown how this has resembled the knowledge produced within the EIA. The project, including its compensation schemes, materialised fragmented landscaped, divorced categories of the natural, the social and the economic—deteriorated each in their own way. I will precede in the following chapter by outlining the social and political resistance the project triggered, before turning attention to what could have been done better.

Notes 1. This chapter’s discussion of infrastructure relates and expands upon the journal article “Technology of Detachment” published with Environment and Planning C: Politics and Space (Helmcke, 2023). 2. Emgesa extracted sands from both riverbanks. After the bridge had collapsed it probably concentrated on the western bank to avoid the need for river crossing. New locations for sediment extraction were included in the environmental licence after it had been granted, without taking out additional studies (Pérez Trujillo, 2019). 3. Emgesa’s newsletter “La Buena Energía de El Quimbo”, Edition 1, June 2012. 4. Even property owners were not allowed to cut down trees on their plots to make last-minute profit out of the wood, as Emgesa claimed ownership of all resources connected to the lands. Based on interviews with locals in 2017. 5. Coffee producers report of increased temperatures that affect their coffee cultivations since the start of El Quimbo’s operation. Emgesa does not see any scientific proof of the reservoir being the cause. The EIA saw no risk in the dam changing the micro-climate because their meteorological data gathered around the Betania dam before and after its start of operation did not suggest any impact. 6. There are rumours of families’ misfortune with the compensation money in Rioloro. One of these is the story of the oldest son of a single mother, who received monetary compensation in Rioloro and took most of the money to buy a motorbike. Shortly afterwards, his mother had to indebt herself to pay for the funeral of her son, who had died in an accident on the same motorbike. Another woman of Rioloro ran away with the compensation money leaving her husband behind. After she had spent

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7.

8.

9.

10.

all the money in the city, she suddenly returned and moved back into her husband’s house. It is also said that many “beneficiaries” spent their compensation on alcohol. According to several interviews with affected, for a minimum monthly salary generated (around 570,000 Colombian pesos in 2012—USD 300 at that time), a worker received a one-off payment of 25–28 million Colombian pesos (around USD 14,000), for two minimum monthly salaries 32–35 million pesos, and for three minimum monthly salaries, 45–48 million pesos. Emgesa talks officially of a payment between 25 and 40 million pesos (El Espectador, 2012). According to Emgesa, irrigation has been in the process of instalment over the years, and by 2020 only one resettlement out of four—Llano de La Virgen in Altamira—lacked completed irrigation infrastructure (Contraloría General de la República Colombia, 2020, p. 12). The river receives sewage from upstream settlements and the run-off water from the coffee plantations, which carries chemicals from fertilisers, herbicides and pesticides (EIA, 2008, p. 478). It is the oil company that drills for petrol in the eastern hills, Emerald Energy, which sends the water tanks. During Easter in 2017, no water tank came to Rioloro for three weeks.

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Harvey, D. (1985). The urbanization of capital: Studies in the history and theory of capitalist urbanization. John Hopkins University Press. Harvey, D. (2004). The “new” imperialism: Accumulation by dispossession. Social Register, 40, 63–87. Harvey, P., & Knox, H. (2012). The enchantments of infrastructure. Mobilities, 7 (4), 521–536. https://doi.org/10.1080/17450101.2012.718935 Helmcke, C. (2023). Technology of detachment: The promise of renewable energy and its contentious reality in the south of Colombia. Environment and Planning C: Politics and Space, 41(5), 976–992. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 23996544231168390 Hope, J. (2022). Driving development in the Amazon: Extending infrastructural citizenship with political ecology in Bolivia. Environment and Planning E: Nature and Space, 5(2), 520–542. https://doi.org/10.1177/251484862198 9611 Jaramillo, P., & Carmona, S. (2022). Temporal enclosures and the social production of inescapable futures for coal mining in Colombia. Geoforum, 130, 11–22. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.GEOFORUM.2022.01.010 La Nación. (2012a, May 18). Ferry se abrió paso. La Nación. https://www.lan acion.com.co/ferry-se-abrio-paso/ La Nación. (2012b, May 11). Transbordo gratis en el Paso el Colegio. La Nación. https://www.lanacion.com.co/transbordo-gratis-en-el-paso-el-col egio/ La Nación. (2015a, November 17). Puente Paso del Colegio será entregado en diciembre. La Nación. https://www.lanacion.com.co/puente-paso-del-col egio-sera-entregado-en-diciembre/ La Nación. (2015b, December 8). Veracruz no existe en el mapa de Gigante. La Nación. https://www.lanacion.com.co/veracruz-no-existe-en-el-mapa-degigante/ Larkin, B. (2013). The politics and poetics of infrastructure. Annual Review of Anthropology, 42(1), 327–343. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-anthro092412-155522 Leifsen, E. (2017). Wasteland by design: Dispossession by contamination and the struggle for water justice in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Extractive Industries and Society, 4(2), 344–351. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.02.001 Li, F. (2013). Contesting equivalences: Controversies over water and mining in Peru and Chile. In J. R. Wagner (Ed.), The social life of water (pp. 18–35). Berghahn. Li, T. M. (2009). To make live or let die? Rural dispossession and the protection of surplus populations. Antipode, 41(S1), 66–93. https://doi.org/10.1002/ 9781444397352.ch4 Licencia Ambiental PHEQ, Pub. L. No. Resolution 899 (LAM4090), 1 (2009).

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Loftus, A., March, H., & Nash, F. (2016). Water infrastructure and the making of financial subjects in the south east of England. Water Alternatives, 9(2), 319–335. Luxemburg, R. (2003). The accumulation of capital. Routledge. Mains, D. (2012). Blackouts and progress: Privatization, infrastructure, and a developmentalist state in Jimma, Ethiopia. Cultural Anthropology, 27 (1), 3– 27. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1548-1360.2012.01124.x McNeish, J.-A., & Borchgrevink, A. (2015). Introduction: Recovering power from energy—Reconsidering the linkages between energy and development. In J.-A. McNeish, A. Borchgrevink, & O. Logan (Eds.), Contested powers— The politics of energy and development in Latin America (pp. 1–38). Zed Books. Medina Torres, A. (2018, November 6). En firme vía perimetral de El Quimbo. La Nación. https://www.lanacion.com.co/en-firme-via-perimetral-de-el-qui mbo/ Meehan, K. M. (2014). Tool-power: Water infrastructure as wellsprings of state power. Geoforum, 57 (November), 215–224. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geo forum.2013.08.005 Moore, J. W. (2000). Sugar and the expansion of the early modern worldeconomy. Commodity frontiers, ecological transformation, and industrialization. Review (Fernand Braudel Center), 23(3), 409–433. Pascual, U., Muradian, R., Brander, L., Gómez Baggethun, E., Martín López, B., & Verma, M. (2011). The economics of valuing ecosystem services and biodiversity. In P. Kumar (Ed.), The economics of ecosystems and biodiversity: The ecological and economic foundations (pp. 183–255). Routledge. https:// doi.org/10.4324/9781849775489 Perdomo, P. (2018, March 4). El viaducto del sexo, drogas, alcohol, piques y muertes. Diario Del Huila. https://www.diariodelhuila.com/el-viaducto-delsexo-drogas-alcohol-piques-y-muertes Pérez Trujillo, C. A. (2019, August 10). El Quimbo es una represa que nació mal. Diario Del Huila. https://diariodelhuila.com/-el-quimbo-es-una-rep resa-que-nacio-mal-?fbclid=IwAR27-_o700vz4UeFHNysDzfKDVJt5p13m 5HtkulNhnGrfgz5uBsdgjl0Ho8 Perreault, T. (2013). Dispossession by accumulation? Mining, water and the nature of enclosure on the Bolivian altiplano. Antipode, 45(5), 1050–1069. https://doi.org/10.1111/anti.12005 Polanyi, K. (2001). The great transformation—The political and economic origins of our time (2nd ed.). Beacon Press books. Powell, D. E. (2010). Landscapes of power: An ethnography of energy development on the Navajo nation. University of North Carolina.

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Purcell, T. F., & Martinez, E. (2018). Post-neoliberal energy modernity and the political economy of the landlord state in Ecuador. Energy Research and Social Science, 41(April), 12–21. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2018.04.003 Rasmussen, M. B., & Lund, C. (2018). Reconfiguring frontier spaces: The territorialization of resource control. World Development, 101, 388–399. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.worlddev.2017.01.018 Robertson, M. M. (2000). No net loss: Wetland restoration and the incomplete capitalization of nature. Antipode, 32(4), 463–493. https://doi.org/ 10.1111/1467-8330.00146 Robertson, M. M. (2006). The nature that capital can see: Science, state, and market in the commodification of ecosystem services. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 24(3), 367–387. https://doi.org/10.1068/ d3304 Robertson, M. M. (2012). Measurement and alienation: Making a world of ecosystem services. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 37 (3), 386–401. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1475-5661.2011.00476.x Rodgers, D., & O’Neill, B. (2012). Infrastructural violence: Introduction to the special issue. Ethnography, 13(4), 401–412. Rusca, M., dos Santos, T., Menga, F., Mirumachi, N., Schwartz, K., & Hordijk, M. (2018). Space, state-building and the hydraulic mission: Crafting the Mozambican state. Environment and Planning C: Politics and Space, 37 (5), 868–888. https://doi.org/10.1177/0263774X18812171 Santos, M. (2017). Toward an other globalization: From the single thought to universal. Springer. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing like a state. Yale University Press. Siciliano, G., Urban, F., Tan-Mullins, M., & Mohan, G. (2018). Large dams, energy justice and the divergence between international, national and local developmental needs and priorities in the Global South. Energy Research and Social Science, 41(March), 199–209. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2018. 03.029 Smith, J. H. (2011). Tantalus in the digital age: Coltan ore, temporal dispossession, and “movement” in the Eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo. American Ethnologist, 38(1), 17–35. https://doi.org/10.1111/J.1548-1425. 2010.01289.X Strang, V. (2016). Infrastructural relations: Water, political power and the rise of a new “despotic regime.” Water Alternatives, 9(2), 292–318. Suárez Gómez, J. D. (2017). The new imagined communities: The case of Hidroituango in Colombia (Issue December). University of Missouri. Sullivan, S. (2009). Green capitalism, and the cultural poverty of constructing nature as service-provider. Radical Anthropology, 3, 18–27.

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Sullivan, S. (2013). After the green rush? Biodiversity offsets, uranium power and the calculus of casualties in greening growth. Human Geography, 6(1), 80–101. https://doi.org/10.1787/9789264222519-en Tyner, J. A. (2012). Space, place, and violence: Violence and the embodied geographies of race, sex and gender. Routledge. Uribe, S. (2019). Illegible infrastructures: Road building and the making of statespaces in the Colombian Amazon. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 37 (5), 886–904. https://doi.org/10.1177/0263775818788358 Wu, W. (2019). Chinese oil enterprises in Latin America: Corporate social responsibility. Palgrave Macmillan.

CHAPTER 11

Resistance—Defending Territory

Throughout the former chapters, the reader has gotten an impression of the problems faced by the local populations. Participation was restricted, negative effects were felt early on and compensation negotiations were odious and often with unsatisfactory results. Sceptical of the promises made, people gathered at the meeting grounds of Rioloro to hold assembly on 26 July 2009. They discussed the already experienced impacts of the El Quimbo dam project, their disappointment with the participation and licencing process and the potential future consequences the project might have on their lives. Together with civil society actors from Neiva, they decided to form the Association of the affected people of the El Quimbo dam—Asoquimbo. Their proclaimed aim was to peacefully resist the dam’s realisation (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 150). In this chapter, I will focus on the agency of the people in confronting a transnational corporation and national elite interests and in defending their lands, their territory and the river. While the story told so far primarily illustrates the power the corporation had in shaping and controlling knowledge and space, I now bring attention to the power of social mobilisation. I will tell this side of the story chronologically, starting with the early alliance between activism and science, leading to intense protests and confrontations, and ultimately to a more juridical and political forms of contestation after the valley had been flooded. I will argue that the initiation of the dam’s operation itself signified a tipping point for the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_11

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resistance movement that, without being able to stop the project, changed the political landscape in Huila lastingly.

11.1

Activism and Science

After the news broke that El Quimbo dam was back on the political agenda in 2008, Miller Dussán, Professor of Education and Communication at the South-Colombian University in Neiva, took up the issue in the civil society organisation “Plataforma Sur”. The umbrella organisation for different environmental and social organisations of the region was still young when they began to look into possible social and environmental impacts of the dam.1 Plataforma Sur joined meetings of the concerned communities at El Quimbo in July 2008 and held several fora on the dam project, where participants gathered and shared information. As soon as Emgesa handed in the EIA to the Environmental Ministry, the company initiated exploration works in October 2008. This provoked the alliance of urban civil society actors and affected populations to mobilise against Emgesa’s proceeding for the first time in November 2008. Different professionals and students from Neiva accompanied the protest of the affected populations in the region, which soon extended to the provincial capital Neiva.2 Moving the protests to the capital signifies an upscaling of the local struggle to receive wider attention and is therefore part of the contentious politics of space (Leitner & Sheppard, 2009). The social movement was, from its beginning, an alliance between people who considered themselves affected and had chosen to resist the dam project, and urban professionals and activists who had environmental, social and/or ideological concerns with the project. Without creating apparent power imbalances between the actor groups, it horizontally linked two quite different spaces.3 Mathews (2009, p. 76) describes these collaborations between “urban elites, environmental activists, and rural people who otherwise might have little in common” as being an “unlikely alliance”. In Mexico, he observes indigenous communities who took up widely acknowledged scientific discourses to raise attention to their struggles beyond the local, and found support among the urban classes, which helped them to question state practices in the periphery (Mathews, 2009). However, in Colombia these alliances are not so unlikely.

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Roa García (2017) analyses a variety of contemporary peaceful alliances in the field of environmental conflicts and water justice in Colombia between peasant movements, environmental activists, legal and human right NGOs and university students (see also McNeish, 2017; Rodríguez Garavito & Arenas, 2005). Not only students and NGO members but also many Colombian scholars see themselves as having a moral obligation to serve ambitions for social equity and environmental justice by decreasing the often-asymmetric knowledge distribution between local populations and investors and governments.4 These efforts in science often relate to decolonial methods and theories which aim to include different ontologies and epistemologies (see Santos, 2014) and which have evolved in Colombia since the 1950s, particularly in sociology. In the midst of the last century, the spread of communist ideas in the country reached academia. Until then, sociology was seen as being infused by class and power interests of the dominant bourgeoisie (Fals Borda, 1979). First studies done in Saucio in 1955 and then in Boyaca in 1957 broke the positivistic paradigm. Fals Borda (1979, p. 40) explains: There was a felt need for sociology to be above all a social science inspired by the interests of the working classes and the exploited; a ‘popular science’ as it was called in the beginning, which would be of greater use in analyzing the class struggle documented in the field, as well as in the political action of the working classes as the ultimate actors in history.

Participatory action research became a popular method among this stream of science (Fals Borda, 2006) and was soon developed into a diverse range of collaborative research practices.5 Fals Borda (1979, p. 39) says further: Since it did not appear appropriate to work with stable or permanent concepts, which always describe facts as ‘correct, complete and objective’, alternative theoretical solutions had to be sought in order to reach reality with the intention of both knowing and transforming it.

According to Fals Borda (1979, p. 50), the involvement of intellectuals is necessary especially when “revolution” is also directed against intellectuals. They help to provide the “formal weapons and ideological and political knowledge necessary to confront” the oppressing class (Fals Borda, 1979, p. 43).

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Also at the El Quimbo dam struggle, professionals from Neiva followed this approach of relational science and played a crucial role in spreading alternative information about the project and its possible consequences among the local population, as well as in the media. One of the most important strategies for the movement was to mobilise intellectual resources to challenge corporate (EIA) facts by presenting their own studies. As Miller Dussán (2017, p. 174) expresses it: to face the arguments of the environmental impact study, it is necessary to set up a multidisciplinary team with a capacity equal or similar to that of the team that carried out the impact study that analyses each of the technical, social, economic aspects, among others, in order to demonstrate the insufficiencies and inconveniences of the study in question. So it is clear that the political discourse that questions the project is not enough.

Social movements in Colombia and globally have increasingly invested in scientific knowledge production to lend a certain authority to their arguments (see Hébert, 2016; Li, 2013; Machado et al., 2017). An important tactic is to relate the struggle to environmental justice principles. Environmental justice works as a “science with the people” (Martinez Alier, 2002, p. 12) to fight unequal distribution of environmental benefits and burdens among population groups often correlating to specific race, income, social class or culture and religion (Martinez Alier, 2002). In January 2009, Miller Dussán published a report: “The negative impacts of the hydroelectric megaproject El Quimbo and related legal violations”. The report was based on studies undertaken by the regional environmental agency CAM and NGO Planeta Paz, by the environmental lawyer Guillermo Asprilla and the engineer Marcos Silva in addition to the accounts of the local population (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 176). The scientists specifically placed their hopes for preventing the dam realisation on the analysis of the local biodiversity, the uniqueness of the tropical dry forest with its rare species and the understudied epiphytes so predominant in the area. Leyla Rincón, a biology professor at the South-Colombian University, pointed out that especially when the experts discovered a new (as yet unclassified) epiphyte unique to the valley (Pitcairnia huilensis; see Betancur & Jiménez-Escobar, 2015), she was sure that the project would no longer be viable, because it would endanger this species. Emgesa, however, financed studies of the plant, branding it as a scientific discovery thanks to the investment project and promised to help the

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species in settling in their conservation area.6 In this way, the company applied an easy technical fix to the situation. Fabiana Li (2009, p. 230) notes a related weakness in the application of science for activism: “The dominance of science as a tool of accountability has helped direct the actions of NGOs and local activists toward scientific counter-arguments in ways that may limit the effectiveness of their efforts”. Certain branches of science have colonised other knowledge systems because they assume universal validity of their own research practice; techno-scientific language, in particular, renders values and norms equivalent and therefore cannot account for situated knowledge, values and cultures (Li, 2013). To apply techno-scientific principles therefore is for some researchers the voluntary subordination to an oppressive (colonial) knowledge system (F. Li, 2009, 2013; Sousa Santos & Rodríguez-Garavito, 2005). Even though the discovery of a species unique to the valley falls into the weakness of arguing in techno-scientific language, researchers at El Quimbo have included local knowledge and drawn on capitalist critique and alternative development approaches related to post-development and decolonial thoughts (Dussán Calderón, 2017; Naranjo Aristizábal, 2014; Salcedo Montero, 2014). Individual professors and their students organised field trips into the area, visited the communities to learn from their knowledge of the place and to critically discuss the damage the dam would cause. Most prominently, it was Miller Dussán who initiated the forming of Plataforma Sur, and later Leyla Rincón, who joined Plataforma Sur together with the Organisation for Wetland Protection in Neiva, Curíbano. Many of their students chose to get involved in the case and were soon followed by students from other parts of the country. Some dedicated their theses to the dam struggle and published their results.7 Miller Dussán is an advocate of decolonial thinking, as presented above. He believes that knowledge is created at the interface of science and (peaceful, non-military) activism, and that it needs to serve the purpose of defending local life worlds against the global capitalist system (as promoted by Dussel, 1994; Escobar, 2010; Fals Borda, 2009; Grosfoguel, 2006; Mignolo, 2000; Quijano, 2000; Santos, 2014). He (2008) says about the purpose of the South-Colombian University: A consensus is required in defining the main lines of research so that they respond […] to solving the problems and satisfying the needs of the South-Colombian communities. […] These actions must be aimed at

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consolidating the work within all social organisations and in their permanent mobilisation in the defence of their specific interests, but integrated into the great project of building a region and a country, supported by the real empowerment of local communities.

And he (2017, p. 234) describes social mobilisation as: the dialectic between thought and action […] that, from a ‘glocal’ strategy, confronts the transnational corporate capital, the State and its extractive mining, energy and agribusiness projects and contributes to the creation of a new paradigm of civilisation where the relationships between human and non-human nature are harmonised.

Miller Dussán began a blog in 2007 to document “university activism”. Plataforma Sur was his first intent to move towards a stronger collaboration between academia and civil society and Asoquimbo became the main project for such collaboration. As mentioned at the start, the affected population in disagreement with Emgesa formed in July 2009, together with activists from Neiva (most importantly Miller Dussán) the association of the affected people of El Quimbo dam, Asoquimbo (Dussán Calderón, 2009, 2017, p. 150). Elsa Ardila, a social leader of the village Rioloro was elected the first president. At its beginning, Asoquimbo was part of Plataforma Sur; however in 2012, internal conflicts about the funding of Plataforma Sur caused its disintegration.8 Independently, Asoquimbo soon grew in membership, ranging from smallholders, farmworkers and fisherfolk to merchandisers, students and environmental activists. One of the first outputs of the alliance was the Asoquimbo declaration of December 2009 which contained a proposal for an alternative development strategy for the valley (published at Dussán Calderón, 2009). The idea of the campesinos and fisherfolk was to create an agro-food peasant reserve (reserva campensina agroalemantaria) to advance agricultural production and food security in the region, instead of destroying it. Peasant reserves had been integrated to Colombian law in 1994. The scheme has the objective of strengthening the environmental and social organisation of farmers in developing their agricultural production and to ultimately contribute to rural peace and social justice (FAO, 2015). Lawyers affiliated to Asoquimbo contributed the legal conception and requirements necessary to constitute a peasant reserve and for

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“politicizing territorial rights” at El Quimbo (as termed by Brent, 2015, pp. 687–689),9 and Miller Dussán connected the proposal with discourses of food sovereignty, environmental justice and development critique. In this way, I argue, the alliance of urban intellectuals and the local population was able to create an alternative vision for the future apart from the development vision imposed from the central state. The peasant reserve can be seen as a strategy for an “alternative modernity” (Escobar, 2008, p. 162). Asoquimbo advocated an alternative pathway for the area, relating it to similar principles promoted by national politicians, such as rural development, economic profitability and biodiversity conservation.10 It used prominent discourses to reach the ears of the more powerful (as described by e.g. Mathews, 2009; McAllister, 2015), while “self-directing the form of modernity” based on own visions for the future (Escobar, 2008, p. 162). As Franco (1998, p. 278) points out, “the power to interpret, and the active appropriation and invention of language, are crucial tools for emergent movements seeking visibility and recognition for the views and actions that filter out from the dominant discourses”. It further follows the logic of not only critiquing or opposing change but also providing an alternate way forward. Escobar (2008) sees the creation of alternate modernities as a practice of counterwork. “Counterwork” expresses a positive notion of resistance as construction, rather than the passive notion of rejection (or even the negative notion of destruction). Escobar (2008) takes the concept from Arce and Long (2000, p. 2), who discuss “how different discourses, values and practices associated with notions of ‘modernity’ and ‘tradition’ intersect and are intertwined in the everyday encounters and experiences of people from diverse socio-cultural backgrounds”. Counterwork rejects the idea that resisting groups oppose and neglect state-enforced development per se, but directs attention to the transformation of external knowledge systems within more localised cultures (Escobar, 2008). Communities are not mere “receivers” of external institutions, but active modellers at the interface of internal and external institutions. In relation to resistance, counterwork “visualises alternative routes” (Leifsen et al., 2017, p. 3) and brings forward different perceptions of development (Escobar, 2008). While, the peasant reserve proposal found much support among the rural population at El Quimbo, as it reflected the aspirations of many smallholders, farmers’ cooperatives and landless campesinos to keep their life projects and territory,11 the South-Colombian University played an

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important role in providing supporting arguments and communicating the strategy to a wider audience. With the start of Asoquimbo, Miller Dussán formed a group of professionals situated at the South-Colombian University in Neiva, who covered applications for funding, communication, legal issues and administration. The facilities offered by the institution were also soon used for public events—academic as well as artistic—to bring attention to the El Quimbo dam struggle. This caused certain tensions within the public university, because Emgesa looked for collaboration from the same institution.12 Emgesa has funded several research projects especially linked to the natural sciences at the South-Colombian University. For example, project groups have studied the reproduction of riverine fishes, taken samples and artificially fertilised species in tanks to allow a repopulation of the reservoir at a later stage. As a result, one branch of the university depended on Emgesa’s contribution and the dam realisation, while another branch was focused on fighting the dam, being supported financially by civil society (national and international organisations). Such internal disagreements over funding are typical of many research institutions; the actual confrontations in this case however occurred on the lands affected in central Huila.

11.2

Civil Disobedience and Confrontations

The local population, who had joined Asoquimbo in the first years, followed the collective (overall) goal of preventing the realisation of the hydroelectric project El Quimbo. To reach this goal, many chose to “refuse to play the game” (Simpson, 2014), which included not being counted or interviewed by the company. Accordingly, some people apparently stayed deliberately out of the census when Emgesa registered the affected population again in 2009, and smallholders rejected any form of private negotiation with the company.13 This kind of refusal or civil disobedience was also implicit in the occupation of already sold lands and the continuation of the agricultural production in the valley. On the one hand, this was a coping strategy for farmworkers and fisherfolk who had lost their income owing to the land enclosure; on the other hand, it was a form of resistance to the project. The campesinos continued to farm for instance at La Honda and Domingo Arias, while completely guarding the veredas, allowing no stranger to enter. The resistance at La Honda stated in 2012 that their aim

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was to defend their ways to subsist, the river and water sources, in total, their lives: “Quitan la vida de nosotros, eso es nuestra lucha” (They take our lives, that’s our fight). Similarly, popular slogans among the affected population were relating the dam to death: “Rios para la vida no para la muerte” (Rivers for life, not for death) and “Rios libres, pueblos vivos ” (Free rivers, people alive). I consider their self-proclaimed struggle to defend territory as resembling “popular environmentalism” or what Martinez Alier (2002) terms “environmentalism of the poor”. People turn into environmentalists because their livelihoods are depending on the environment they seek to protect from harm, in this case the lands and the river (Latorre Tomás, 2009; Martinez Alier, 2002). At the first sight, the defence was passively rejecting change, but a closer look reveals that this produced landscapes of resistance, where the company was restrained in its normal procedures and processes were protracted. This “resignifying” of place to express disagreement forms part of contentious politics of space or “politics of place” as called by Leitner and Sheppard (2009, p. 237). Even more so, these landscapes of resistance emerged through social protests. As mentioned, Plataforma Sur had organised peaceful demonstrations since the start of the dam construction. However, in early 2012 the tensions grew. As a result of the increased limitations on the local population to continue their life project, topped with the collapse of the bridge “El Paso de Colegio” in September 2011, the affected people organised by Asoquimbo turned towards more direct action and started to block important roads to the construction site in January 2012. This socalled “Regional Strike for the Defence of Territory” united the western municipalities of Huila affected by the damage of road infrastructure and associations fighting mining in the Paramó de Miraflores (wetland system in the eastern cordilleras),14 with those opposing the dam construction. Furthermore, the local population (campesinos and fisherfolk) was supported by students and activists from Neiva and beyond, by regional organisations (such as the Regional Council of Indigenous people in Huila—CRIHU) and also by truck drivers and local companies which had hoped to be contracted by Emgesa, but now instead faced restrictions in executing their productive activity.15 Up to 500 people, some with vehicles, blocked the main road for 17 days in total. This action delayed the dam constructions accordingly. While many protested directly by blocking the roads and parts of the riverbanks, others contributed indirectly to the strike by supplying the activists with food, water, pots and

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even tents during these days (see Sánchez Espitia, 2012a). The Mobile Anti-Disturbance Squadron (ESMAD, part of national police) moved in several times to take away the food and utilities to force the crowd to give up. Later, violent clashes occurred between the parties, where ESMAD arrested protestors. The tense situation was not only widely covered by Huilan newspapers, but also found its way into national media. Miller Dussán used his private blog to disseminate the positions, claims and demands of the resistance and became the resistance’s public spokesperson. The increased attention to the case by mid-January caused the establishment of a dialogue between the resisting organisations, the director of ANLA, the viceminister of Political Relations, the vice-minister of the national Senate, the Huilan governor Cielo Gonzáles and the director of the CAM, among others. At the meeting, the ministries agreed to form a thematic roundtable to discuss the unresolved situation of the local population between actors’ groups and to hold another public hearing to follow up on Emgesa’s compliances with the environmental licence of El Quimbo (Acta de Compromisos y Acuerdos, 2012). At the same time, Emgesa committed to guarantee the “vital minimum”16 for the communities which had already experienced an impact on their livelihoods, to allow for their subsistence until the final conditions for full compensation were established. Consequently, Asoquimbo agreed to withdraw the protesters from the roads and riverbank, allowing for the normal proceeding of construction works. On 25 January 2012, the thematic roundtable was supposed to start, but ANLA did not appear, claiming the resistance had not stopped the protests. Fisherfolk remained at the riverbank to peacefully demand their inclusion in the census, which restricted the normal proceedings of the construction works. The situation was resolved after several negotiations and a final settlement for compensation between the five remaining fishermen and Emgesa. Nevertheless, no vital minimum was guaranteed, nor was a roundtable or public hearing realised. Civil society suspected that ANLA was afraid of a follow-up public hearing, recognising that the concession of the environmental licence had happened irregularly, imposed by the central government and not according to the constitution.17 Instead, on 14 February, ESMAD moved into the vereda Domingo Arias to evict about 500 campesinos and fisherfolk who occupied the

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lands there. During this process, a young man lost his right eye (apparently caused by a stun grenade), and another suffered superficial facial injury. Subsequently several expropriations and forced evictions (amparo policitivo, state-led expropriation; see Chapter 9.3) took place around the valley. Witnesses recorded the incidents on their mobile phones and uploaded the files to social media to document the violence exercised. The pictures and videos show how ESMAD dragged the motionless inhabitants, who were expressing peaceful resistance, over the ground away from their homes.18 Their houses were demolished directly afterwards. Many of the affected had not been able to safeguard their personal belongings beforehand. In August 2012, Asoquimbo together with civil society groups in Huila who supported the struggle against El Quimbo dam, held the “Great Minga for the Liberation and Defence of Mother Earth” in El Hobo, downstream from the dam.19 Traditionally, at a minga, community members come together to collectively work on a project beneficial for the community—a typical practice for Andean indigenous groups. Recently, social movements around Latin America have taken up the concept of minga to call for collective action “that is at once local and international, gains force from both its cultural and historical references to a shared experience of subjugation” (Poole, 2009).20 In the case of the minga in Huila, it implied the continued presence of the resistance movement in the area and the formulation of collective demands of the government (Dussán Calderón, 2012). ESMAD dismantled the gathering and 25 participants were reported injured. The minga was another form of civil disobedience to deliver the message: “We do not give up on this territory”. But it was also part of another widely used strategy of Asoquimbo, which I refer to, using Svampa’s (2012, p. 5) term, as “recreational actions” (acciones de contenido lúdico). It is the organisation of public activities like seminars, concerts, plays, movie-screenings and the use of art to distribute the arguments and discourses of the anti-dam movement across places and scales. Asoquimbo has regularly organised such events within the affected municipalities, but especially at the South-Colombian University in Neiva. Civil disobedience, in the case of land occupation and the blocking of roads, but also here in the organisation of recreational activities for the wider public, facilitated politics of networking (linking up with and gaining the attention of diverse trans-local spaces and actors’ groups) and as such represents an alternative act of power; it is action contrary

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to Emgesa’s will. Foucault frames this freedom to think and act otherwise as counter-conduct (Cadman, 2010, p. 550). It is going beyond the passive notion of “not conducting oneself properly” (Foucault, 2007, p. 201) and emphasises the “productivity” (Legg, 2018; Rosol, 2014, p. 76) involved in “questioning the regime of truth” (Cadman, 2010, p. 550) and wanting to be conducted (governed) otherwise. The concept not only targets political impact but also the intention to change beliefs, behaviour and attitudes (Foucault, 2007; see also Introduction by Davidson, in Foucault, 2007:xxix; Rabinow, 1997:157). The movement against El Quimbo wanted to push Emgesa to reconsider its social mitigation strategies, the state of engaging with and committing to the concerns of the rural population and the society to change the perspective of the national development paradigm. The beginning of the year 2012 can be considered the peak of physical tensions between the resistance movement, the company and the state. The protests brought together a wide range of actors in support of the local struggle at El Quimbo. This affirmed and motivated many affected families in continuing their resistance, and in parts, strengthened their negotiation position towards the company (as in the case of the five fishermen at the riverbank). However, the political reaction was mainly armed intervention. In November 2013, the forced displacement of another 200 people took place, people who had occupied and continued to cultivate the lands (among others at La Honda). As a result of the unresolved situation in central Huila, Emgesa as well as Asoquimbo took the conflict to the courts.

11.3

Judicialisation of Conflict

During the years of resistance, Asoquimbo made extensive use of the national law and international rights. It involved lawyers and law students in the analysis of political agreements and decisions, examining whether everything complied with the legal framework. In cases in which procedures revealed certain blank spots or loopholes, Asoquimbo would demand more information and explanation from the respective institution (petición). In some cases, the resistance called on public control units to check what was happening at El Quimbo throughout the construction phase. Public comptrollers and ombudsmen, individual politicians and lawyers came to the affected areas to get an impression of the impacts and of the claimed noncompliance of the company. Many raised concerns

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afterwards, and sometime partial fines and restrictions were enunciated (such as by CAM or even ANLA). If this did not bring the desired result, a further step was to involve the courts to demand the protection of foundational rights (acción de tutela). Lawyers affiliated to Asoquimbo have legally consulted with affected people and facilitated several collective court actions. The most important case went to the Constitutional Court. In the beginning of 2012, Asoquimbo presented 1,297 cases of affected people to the Colombian Human Rights Observatory to demand their inclusion in the census, arguing that El Quimbo put their vital minimum at risk. This was a switch from civil disobedience (the act of rejecting being counted) to what I term a “strategy of numbers”, to overwhelm the company with compensation cases.21 The following legal struggle went through different courts until finally, in March 2013, the Constitutional Court ruled in the claimants’ favour, stating that the census needed to remain open to including all those people who experienced an impact on their subsistence at any point throughout the dam development (Sentence T-135/13). The ruling was a milestone for the resistance in multiple ways. It states: In a social and democratic State under the rule of law, a general and abstract priority cannot be given to the general interest and to the predominant vision of ‘development’ or ‘progress’ brought by infrastructure works, when these affect the fundamental rights of people.

Sentence T-135/13 granted the affected populations the recognition of damages by the dam, re-emphasised the company’s responsibility to reestablish their living conditions to an equal or better standard, reminded the ANLA to monitor the company’s compliance, and highlighted that an abstract idea of the “general interest” cannot prevail over the fundamental rights of the people. As ground-breaking this ruling was, also for other land struggles around the country, it did not materialise hopes for compensation. By 2015, a total of 30,564 people had signed up to be considered for the census. Dussán (2017, p. 101) stated that the authorities in charge of enacting the ruling (mainly ANLA and the Superior Tribunal of Neiva) did not sufficiently do so (see Chapter 9). Emgesa took legal action, too. It accused Asoquimbo Presidents Elsa Ardila and Miller Dussán of causing “public disturbances” and the delays in construction (by blocking the road) in 2012. Ardila and Dussán finally

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won the legal case in February 2017. However, the pressure during the years caused Ardila to step down from her responsibilities. From 2012 to 2018, Dussán remained the main head-figure of Asoquimbo. In total, rules and norms have been taken up by the resistance to defend their rights manifested in the constitution (and/or human right treaties) and to remind the state of its duties. As for the El Quimbo resistance, legal contention has been an important tool for many territorial struggles in Colombia (see e.g. Grajales, 2015, 2016; Rodríguez Garavito & Arenas, 2005). Comaroff and Comaroff (2006) describe such devotion to the law as obsession or as legal fetish, implying a false trust in a system that either has no influence on actual political practices, or would only benefit the ruling class, in the words of Colombian scholar Lemaitre Ripoll (2009, p. 383), to “hide power relations between classes with the same final result”. Similar to the “rules of (techno-) science”, the law would function for a specific (Western) set of values. Using legal language runs the risk of rendering plural values commensurable, which are otherwise incommensurable (Comaroff & Comaroff, 2006; Rodríguez Garavito, 2011; Sousa Santos & Rodríguez-Garavito, 2005). This could weaken the resistance. There are however decolonial efforts also to be found in law (Santos & Rodríguez-Garavito, 2005). Indeed, in Colombia, the Constitution of 1991 was the product of an active civil society that had demanded a new juridical system and had participated in shaping it (see Lemaitre Ripoll, 2009). In the El Quimbo case, in order to counterwork the legal framework in the interests of the resistance, an “alternative development” was proposed. Escobar (2008, p. 162) defines this strategy as the overall acceptance of the underlying premises of development (in this case the dam development) but with the intent to manoeuvre within the paradigm in the best way possible (making the most out of the compensation schemes). This does not necessarily contradict the main goal of preventing the dam from being completed. The idea was to confront Emgesa on all possible fronts to increase the costs for the company to such an extent that the project becomes economically and politically unviable. Accordingly, the resistance struggled to hold in tension a combination of strategies and alternative projects (Escobar, 2008; Martinez Alier, 2002, p. 268).

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Anti-Dam Discourse and Scale

The social movement around Asoquimbo has originally emerged because a common interest and a shared struggle led to contentious collective action, mobilisation and organisation (Tarrow, 2011; Tilly, 1978). Some authors see a collective identity and unity as characteristic of social movements (e.g. James & Seters, 2014; Tilly, 1978). The defence of territory, however, was expressed in different forms. For the local population involved, the motivations were diverse. Some became activists to fight the dam realisation as such. For them, no compensation could outweigh the loss they would experience. Others had joined Asoquimbo for the same purpose but soon realised that they cannot stop a project supported by the national government; therefore the key motivation for resisting became being included in the census and to receive the best compensation possible. Again, for others, the purpose was to be acknowledged as affected and receive support in overcoming the inflicted difficulties (like the fisherfolk downstream). All these motives were related to the protection of livelihoods and for all these interests, Asoquimbo offered a space, thanks to its “repertoires of contention”, which were various forms of collective action to make political claims (McAdam et al., 2004, p. 5, 16). Most of the affected population joined Asoquimbo at one point: “we all took part in Asoquimbo”. During the first years of the antidam struggle, between 2009 and 2012, Asoquimbo’s support base grew substantially across space, scales and social (interest) groups. The contentious politics of knowledge and space (place, networking and mobility) were the strength of the movement. The collaboration allowed the tying together of local knowledge with scientific, legal and ideological counter-discourses that gained attraction beyond the local. As shown, Miller Dussán in particular linked the dam opposition to wider critical theory and ideology. He shaped an anti-dam narrative that strongly relied on environmental and decolonial discourses. For example, he equates “multinationals” with colonisers (which were in this case even Spanish—Endesa).22 They would bring only devastation and “ecocide” to the region, while being supported by the “extractivist peace” agenda of the national government.23 He calls the affected people “victims of development” but at the same time they would be “descendants of la Gaitana” (see Chapter 2), who continue her fight to “defend the territory”.24 He promotes water as life and in so doing, not only discursively

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opposes all mega-dam investment but also all investment in mining. While discourses have the power to “blind their proponents from seeing alternative interpretations and actions” (enclosure, see Chapter 8.1), they can also “facilitate action” (Benjaminsen & Svarstad, 2008, p. 51) and produce openings for alternative visions. The anti-dam narrative in this case allowed the local struggle to “jump scales” (Cox, 1998, p. 2; Haarstad & Fløysand, 2007, p. 290). It created links to other social movements against extractivism within Colombia and internationally. Since its beginning, Asoquimbo continuously extended its networks and became part of the national movement “Ríos Vivos” and the international network “International Rivers”.25 Asoquimbo also received support from the national NGOs for social justice “Tierra Digna” and for peace “Planeta Paz”. Asoquimbo further collaborated with indigenous movements in the south of Colombia (as noted before), being inspired by their cosmovisión (worldview) for example of pacha mama (mother earth) and buen vivir (a good life). Miller Dussán went abroad on several occasions, to protest against the Enel Group in Italy, for instance, or to denounce Human Rights violations in the United States. An affected fisherman said: “They [Asoquimbo] opened my eyes. They brought people to us from all parts. Today we have more knowledge”. Related to the upscaling of the struggle, the politics of space, is Kirsch’s “new politics of time”, described as strategies that try to intervene early in the decision-making process of investments in order to prevent projects from happening before the negative effects are felt (Kirsch, 2014). During the struggles of El Quimbo in 2012, Emgesa started evaluating another potential dam project at Oporapa, which was mentioned in the report to develop and manage the Magdalena River by Hydrochina (2013, p. 486).26 This dam would also be located within Huila and therefore caused an outcry from the population in Oporapa, which had taken note of the impacts caused by El Quimbo. The involvement of Asoquimbo and Ríos Vivos in the area, combined with the increasingly negative image of Emgesa in the Huilan public, caused the company to retract the Oporapa dam proposal in September 2017. Accordingly, an alliance between the rural population in opposition to Emgesa and a group of university and civil society activists based in Neiva grew into an influential trans-local movement against extractivism in the defence of territory. I continue to see this movement as place-based, because it was in the interests of and widely supported by the local (affected) population. Furthermore, the crucial confrontations

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happened locally, in conflict with the corporate actions and the politics allowing those actions. With the advances of the dam project and related socio-spatial reconfigurations, however, the local base of Asoquimbo increasingly eroded and the association soon centred around shaping Huilan politics.

11.5

Political Effect

It was the early morning of 30 June 2015, at the end of the week of San Pedro (the traditional festival celebrated across Huila), when Emgesa closed the dam gates. People had been dancing all night and were sleeping off their hangovers. At six o’clock, Huila’s governor at that time, Carlos Mauricio Iriarte, received a text message from the president of Emgesa, Luis Rubio. It stated the following: “Gober [short for governor] I inform you that, from 5.30 am today, they gave the hydrological conditions and closed the dam gates. The operation of closing was successful. Greetings”. The national news channel UNO covered the story within the rubric of ¡Qué tal esto! (How about this!) a few hours later and featured the governor’s surprise at the disrespect expressed in this short message. Emgesa had not bothered to consult or even notify the regional authorities in advance. Neither the mayors nor the CAM were informed. More importantly, it had ignored the regional court ruling. In the month preceding the filling, the CAM had fined Emgesa several times for irregular extraction of sediments and woods. Because Emgesa ignored many commitments and regulations, the Huilan Administrational Tribunal (regional court) finally became involved to enforce these regulations. In February 2015, it ruled that Emgesa was not allowed to start operating the dam before obligations were fulfilled (La Nación, 2015). Most controversial was that Emgesa could not guarantee the minimum water run-off, nor had it removed an important amount of biomass from the “area of direct influence”. The ANLA had made last minute modifications to the environmental licence, in order to allow Emgesa to initiate the filling regardless (No. 759, 26 June 2015, see Chapter 9.2). Additionally, the original chapel of San José de Belén—Huilan heritage—was destroyed and slowly disappeared under the rising water level; the EIA had suggested it could be relocated with the community. The Huilan moviemaker and former student of the South-Colombian University, Francisco Olaya filmed the flooding with his drone (Atarraya Films, 2015).27 The picture of the ruin in the water symbolised

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the disrespect of Emgesa, but also of the ANLA towards the region, its institutions, culture and values. The behaviour of the company was covered widely in the media. The commentator from El Diario del Huila called El Quimbo a “sort of stab to the region”.28 The Huilan public was outraged. The company’s position was that “what is done is done” and repeated that the process was now irreversible. It apparently expected the public uproar to calm down soon. But it did not. The Huilan Administrational Tribunal reissued its decision earlier that year prohibiting Emgesa from starting the energy generation before complying with all commitments to the region. Nevertheless, Emgesa started operation in November, following a decree by the national government allowing it to do so (6 October, Decree 1979 of 2015; following the State of Emergency caused by a border conflict with Venezuela, 7 September, Decree 1770 of 2015). This provoked the Constitutional Court to be involved and to decide that the decree is not legitimate (Sentence C-753 of 2015; see Chapter 9.3). In January 2016, Emgesa was finally allowed to produce energy and in April 2016, the ANLA fines Emgesa COP 2,600 million (approximately USD 3 million) for the mismanagement of the biomass removal, while the company repeatedly assured that it removed even more of the biomass than required by the environmental licence (see Chapter 10). The circumstances of the filling, in combination with the inconsistency between court rulings and governmental decisions, caused national public attention. The regional media of Huila, mainly La Nación and el Diario del Huila, covered the “polémica” of El Quimbo on nearly a daily basis with quotes from the local politicians and Asoquimbo leaders.29 The national newspaper focused more on the position of the national government, and the negative impacts the struggle would have on national energy security, the navigability of the river downstream and future foreign investment (e.g. El Espectador, 2016; El Tiempo, 2015a; Semana, 2016). Nevertheless, the case of El Quimbo, with its social and environmental problems, had become part of the national public debate and Miller Dussán, who was regarded as main expert and spokesperson of the movement by the local media, was increasingly quoted in national media (e.g. Calle, 2015; El Tiempo, 2015b; Rivera Rueda, 2015). Emgesa’s attitude over the years, topped by the circumstances of the filling in June 2015, turned El Quimbo into one of the core issues of the election campaign in Huila the same year. Carlos Julio Gonzáles, psychologist and brother of former Huilan governor, Cielo Gonzáles, announced

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in May 2015 his intention to run for governor in Huila as candidate of a fairly conservative party “Cambio Radical”. The focus of his campaign was meant to be education. While education in Colombia needs to improve in all areas, it is not an issue of great public concern, and with the filling of the dam, the topic only became more alienated from general attention. If Gonzáles seriously wanted to advance his prospects for the elections only four months later, he needed to change his agenda. He decided to ride the wave of discontent towards Emgesa by providing the solution: no more dams in Huila during his legislation! This suddenly opened a new door for Asoquimbo. Until that moment, no leading politicians had pronounced or positioned themselves explicitly against the large-scale investment. Soon other mayoral candidates for the municipalities of Huila, also looking towards election, followed his example. Miller Dussán organised a meeting with Gonzáles. If he would take seriously what he promised and committed to the “defence of territory”, Dussán would support him during the election campaign. Thereafter, Gonzáles appeared in public wearing T-shirts with slogans of the anti-dam movement (e.g. “Also, I am affected by El Quimbo”) and made use of its narrative. In October 2015, he was elected governor of Huila. The new mayors of the 37 municipalities of Huila had followed the same criticism towards the dam project.30 The main strategy of Asoquimbo was now incidencia politica (political effect, advocacy). Miller Dussán formulated it this way: “I have known Carlos Julio Gonzáles for 25 years through his academic work. Now we have an investigative alliance [alianza investigativa]”. Both became the most prominent figures for the struggle against Emgesa. But also other regional public institutions and the church became outspoken critics. The CAM officials felt reassured in their prior criticism. The municipal councils of Gigante, El Agrado and Altamira rejected requirements to make necessary adjustments to the land use plans for formalising and transferring the resettlement areas, arguing that Emgesa had not yet complied with the agreed commitments. Also the Diocese of Garzón refused to receive the new chapels built in La Galda (San José de Belén), Nueva Veracruz and Llano de la Virgen, arguing in a similar manner. As a result, some inhabitants of the resettlements began to take care of the new chapels themselves, but by mid-2017, the chapels had not been used for service.31 Instead, the diocese of Garzón applied for funding from the Spanish Caritas (Catholic charity) to initiate pastoral social work (Pastoral Social ).

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In 2015, the diocese formed the “Mission of San José” and employed Patricia Zuluaga Ospina, a lawyer, to look into the matters of El Quimbo, the environmental licence and what the church should demand from Emgesa.32 Furthermore, the priest Hector Gabriel Trujillo Luna was transferred to the church of Rioloro. As general vicar of the bishop of Garzón, he was the highest ranked priest Rioloro has ever had. For the Rioloreños (citizens of Rioloro) this came as a surprise, but they took it as a sign that the Catholic church stands by them in their struggle and that they are not forgotten. The vicar as well as other priests of the diocese combined anti-dam discourses with religious language. They preach environmental consciousness referring to it as a responsibility which god has given to the human race to take care of the casa común (common home). They announce that “development that goes against humanity is no development”. The mission commits to strengthen local communities and to “defend the casa común” (Diocese of Garzón, 2017). The mission’s representatives not only see Emgesa as a threat, but also the national development agenda. They relate in their argumentation to the political Constitution, human rights, environmental justice and the bible (see Chapter 9.1). This turn towards a political positioning was new to the diocese.33 During the first years of El Quimbo dam construction, the Catholic church had largely stayed silent. Emgesa itself considers this “awakening” inspired by pure greed for money in the form of compensation from the company.34 Others see it as reaction to the raising number of evangelist churches in Colombia, including in Huila.35 The church itself defends it as reaction to the injustice brought to the communities by Emgesa.36 In summary, the closing of the dam gates meant the loss of water sources and the lands of the valley; however, it also meant new opposition. The Huilan public seemed to be united in their criticism of Emgesa. As José Armando Acuña Molina of the Huilan Departmental Assembly formulated it: “The only good thing that Emgesa has achieved is to unite the Huilan people to defend their territory”.37 A new collaboration between Asoquimbo, the local governments, the CAM and the church emerged following the immediate objective of pressuring the ANLA to withdraw the environmental licence and to stop the dam from operating until Emgesa had fully complied with all compensation demands.38 To reach this goal, all actors joined forces for the realisation of a public hearing to follow up on the environmental licence granted.

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One of the first steps Gonzáles took as new governor was to formalise, together with Asoquimbo, the creation of a thematic roundtable for environment, water and territory (Decree 489 de 2016, Gobernación del Huila). The space was used to gather arguments and data, to organise and to push the ANLA to hold the hearing. As outlined in Chapter 9.1, the alliance was finally successful in November 2017. While the dam opposition celebrated the event as victorious for the region in their struggle to be heard by national ministries, the outcomes were sobering. Neither the licence was suspended and operation halted, nor was the energy company moving faster in complying with the regional commitments. The alliance blamed the national government. The ANLA, “political leaders”, the “government” and the “state” seem to be referred to synonymously and are in the discourse of the affected population as the ones responsible for the impacts experienced (see Chapter 9.3). With the filling of the dam, local political institutions put themselves on the side of the resistance, taking up this criticism towards the central state institutions. This positioning promoted the view that the local authorities were also victims of the central state. The jornalero Javier from Rioloro said, “Always, the highest politics [política más alta; on national level] are against one”. It would pressure the politics below (por debajo; on local/regional level). This is in line with the perspective expressed by the expert for forestry of the CAM: “It is the regional against the national. The CAM pronounced its concerns from the beginning, but it was a national decision and they did not listen to us. Now they are asking, why we have not done our work”. The senator Ernesto Macías Tovar generalised this impression at the public hearing, commenting that “the national government has never respected the regional authorities”. And Huilan politician Armando Saavedra said: “The autonomy of the territories needs to be respected; […] like this, it is no development”. These statements demonstrate the central motive for many regional public institutions in criticising the dam project. They felt disregarded and ignored in their decision-making capacity by Emgesa and the state which they were part of. The circumstances of the reservoir filling and the start of the dam operations made this even more obvious.39 Considering this trend, I argue that El Quimbo dam project turned from being a case of environmental and socioeconomic devastation, as before the reservoir filling, into a case of central state despotism. The fight to protect the lives at El Quimbo became a fight for constituting

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territorial sovereignty and to protect regional dignity and pride. Because the territory was flooded, the defence of territory at El Quimbo moved towards another focal point, to what I call territorial sovereignty. It was about strengthening the power of territorial administrations against central state despotism and autonomy over own lands and resources.

11.6

Territorial Sovereignty

Affected people as well as Miller Dussán have called the resistance a defensa del territorio (defence of territory) early on, and many social movements around Latin America proclaim the same (see e.g. Salazar, 2011; Sañudo et al., 2016). Indigenous movements in Latin America have shaped the perception of territorio and its defence. For them, it is primarily the fight for self-determination on territorios originarios (the ancestral lands; Svampa, 2012) and a contestation of state sovereignty (Sieder, 2011). This implies controlling use of those lands’ resources and envisions “development” in own terms (Escobar, 2010, p. 10). Salinas (2017, p. 210) highlights a further dimension of these struggles, namely an interaction between human and non-human beings and the related cosmovisión. Escobar (2016, p. 13) makes “the proposition that many contemporary struggles for the defense of territories and difference are best understood as ontological struggles and as struggles over a world where many words [sic: read worlds] fit” (emphasis added).40 Following this scholarship, the defence of territorio can be seen as protecting the livelihoods and local knowledges embedded in the territorio, as well as the spiritual relationship to the territorio against state-led development by maintaining independence. However, it also involves being recognised, culturally and politically, in a state system. The fight of Afro-Colombian communities at the Colombian Pacific coast is characterised by similar dimensions. Their defence of territorio is about reaffirming their identity on their lands and receiving political autonomy with aspirations for social and economic autonomy (Escobar & Paulson, 2005, pp. 265–266). Several authors have described the appearance of social–environmental movements in Latin America that include a demand for local autonomy and self-determination. Alonso-Fradejas (2015, p. 500), for instance, looks at local reactions in Guatemala and emphasises that the “defense of territory entails defensive and oppositional practices as well as propositional ones, regarding strengthening ‘peoples’ sovereignty’ over their

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life territories”. Svampa (2012, p. 7) identifies an “ecoterritorial turn” in Latin America: the emergence of a common language that brings together indigenous, communitarian, defence of territory and environmental discourses about, for instance, common goods, food sovereignty, environmental justice and Buen Vivir (Svampa, 2013, p. 41). Combining the logic of political lobbying with the logic of social movements would unite people of different classes (carácter policlasista). Intellectuals and experts would not only accompany the defence of territory but form part of it. These actors should not be considered “external allies” but actors with their own weight within this new organisational framework (Svampa, 2012, p. 5). As such, I argue, territorial sovereignty forms intrinsic part to the defence of territory but primarily came to the fore in Huila after the dam started operating. The idea of territorial sovereignty here resembles what McNeish describes as resource sovereignty and Roa García as environmental democracy. Studying mining conflicts in Tolima, McNeish (2017) develops the concept “resource sovereignty” to emphasise “the role of natural resources in the formation of political platforms” and in the production of (alternative) development frameworks. Struggles for resource sovereignty would be “claims for territory and economic development with cultural and epistemological expressions of identity and relationships to landscape and resources” (McNeish, 2017, p. 8). These expressions often include a critique of the centrally enforced extractivist model, but do not necessarily do so. Regional claims for autonomy over lands and resources do not contest the sovereignty of the state in the international community (Sieder, 2011). Instead, sovereignty here “refers to the ability of people in a given community to control their own fate whether through localized resources or the capacity to access state resources that buffer persons from risk” (Wolford et al., 2013, p. 201). It “implies a struggle to secure greater autonomy from the state at the same time as seeking greater recognition by the state” (Sieder, 2011, p. 168).41 Related efforts for autonomy seek to construct “democracy from the roots” (Esteva, 2019, p. 100) and to re-articulate “stateness” (McNeish, 2017, pp. 8–9; see also McNeish & Logan, 2012). In other words, what is at stake for these movements is not their mere inclusion into the system (expansion of the state) but “the right to participate in the very definition of the political system, the right to define that in which they wish to be included” (Alvarez et al., 1998, p. 21).

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Roa García (2017) describes the increasing appearance of struggles for environmental democratisation in the context of Colombian water conflicts. She (2017, p. 59) writes: Since the first decade of this century, an alliance of peasant movements, environmental activists, legal and human right NGOs, and university students have activated the mechanisms not only to demand environmental/water justice through redistribution, but also to question the extractive model and demand decision-making power regarding the kind of development territories should pursue.

These alliances claim participatory spaces as reaction to investment projects that would generate immediate social and environmental impacts on the region. This local call for more decision-making capacity over land and resource use is in line with environmental democracy (Rodríguez Garavito, 2013) and is increasingly taken up by regional administrational authorities (municipios and departamentos ) to strengthen their own position within the state apparatus. The alliance against dams in Huila joined these efforts around the country to contribute to national advances in redefining the responsibilities of territorial state divisions and supporting prior consultation processes. As part of this effort, governor Gonzáles was elected president of the National Federation of the Provinces (Departamentos ) in January 2018, representing, not only Huila, but also 32 other governors around the country (El Tiempo, 2018). He advocated for more decentralised structures in the state apparatus. For example, at the forum of the Office of the Comptroller General (Contraloría General de la República), Carlos Julio Gonzáles expressed his goal to integrally reform the system of regalias (bonuses—the amount paid by industries to the regions in which they operate; normally this amounts to 1% of the profit) to strengthen territorial sovereignty (Diario del Huila, 2018).42 Asoquimbo and the Huilan political leaders consider it an indication of their success that no other dam proposal in Huila has gone through since El Quimbo, despite Huila’s strategy paper emphasising the hydroelectric potential and Hydrochina’s suggestion for five more dams in the upper stream of the Magdalena River (2013). Operapa dam, which was the most advanced project proposal, was finally rejected in 2017. Additionally, Asoquimbo has supported several calls for prior consultation processes concerning energy and mining projects all over Colombia, for instance

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in Cabrera. In Cabrera’s surrounding municipalities in Cudinamarca (the central province of Colombia), Emgesa planned six micro-hydroelectric installations. The population voted in its absolute majority “No”, not only to the project but also to extractivism in general within their territory.43 However, the people affected by El Quimbo did not experience any significant change to their situation. After the ANLA had responded to the public hearing, Emgesa re-evaluated all cases of the people who had demanded compensation at the hearing. For example, the fisherfolk of El Hobo were individually invited to interviews, which were again experienced more as interrogations. Some received letters thereafter, in which Emgesa stated that a study had shown that the fishery in the area had increased by about 43 per cent since 2012 and that fisherfolk are therefore beneficiaries of El Quimbo (see Chapter 6.1). Up to May 2017, only one fisherman downstream of El Quimbo had received compensation. The administrations of the municipalities also continued to impede changes in the land use plans necessary to legalise the resettlement areas (and to hand over the titles to the families). Therefore, the resettled families have not been able to sell their properties in order to find other opportunities somewhere else or to take up credits. By 2018 Emgesa appeared to move towards possibilities for multi-usage of the dam reservoir, wanting to build ports for ferries at its banks and work with the population of Rioloro for the establishment of fish cultivation projects. However by 2023, these plans still have only partially materialised. Consequently, after nearly ten years in limbo, many affected people do not view the resistance as having been successful. In their perspective, the public hearing was just another occasion where they repeated the same arguments. Early in 2017, when Cerbatana (a young organisation of artists and students from Bogotá but with links to Rioloro and La Jagua), organised the art festival “La Alegria Resiste” (“happiness resists”) in Rioloro, the response of the locals was mixed. During one dance performance at the village pavilion, Tea from Rioloro said, “Not many have come to the event, because they know that it is against hydroelectricity and for the community, and they do not see any sense in it any longer”. Some of the people who had stayed in the valley of the dam and had fought against the flooding even felt betrayed by Asoquimbo. One former member of the association described the slow decrease in local support of the resistance: “Don Edgar resisted his eviction from La Honda until the end. Asoquimbo sent him a lawyer but at the end, he felt left alone. That is how Asoquimbo lost its last associate from La Honda”.

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A member of Rioloro’s community action council affirmed: “Before, we all took part in Asoquimbo, but not anymore. Everybody started to fight for his own benefit”. By 2022, many members of the El Hobo fisherfolk associations were still part of Asoquimbo, using its juridical and organisational guidance. However, already in 2017, some of them had started to doubt Asoquimbo’s motives: “We are like shields for Asoquimbo. Miller Dussán promised land for 130 fishermen and fisherwomen. But we see other things. Asoquimbo does not have this objective anymore”. The image of the affected population as shields (escudos ) requires special consideration. Especially since the filling of the dam, Asoquimbo’s nucleus had become the circle of professionals at the South-Colombian University in Neiva, instead of the affected population. Alfredo of Nueva Veracruz expressed the situation as follows: Asoquimbo initially had a leading role, impressive also, but as in all types of organisations there are good and bad leaders. Some of the good ones allowed themselves to be infected and lost their focus on things and that gave them a loss of credibility. […] The fact is that they had no significant achievements that could really motivate the community.

A former legal assistant of Asoquimbo also disclosed that the association had now (as of 2017) more ambitions to change politics on the national scale, while the local people still would not have anything to eat. The fact that the demand to dismantle the dam was only made to achieve the actual goal of “having an impact on the sector”, together with the strategy of the local political and civil society institutions to present a devastating picture of the dam’s impact, suggests that the objective behind these tactics had a political agenda. The people suffering from the dam construction became numbers and cases which serve as arguments (or shields) for the dam opposition to reach more regional authority over the resource use. After all, Carlos Julio Gonzáles’ choice to support the anti-dam movement during his election campaign was opportunistic. As Gingebre showed in a Madagascan case of local resistance against a big land acquisition, competition over authority among state institutions can lead to “divisions and opportunistic realignments” among governmental institutions and civil society actors (Gingembre, 2015, p. 564). In the process of the mobilisation, leaders of Asoquimbo and Curíbano (Environmental organisation for wetland protection in Neiva) established

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ties to the Huilan government. Leyla Rincón herself went into politics (as elected council member of Neiva) to change the system from within. Miller Dussán used his collegial relationship to the governor to indirectly influence politics but chose to run for Huilan governor himself during the election in 2019.44 The Catholic church, specifically the Pastoral Social of the Diocese of Garzón, joined this political alliance to criticise the company Emgesa, but also the national government. As a result, the collaboration among political and civil society actors in Neiva became much stronger. At first glance, the further scaling up of the dam opposition through the alliance between Asoquimbo and regional authorities appears to be a true “win–win” scenario. However, their links to and among the local communities eroded. Fights for compensation became individual projects. The resettled population searched for the best solutions to their specific problems. People in surrounding villages tried to establish new livelihood strategies in other sectors and some families continued private negotiations for compensation. Asoquimbo’s connection to the affected area turned increasingly fragmented.45 This reconfiguration of the resistance leads to the question of whether the mobilisation can be still considered place-based. As argued in the above section, in the case of the anti-dam struggle in Huila, urban professionals have been intrinsic to the resistance and its achievements. But after the filling of the dam, the alliance rescaled. Its extension into regional politics implied an abstraction of direct, immediate goals to more political long-term objectives. In this way, the local basis of the affected population slowly eroded, and their struggle was appropriated for political purposes. Because it was now mainly concerning the regional authority over resources and directed critique towards the Colombian central state, I consider the struggle to be primarily for territorial sovereignty. It began as a trans-local defence of territory but distanced itself from its local particularity. While multiscalar strategies are essential for resistance movements, many authors of environmental struggles have argued that it risks losing sight of the strength of the localised alternative visions and strategies (Cresswell, 2002; Escobar, 2001; Harvey, 2000, p. 51; Leitner &

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Sheppard, 2009, p. 233). This happened with the El Quimbo dam struggle. ∗ ∗ ∗ In this chapter, I have outlined the agency of the affected populations to change their circumstances, how the movement became an important political actor and how the local struggles were finally appropriated for political motives divorced from actual aspirations of the affected populations. The analysis contributes to the former Chapter 10 in providing holistic understanding of the processes and complexities at stake in the El Quimbo dam conflict and what reality was ultimately created with the project. I will now turn attention to the principles of energy and data justice as discussed in literature, how identified EIA flaws could be prevented and how to turn the EIA as a tool for accountability into a tool of justice and change.

Notes 1. Founding members were Fundación El Curíbano, Asociación Cultural y Ambientalista del Sur, Corporación COM, Red de Promotores de Derechos Humanos, Fundación Picachos and Amasijo Yuma. 2. I use “professionals” to refer to people with a university degree that joined the movement without being affected themselves. Similar to “experts”, they have or are considered to have in-depth knowledge in a certain discipline. With experts, however, I specifically refer to those connected to the industry, or to economic or political consultancies. 3. Of course, this is a generalised assessment based on accounts of local (former) Asoquimbo members and professionals in the city. On a personal basis, power imbalances could have been experienced within a space and between the different spaces. 4. As also confirmed by Professor María del Rosario Rojas Robles (National University Colombia) during her talk on “Peace and Environment” at the Norwegian University of Life Sciences, 13 Nov. 2018. In Colombia, intellectuals have always played an important role in social contestation of the ruling power. The guerrilla organisations M19 and the still active ELN had their origin in student movements which supported peasant struggles and ideologically opposed social inequality. Public universities (also some private ones) have also contributed to non-violent expressions of state critique and alternative visions. A prominent example is the formulation of the new political Constitution of 1991 (see Lemaitre Ripoll, 2009).

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5. For instance, collaborative activist research, co-laboring (co-razonar), collective research and action, decolonial pedagogies and decolonial feminisms (presented by Arturo Escobar, 22. June 2017, Seminar on Collaborative Research, Oslo). 6. Emgesa’s newsletter “La Buena Energía de El Quimbo”, Edition 12 of 2015:6–7. 7. Dissertations: John Jairo Trujillo-Quintero (Universidad Cooperativa de Colombia), Camilo Andrés Salcedo Montero (Universidad Nacional de Colombia), María Camila Macías Amaya (Pontificia Universidad Javeriana), Sandra Paola Naranjo Aristizábal (Universidad Nacional de Colombia), Leonardo Ernesto Pacheco Guerrero (Universidad Militar Nueva Granada), Erika Alexandra Barreiro Álvarez and Claudia Liliana Martínez Quesada (Universidad de Santo Tomás), as well as I for y master’s thesis at Lund University (Helmcke, 2013) and my PhD Research at the Norwegian University of Life Sciences (Helmcke, 2021). Related publications: on the peasant economy (Salcedo Montero & Cely Forero, 2015), on property and economic rights (Díaz Polanco et al., 2015; International Commission of Jurists, 2016) and on psychosocial impacts (Pulido, 2014; Salazar Bedoya et al., 2012). 8. The leaders in Neiva did not agree on core strategies or on the use of funding, e.g. for salaries. 9. By 2018, only six peasant reserves had been constituted in Colombia. Their legal establishment makes the respective territories less available for “the extraction of natural resources and large-scale exploitation of the land through agro-industries”, similar to indigenous resguardos (Peace Brigades International, 2018). It is therefore not surprising that the authorities have shunned away from granting this type of collective land title. 10. Practices of agroecology would seek to produce nutritious food while protecting the local ecosystems, not only for subsistence but also for contributing to the (inter-)national organic food market—a promising solution for economy, society and environment. 11. As expressed by the resistance movement during interviews in 2012. 12. Public universities (as other educational institutions) in Colombia are notoriously under-funded. 13. Later this strategy proved to be to the disadvantage of many. The fewer people who were registered, the better for the company. Those not registered in the census faced more trouble being considered as affected later on. Many affected farmworkers believed they had been ill-advised by Asoquimbo. They believe the opposite strategy would have proven to be more successful. Calling for all people from everywhere to register as affected might have overwhelmed the company.

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14. Their presence was an expression of sympathy with the struggle at El Quimbo as well as of rejecting extractivist industries in the region generally. 15. Signees of the common declaration are: Comunidades de Puerto Seco, Asociación de Aserradores, Comunidad de la Jagua, Comunidad de las Cañada, Asociación de Pescadores de El Hobo, Comunidad de la Honda, Comunidad del Majo, Comunidad de Jagualito, Junta de Acción Comunal de Matambo, Municipios del Macizo Colombiano adscritos a ASOMAC, Comunidad de la Plata, Asociación Intersectorial de Gigante, Garzón Paramo de Miraflores, Movimiento Ríos Vivos, Comunidad de Garzón, Comunidad de Consejo Municipal de Cultura de Gigante, Asociación de Pescadores de la Jagua, Asociación de Cafeteros, Asociación de Tabacaleros de Garzón ASOTAGAR, Gremio de transportadores de la Plata Huila, Jornaleros de la Jagua, Comunidad de Zuluaga, ASOQUIMBO, Corporación Com-Unidad, Corporación Casa de la Memoria, Asociación Cultural y Ambientalista del Sur-ACAS, Mesa Amplia Nacional Estudiantil Huila, Consejo Regional Indígena del Huila CRIHU. 16. The “minimo vital” (from German Existenzminimum) is a legal concept to express “the right to a minimum of material conditions necessary for subsistence” (Rueda Saiz, 2010, p. 35). 17. “El Ministerio le tiene miedo a la Audiencia Ambiental ” (Valbuena, 2012). 18. The most viewed clip is “El vídeo que el gobierno no quiere que veamos ”, made by Colombian movie-maker Bladimir Sánchez Espitia (2012b; see also 2012a). 19. Supporting organisation were the Defence of the Paramo de Miraflores (against mining in mountain wetlands of Huila) and the Regional Council of Indigenous people in Huila (CRIHU), among others. As mentioned before, the El Quimbo dam project has not impacted people who identify with indigenous culture or origin. CRIHU supports local struggles in the defence of territory and against extractivism also outside indigenous reserves. 20. Poole (2009) further states, “By calling their movement a minga, the indigenous participants call attention to both the work that must go into politics and the idea that that work must be collective. They also, of course, reclaim it from long histories of state-led attempts to organize and control collective politics and community organization”. 21. For the individuals, it was of course about being compensated. For more information on the power of (large) numbers in politics, see e.g. Desrosières (1998), Porter (1995) and Rose (1991). 22. Alfredo, resettled to Nueva Veracruz, said: “We turned back to the past, the conquest or colony in a certain form, where the Spanish come and do how they please”.

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23. “Paz extractevista” or “paz corporativa” meaning peace for private corporations to invest in Colombia, but not necessarily peace for people and the territories. 24. Also popular slogans of the resistance relate to the legend: “Like descendants of the Gaitana, we defend our territory till the defeat of the Spanish – No to El Quimbo!”. 25. “The Movement for the Defence of Territory and Affected people by Dams – Rivers Alive” (Movimiento Ríos Vivos) links Colombian movements against dams and water privatisation. Asoquimbo was one of the founding organisations in 2011. It forms part of “International Rivers”, an international NGO seeking to protect the world’s rivers. 26. The “Master Plan” of the Magdalena River (English in original) assessed the development potential of the three different regions of the Magdalena River—upstream, midstream and downstream. For the upstream river basin, Hydrochina saw further potential for hydroelectricity. It proposed four more hydropower dams upstream of El Quimbo, and even more downstream (Hydrochina, 2013). 27. Atarrayo films also produced two documentaries about the community San José de Belén in advance of the resettlement. One of these received a prize for best regional journalism in Colombia in November 2016: “Erase una vez una vereda llamada San José de Belén”: https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=AczcZxPPVrQ. The other is called “Capilla de San José de Belén (Agrado - Huila)”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XqHlU 5TnNo (all retrieved 20 Feb 2020). 28. “Contra viento y marea se levantó El Quimbo, una especie de puñalada a la región” (Artunduaga, 2017). 29. Asoquimbo, as association for all the affected groups, was mainly represented by the President Miller Dussán, the vice-president, a juridical coordinator and a communication coordinator, as well as by social leaders of the affected communities. 30. According to Miller Dussán himself. 31. Emgesa stated in its newsletter “La Buena Energía de El Quimbo” (Edition 12 and 13 of 2015) that it had handed the chapel over to the community of San José de Belen, but Fernanda from the community clarified that only three families had received it. 32. The diocese initiated several legal cases against Emgesa, according to the legal representative of the Diocese of Garzón. 33. But it was a trend similar to what has been called “liberation theology” and “eco-theology”: the Christian church’s attention towards social inequality and ecological concerns, in Latin America usually related to dependency theory and decolonial thinking (Martinez Alier, 2002, p. 206; McDonagh, 2019; Vuola, 2019). Also interesting in this context the

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34. 35. 36.

37. 38.

39. 40. 41. 42.

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“Encyclical Letter Laudato Si’ of the Holy Father Francis on Care for our Common Home” (Rome 2015) and Sachs’ reflections about it (2017). According to informal talks in 2017. Rumours in Rioloro in 2017. A new bishop came to the Diocese in 2013 who got increasingly preoccupied with the situation at El Quimbo, according to the legal representative. During his speech delivered at the public hearing in Nov. 2016. The long-term aim was to impede all further dam developments in Huila and to strengthen regional decision-making capacities within the state system. See also quotes of the public hearing of 2017 in Chapter 9.1. Taken from the Zapatistas in Mexico: “Un mundo donde quepan muchos mundos”. Efforts of autonomy from the state seek certain sovereignty over their lands and lives. Miller Dussán has contributed to framing territorial sovereignty as solution. He argues for the construction of “territorial power” (power emerging from the people living in their territory) and “self-government” (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 146 see also his footnote 375, page 145). Dussán, as well as Ríos Vivos, perceive the movement as necessary for peace advances. The authors demand the inclusion of the categories “victims of development”, “victims of mega-projects”, nature as victim of the armed conflict, and multinationals as actors of the armed conflict to the national post-conflict agenda (Dussán Calderón, 2017, p. 209; Ríos Vivos, 2016, 2018). Both organisations (also OXFAM & Planeta Paz, 2017) argue that the peace advances of the national government only follow one objective, the investor’s confidence. The peace agreement is peace for the private corporations to invest without risk. It is paz corporativa (corporate peace) instead of paz territorial (peace for the territories). The conflict would now be between actors of the resistance and of the “corporative state” (Dussán Calderón, 2017, pp. 16, 209). This line of arguments is also reflected in some local accounts. Alfredo in Montea declared, “If the state is not starting to think seriously about the agricultural sector, it is not the countryside that will flourish, but the war”. In 2008, Emgesa made public that it planned to build 14 small hydropower plants and one reservoir around the Páramo Sumapaz (Andean wetland) in Cudinamarca. Because of strong resistance from the affected municipalities—especially from Cabrera—Emgesa revised its plans. It abandoned the idea of a reservoir and decreased the number of power plants to six. Even though Cabrera was no longer considered affected, the peasant reserve (one of those six common land titles in Colombia), obtained the right to have a popular consultation process. On 26 February

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2017, a total of 1,506 habitants were asked if they agree to mining and energy activities, which transform land and water use in their territory. More than 97%, 1,465 people, voted “No!”. 44. He depended on the votes from other alternative parties to be placed as their candidate, which he did not receive in the end. 45. On the one hand, professionals of Asoquimbo still drove to the affected areas to participate in meetings between Emgesa or officials and the communities (though more irregularly from mid-2017). They would for instance drive to El Hobo occasionally to respond to questions of the fisher associations there. The fisherfolk downstream still relied on Asoquimbo to understand the legal issues they were struggling with. However, the one lawyer partly employed by Asoquimbo in 2017 scarcely had the capacity to respond to and assist in private legal matters. On the other hand, Asoquimbo still relied on its links to the affected population, as it officially represents them. Accordingly, a few of the local leaders would always accompany the Asoquimbo professionals to official meetings with politicians. For instance, two fishermen joined a meeting with the National Land Agency in Bogotá in May 2017. I attended as a silent observer, while everyone else had a time slot to raise their points with the Director for the Access to Land and his assistants. However, it was Miller Dussán who did most of the talking. Already during the prior preparation meeting, he had often interrupted other interlocutors, especially the fishermen. This suggests a rather vertical (asymmetric) relationship and gives an impression of what was meant by the expression: “We are like shields for Asoquimbo”.

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CHAPTER 12

Justice—Developing a Tool for Change

After having discussed in depth what knowledge the EIA produced and subsequently what reality it created in and around the valley, this chapter will walk through each injustice emergent in data and technology. First, I will address issues associated with energy justice, with the materialisation of the infrastructural project and its compensation schemes. Second, I will look at data justice as a critical approach to engage with the EIA data, its process of becoming and of being enacted. Through the discussion of aspects related to data justice, the relevance of the concept to energy justice will become clear. Accordingly, I will argue for a combined framework that with its help can turn the EIA into a tool for justice and change.

12.1

Energy Justice

Environmental justice struggles concerning energy generation and provision around the world has prompted energy researchers to develop the energy justice framework. Most significant in this regard have been the works by Benjamin Sovacool (2016; Sovacool et al., 2017, 2021, 2023; Sovacool & Dworkin, 2014, 2015), Kirsten Jenkins (2018, 2019; Jenkins et al., 2016, 2018, 2020, 2021) and Raphael Heffron (2021, 2022; Heffron & McCauley, 2017). While these scholars have critically engaged and constantly updated their framework first developed in 2014, there © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_12

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is an agreement to analytically and conceptually consider eight to ten principles to energy justice. These are energy availability, affordability, due process, transparency and accountability, sustainability, intragenerational equity, intergenerational equity and responsibility, possibly adding resistance and intersectionality. According to a summary of these principles (Sovacool et al., 2017, p. 11), (i) availability requires people to have access to sufficient energy resources of high quality and stability; (ii) affordability entails that this access is affordable to all people, including the poor; (iii) due process demands countries (and businesses) to respect human rights in their production and use of energy; (iv) transparency and accountability ensures access to high quality information about energy and the environment and fair, transparent and accountable forms of energy decision-making; (v) sustainability requires energy resources to be depleted with consideration for savings, community development and precaution; (vi) intragenerational equity means that all people have a right to fairly access energy services; (vii) intergenerational equity that also future generations can enjoy that right and (viii) responsibility asks of all actors to take responsibility to protect the natural environment and minimise energy-related environmental threats. The authors (ibid.) suggest to further include the principles of (ix) resistance, to actively, deliberately oppose energy injustice, and (x) intersectionality, “to encapsulate new and evolving identities in modern societies, as well as acknowledging how the realization of energy justice is linked to other forms of justice for e.g. socio-economic, political and environmental”. This intersection of different forms of injustices is particularly relevant when looking at all phases of the energy system’s life cycle, from the extraction of resources to generation, consumption and waste management (Heffron & McCauley, 2017). The application of restorative justice would be essential for the application of energy justice, because, for one, it would correct harm already done and second, would force energy decision-makers acknowledging the “true cost” of disregarding energy justice principles (Heffron & McCauley, 2017, p. 661). Applying the energy justice framework as outlined above to the El Quimbo dam case, it is apparent that the “clean” energy project in central Huila has failed in many regards. In terms of distributional justice, the energy generated by the dam is not available to the populations who have carried the cost of the dam construction. Their energy supply was neither

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improved nor more affordable because of the project. As the dam opposition pointed out repeatedly, Huila pays one of the highest electricity prices in Colombia. In terms of procedural justice, the company did not follow due process in respecting own commitments made to the region, for instance improving the living conditions of the people and re-establishing productive activities. Transparency and accountability were lacking throughout. The populations felt being left in the dark regarding decisions made over their lives and the constant adjustment to the environmental licence in favour of the company’s demands diminished the meaning of “accountability”. Again, sustainability, intragenerational and intergenerational equity highlight that cost and benefits were unequally distributed. The regional impacts of the dam, most importantly the flooding of the most fertile lands, were excessive and long-lasting (affecting generations to come), especially hitting the more vulnerable population groups, those with no land, agricultural workers and fisherfolk. The company missed to act responsible in trying to minimise the environmental burden by, for example, removing all the biomass prior to filling, or by investing in the environmental compensation zone much earlier and more extensively. As a result of all these experienced injustices, the populations mobilised and resisted the dam. In terms of recognition and intersectionality, it is clear that the diverse voices, histories, aspirations and experiences of the people were not acknowledged. While being at the forefront of the resistance movement early on, these were increasingly silenced over the years with the tipping point being the reservoir filling. Considering the life cycle, the named injustices have so far concentrated on the construction and operation of the dam. These phases have been in the general focus of energy justice debates. The emphasis on earlier and later stages of an energy project has been identified as specifically relevant when analysing the energy justice of the so-called “green” technologies. Solar panels and wind turbines demand a considered amount of resources and energy for their construction, and their “recycling” is more than complex and costly. Also, a large dam requires the extraction of materials to erect the flood barrages, and its dismantling, again, is cost intensive and not straightforward. As such, the El Quimbo dam, with an expected profitable lifespan of 50 years, does not include

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the complete dismantling of the dam infrastructure but limits the decommissioning to the removal of the powerhouse/machineries (EIA, 2008, p. 85). But what about the pre-extraction phase of any infrastructural project—the environmental assessment and planning phase—the phase that potentially predetermines injustices occurring at the later stage? Heffron and McCauley (2017, p. 661) consider this phase as essential to energy justice and even highlight the EIA as a process that “has placed certain limitations on development and ensured that development that does occur is achieved with environmental protection as a core aim from the beginning of the process”. The EIA should be constantly revisited during the realisation of the project to ensure criteria are met. Despite this prominent placement of the EIA within the energy justice framework here, the popular tool of accountability has not enjoyed much attention by energy justice scholars. It seems that an important dimension is missing. I argue that this is the dimension of data justice.

12.2

Data Justice

While data justice is a recently developed framework (Taylor, 2017), the idea behind data justice is older. Important works within the anthropology of numbers and quantification have long emphasised the need for a critical assessment of numbers and indicators that influence political decisions on multiple scales (Desrosières, 1998; Espeland & Stevens, 1998; Jerven, 2015; Merry, 2016; Porter, 1995; Rose, 1991; Strathern, 2000). The new emphasis on justice helps to interrogate the multiple dimensions of data generation and use. Especially, the framework developed by conservation researchers (Pritchard et al., 2022) based on the work of Vera et al. (2019), who were the first in combining data justice with environmental justice, is promising for its application to EIA data. Pritchard and colleagues (2022, p. 4) identify five key elements to environmental (conservation) data justice: (i) Data composition—Who or what is made visible or remains hidden through data?; (ii) Data control—Who funds the collection of the data and who has the power to determine the content and use of the data?; (iii) Data access—Who has the right to access and benefit of the data, and in what form?; (iv) Data processing and use— Who uses the data, how? and (v) Data consequences—Who can make

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what choices based on the data and what impacts on people and ecosystems arise from how data are produced and the choices made based on data? Applying these elements to the El Quimbo EIA process, it appears that also on the level of data justice the project contains multiple flaws. The EIA baselines hide the complex social and economic relations in and beyond the valley, the varied production strategy within one household, informal organisation, access and share of resources and the integral relevance of land to culture, to name a few. The energy company had sole ownership over the EIA data and any updates and monitoring data needs to be requested by the authorities and is not publicly available. In terms of data use, it was visible that the company still relied on early EIA data to delegitimise claims for compensation long after the project had started operating and “unforeseen” impacts were evident. Also, politicians used the EIA to highlight the economic and environmental benefits to the region, disregarding the company’s mismanagement of resources and compensation schemes. The consequences were communities and households detached from each other, their environment and the state apparatus. In total, the data injustice resulted in energy injustice. In Part II of this book, I argued for the need to walk systematically through the multiple shortcomings inherent to the EIA system in order to identify root causes to injustices and to find exact strategies to overcome these. Chapter 6 outlined “vision problems” of the EIA experts that hindered a holistic and coherent collection of data creating injustice in data composition and accessibility. Chapter 7 turned attention towards the flaws within the systems of classification and abstraction chosen by the EIA experts. This contributed to injustice in data composition and of use, the comparisons and interpretations it allowed and what compensation mechanisms it justified. Chapter 8 then uncovered the targeted manipulation of data to serve powerful interests. It was discussed how data collection was accompanied through raising false expectations but also through intimidation. The injustice inherent to data control came to the fore. In Chapter 9, my analysis of participation and licencing process shed light on the dimension of procedural justice and with that moved to two principles of energy justice, namely due process and transparency and accountability. Finally, Chapters 10 and 11 illustrated data consequences which represented distributional injustices, like those associated with energy availability, affordability, sustainability, inter and intragenerational equity and responsibility.

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It becomes visible that the dimensions/elements/principles of energy and data justice are highly entangled and dependent upon each other. As such, I will use the next section to develop a combined framework and suggests its application in the EIA system.

12.3

Energy Data Justice---Framing the EIA a new

As most energy projects around the world, renewable or not, require an EIA to decide on the project’s execution, it is generally perceived as the main tool to prevent unnecessary stresses and burdens on the environment and society. As this book has shown, the EIA has trouble holding up to its expectations. It is therefore surprising that it has not received wider attention within environmental and energy justice scholarship so far. Based on the multiple shortcomings identified in the El Quimbo dam case, but also in the literature, I propose a combined framework bringing the dimension and principles of environmental, energy and data justice together. The result is visualised in Fig. 12.1. The proposed framework suggests three dimensions of data justice that then influences four further dimensions of energy justice. The first dimension of data justice addresses injustices in EIA data collection and composition and as such responds to the blind spots identified in Chapter 6 and the simplification discussed in Chapter 7. To avoid the god trick, it is necessary for EIA experts to abolish assumed knowledge hierarchies, to recognise different knowledge systems and their value in the EIA composition and to acknowledge the own subjectivity and bias. To prevent short-sightedness, EIA experts should adapt context-appropriate scale references and be flexible in their use and suitability. Similar flexibility is required in the assignment of tasks. To mitigate weak peripheral vision, the expert should not be limited to fixed tasks and regulations but should be guided by ethical considerations and constant reflection on own involvement and appropriateness of the data collected in representing reality. This implies collaborating with colleagues of other disciplines and to practise constant dialogue and exchange of findings and impressions, countering convergence insufficiency. Furthermore, the energy data justice approach would demand of the data collection and composition to limit processes of simplification and generalisation and to highlight multiplicity and the unknown. Instead of fragmenting living spheres into single manageable units, relationships and interdependencies are acknowledged and problematised in the assessment

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Fig. 12.1 The energy data justice framework

of risks. The choice of classification is explained and as such transparent, and diversity and context-specificity are respected. Unknown dimensions are openly discussed and not ignored. The second dimension of data justice looks at EIA data use, access and control and in this responds to issues identified in Chapter 8. In order to serve the environment and its peoples, instead of corporate interests, the EIA process should be conducted independent from the influence of the project proponent. In the first instance, company staff and decisionmakers should not express any opinion publicly or be directly involved with local populations before the environmental licence is granted. There should be an open dialogue among affected populations and EIA experts about possible scenarios and alternative development paths to hinder the enclosure of visions for the future. Next, no promises should be made regarding outcomes that are uncertain and result in false expectations. Considering intersectionality, every person needs to be treated fairly, not depending on their social or economic status. Those that will arguably

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be in higher risk of impoverishment due to the project’s realisation, i.e. smallholders or landless farmers and fisherfolk, should have priority in the consideration of needs and aspirations. Lastly, the data collected within the EIA, or through later monitoring, cannot be owned by the project proponent. It should be the procedural standard that the EIA document that has been produced by independent EIA experts is peer reviewed (as it is the case with any scientific study to be published), and subsequently submitted directly to the environmental authorities. The latter has furthermore the resources and the access to the project’s site to take data samples and to directly monitor progress and compliance with the licence. The third dimension of data justice puts attention to EIA accountability and responds to limitation in participation and the licencing process as presented in Chapter 9. First and foremost, it emphasises that any EIA process needs to be understood as the co-production of knowledge between experts and local populations. Instead of granting information to the people in single events, consultation needs to be seen as an ongoing process of collaboration and conversation. This consultation would happen in a transparent, ethical manner, on the lands to be affected and in the language of those affected. The environmental licencing process would equally build on such co-production in constant monitoring and following up of commitments. In total, the EIA process would apply relational science, not traditional science (see Chapter 5.1). The rigorous implementation of the former elements should work towards and guarantee the four dimensions of energy justice. The project should be generally characterised by a fair distribution of costs and benefits. In other words, the project should not only directly benefit the people who carry the burden of the environmental change, but also should answer to the needs of the region. This implies considering if this form of energy generation is actually needed in that particular place at that time (or in the foreseeable future). Overall, the project would have the aim to make electricity more accessible and affordable for those in need. Next, the resources needed for the energy technology chosen would be used and managed in a sustainable and reasonable manner, preventing depletion, biodiversity loss and greenhouse gas emissions. Lastly, the project would seek intragenerational, intergenerational and multispecies equity, respecting not only human needs but also the needs of other species. Recognising the above, the EIA must be explicitly political. It must not restrain itself to superficial recommendation that may or may not

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be applied but must clearly state why a certain preventive or mitigating mechanism is required and what would happen if not applied. It must be further open to the option of the project not being viable or necessary. In the cases reviewed in this book, the tendency seems to be that EIA experts try to render feasible the project they are contracted for against all odds. If mining is proposed in a páramo (protected mountain wetland system), this is unviable from the outset. But one could conduct studies of the targeted area to see if it actually counts as páramo, or if the project cannot be adopted in size, etc., to avoid the legal restrictions. It is visible that EIA experts have the power to adapt scales, frames and criteria to make space for the project asked for by their clients. Accordingly, they have also the power to limit this accommodation of corporate demands and can straight out say, this is a protected, fragile mountain wetland system providing not only essential habitat to endangered species but also fresh water to settlements and cities downstream. Any mining activity, directly or at the edge of the system would risk freshwater contamination and ecosystem depletion much beyond the mountain top.1 Such an assessment would be much harder to wave through the licencing process, especially if the EIA data is openly available. Accordingly, the key question for the EIA to address should not be, “how can this be done responsible/with the least negative effect”? but “should this be done at all?” (Smith, 2017). Or as Skewes and colleagues (2011, p. 55) express it, what would be the most appropriate way in generating electricity in this area, if necessary?; “how would the volcanoes, rivers, lakes, and humans [in that area] generate power? Such are not technical questions. They are socio-environmental questions” (Skewes et al., 2011, p. 55). If the project is deemed necessary and appropriate, the project execution would be guided by prevention, as outlined in the EIA, not by reacting to an impact once it occurred. Of course, EIA data will never be flawless, therefore consistent updating of the information available is essential, and non-negotiable. Regular compliance reports that are coproduced by the affected population and independent experts can take up an important monitoring function. Applying the energy justice framework, the El Quimbo dam would have never taken shape as it did, primarily, because it did not respond to local electricity demands. Furthermore, it would have been acknowledged, as the Constitutional Court had foregrounded in 2013, that the general interest brought by infrastructure works cannot prevail over

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the fundamental rights of people. The EIA would have shown that the number of hectares flooded, the agricultural lands destroyed and the unemployment caused would not justify the electricity produced for the profit of a transnational firm. And it would have established that the local populations could indeed need an improvement in infrastructure provision but not in form of a large dam that fragments and detaches the region, but instead materialises in smaller investments that stabilise the local power grid, for instance with community-owned small run-off hydropower schemes, that would finance water treatment as well as road and bridge maintenance. Now that the dam has been built, Emgesa could re-establish lost connectivity and well-being by realising what it had promised during several compensation negotiations, like the western ring road or an affordable water treatment. The participation of the local population and local administrations in the planning and elaboration of such projects is essential to their successful implementation. Working closely with the community councils (rural decision-making bodies) could “democratise infrastructure”. Instead of involving single households or family members as separate units in compensation “negotiations”, communities could consult and discuss with each other what would be beneficial for all its members. This would increase the trust in state institutions and tighten state–citizen relations. Local populations would build their citizenship by actively engaging in finding sustainable futures for themselves and their environment. ∗ ∗ ∗ Throughout this chapter, I have presented two different justice approaches, energy and data justice, and applied their existent frameworks to the El Quimbo dam case. Based on apparent entanglements between the elements in the studied case, I developed a combined framework that recognises the relevance of EIA data in the achievement of energy justice. The suggested energy data justice framework is based on the preceding analysis of the El Quimbo EIA process and the reality created as a result of the project, Chapters 6 to 11, and contains three dimensions associated with data justice and four dimensions of energy justice. Future research and policymaking can draw upon the proposed framework to not merely improve aspects of the EIA process but to transform it into a tool for justice and change, a tool that is political, moral and sustainable.

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Notes 1. I relate here to the case of the Santurban Páramo in Santander, where the Canadian mining corporation Eco-Oro (formerly Greystar) has proposed and advocated for an open gold mining pit since 2010. The ecosystem feeds five rivers, one providing fresh water to the tenth biggest city of Colombia, Bucaramanga. Thanks to widespread resistance of the Bucaramangan population, the project has not been moving forward.

References Desrosières, A. (1998). The politics of large numbers: A history of statistical reasoning. Harvard University Press. EIA. (2008). Estudio de Impacto Ambiental del Proyecto Hidroeléctrico el Quimbo—Emgesa S.A. Ingetec-S.A., Emgesa-S.A. Espeland, W. N., & Stevens, M. L. (1998). Commensuration as a social process. Annual Review of Sociology, 24(1), 313–343. https://doi.org/10.1146/ann urev.soc.24.1.313 Heffron, R. J. (2021). The challenge for energy justice: Correcting human rights abuses. Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-80097-0 Heffron, R. J. (2022). Applying energy justice into the energy transition. Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews, 156, 111936. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/J.RSER.2021.111936 Heffron, R. J., & McCauley, D. (2017). The concept of energy justice across the disciplines. Energy Policy, 105(April), 658–667. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. enpol.2017.03.018 Jenkins, K. (2018). Setting energy justice apart from the crowd: Lessons from environmental and climate justice. Energy Research & Social Science, 39, 117– 121. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.ERSS.2017.11.015 Jenkins, K. (2019). Energy justice, energy democracy, and sustainability: Normative approaches to the consumer ownership of renewables. Energy Transition: Financing Consumer Co-Ownership in Renewables, 79–97. https://doi.org/ 10.1007/978-3-319-93518-8_4/TABLES/1 Jenkins, K., McCauley, D., Heffron, R., Stephan, H., & Rehner, R. (2016). Energy justice: A conceptual review. Energy Research & Social Science, 11, 174–182. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.ERSS.2015.10.004 Jenkins, K., Sovacool, B. K., & McCauley, D. (2018). Humanizing sociotechnical transitions through energy justice: An ethical framework for global transformative change. Energy Policy, 117 , 66–74. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.ENPOL. 2018.02.036

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Jenkins, K., Sovacool, B. K., Mouter, N., Hacking, N., Burns, M. K., & McCauley, D. (2021). The methodologies, geographies, and technologies of energy justice: A systematic and comprehensive review. Environmental Research Letters, 16(4), 043009. https://doi.org/10.1088/17489326/ABD78C Jenkins, K., Stephens, J. C., Reames, T. G., & Hernández, D. (2020). Towards impactful energy justice research: Transforming the power of academic engagement. Energy Research & Social Science, 67 , 101510. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/J.ERSS.2020.101510 Jerven, M. (2015). Africa: Why economists get it wrong. Bloomsbury Publishing. https://scholar.google.com/citations?view_op=view_citation&hl=en&user= 2UGHQ7AAAAAJ&citation_for_view=2UGHQ7AAAAAJ:NaGl4SEjCO4C Merry, S. E. (2016). The seductions of quantification: Measuring human rights, gender violence, and sex trafficking. The University of Chicago Pre. Porter, T. M. (1995). Trust in numbers: The pursuit of objectivity in science and public life. Harvard University Press. Pritchard, R., Sauls, L. A., Oldekop, J. A., Kiwango, W. A., & Brockington, D. (2022). Data justice and biodiversity conservation. Conservation Biology, 36(5). https://doi.org/10.1111/COBI.13919 Rose, N. (1991). Governing by numbers: Figuring out democracy. Accounting, Organizations and Society, 16(7), 673–692. Skewes, J. C., Guerra, D., Rojas, P., & Mellado, M. A. (2011). ¿La memoria de los paisajes o los paisajes de la memoria? Los enigmas de la sustentabilidad socioambiental en las geografías en disputa. Desenvolvimento e Meio Ambiente, 23, 39–57. Smith, J. M. (2017). Extracting Accountability: Engineers and Corporate Social Responsibility. MIT Press. http://direct.mit.edu/books/book-pdf/208 8031/book_9780262366151.pdf Sovacool, B. K. (2016). The Political Ecology and Justice of Energy. The Palgrave Handbook of the International Political Economy of Energy, 529–558. https:// doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-55631-8_22 Sovacool, B. K., Bell, S. E., Daggett, C., Labuski, C., Lennon, M., Naylor, L., Klinger, J., Leonard, K., & Firestone, J. (2023). Pluralizing energy justice: Incorporating feminist, anti-racist, Indigenous, and postcolonial perspectives. Energy Research & Social Science, 97 , 102996. https://doi.org/10.1016/J. ERSS.2023.102996 Sovacool, B. K., Burke, M., Baker, L., Kotikalapudi, C. K., & Wlokas, H. (2017). New frontiers and conceptual frameworks for energy justice. Energy Policy, 105(March), 677–691. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2017.03.005 Sovacool, B. K., & Dworkin, M. H. (2014). Global energy justice: Problems, principles, and practices. Problems, Principles, and Practices. Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781107323605

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Sovacool, B. K., & Dworkin, M. H. (2015). Energy justice: Conceptual insights and practical applications. Applied Energy, 142, 435–444. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/J.APENERGY.2015.01.002 Sovacool, B. K., Hess, D. J., & Cantoni, R. (2021). Energy transitions from the cradle to the grave: A meta-theoretical framework integrating responsible innovation, social practices, and energy justice. Energy Research & Social Science, 75, 102027. https://doi.org/10.1016/J.ERSS.2021.102027 Strathern, M. (2000). Audit cultures: Anthropological studies in accountability, ethics, and the academy. Routledge. https://www.routledge.com/Audit-Cul tures-Anthropological-Studies-in-Accountability-Ethics-and-the/Strathern/ p/book/9780415233279 Taylor, L. (2017). What is data justice? The case for connecting digital rights and freedoms globally. Big Data and Society, 4(2). https://doi.org/10. 1177/2053951717736335/ASSET/IMAGES/LARGE/10.1177_2053951 717736335-FIG2.JPEG Vera, L. A., Walker, D., Murphy, M., Mansfield, B., Siad, L. M., & Ogden, J. (2019). When data justice and environmental justice meet: Formulating a response to extractive logic through environmental data justice. Information, Communication and Society, 22(7), 1012. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 1369118X.2019.1596293

CHAPTER 13

Conclusion

“Unfortunately, we cannot turn back time”, said the Minister for Environment and Sustainable Development, Susana Muhamad, at the start of her speech during the debate on the political control of the hydroelectric project El Quimbo in the House of Representative, fifth commission, on 12 April 2023.1 The impacts of “the complete refiguration of a territory, of its landscapes, its ecosystems, its form of life” would not have been valued by the responsible administrations “in the analysis to define a project of such dimension”. The Minister emphasises the need for environmental justice in decision-making and refers to the Escazú Agreement (“Regional Agreement on Access to Information, Public Participation and Access to Justice in Environmental Matters in Latin America and the Caribbean”) which was signed by Colombia and other Latin American countries in December 2019 in Escazú, Costa Rica. The newly elected president, Gustavo Petro, approved the corresponding national “Law of Escazú” in November 2022. It guarantees environmental information being available to all citizens and establishes criteria for the protection of environmental defenders in the country.2 The Environmental Minister sees the Escazú Agreement as fundamental to solve the “dilemmas” that present themselves today between the energy transition and territorial development. She emphasises the need to closely look at the system of environmental monitoring in the country, and to “start acting as a system”; it would not only be the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0_13

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instrument of the environmental licence that is of relevance as it is neither an instrument of planning nor of environmental justice. It is based on a process of planification and can only go as far as the preceding integral planning went. This would be not a technical problem, “it’s a problem of political comprehension of what is happening in the territories”. What would be needed, would be a “national environmental system” that acts in accordance and would generate a public environmental impact evaluation of a project in “the most critical parameters”, for example in terms of water quality requirements. This would be accompanied by a public and collective environmental monitoring system independent of the company and within the frame of the Escazú Agreement. Additionally, the Minister refers to the need to include Strategic Environmental Assessments to the environmental monitoring to understand the complete dynamic of a region. SEAs have been of increased importance within environmental decision-making worldwide and are, in difference to the EIA, not angled around a specific project application but seek to take account of the socialenvironmental characteristics of a region in a more systematic and holistic manner. As such, Lee and Walsh (1992), point out SEAs would complement but cannot substitute a project-specific EIA. Their added value would lie in the earlier and wider engagement (in temporal and spatial terms) with a region, as the pressures associated with a project time frame are missing. The SEA would offer scope for a variety of development pathways and for a more systematic consideration of cumulative impacts. It could highlight the impacts of many smaller scale projects that on their own might not cause considerable environmental change. Finally, an existent SEA would make the carrying out of any EIA in the region more efficient as experts can rely on the data generated in the SEA and can concentrate on the specific project-related data collection (Lee & Walsh, 1992). Accordingly, Gallego Dávila and colleagues (2019) analyse the potential of SEAs in integrating environmental considerations into the Territorially Focused Development Programs of Colombia’s post-conflict municipalities. They argue that the application of SEAs could set the scene for the kind of development that would be adequate for a region and what would not. It could stop large development projects, like a hydroelectric dam, even before the planning stage is initiated, if deemed a technology unsustainable for that part of the country. Lima Andrade and Dos Santos (2015) argue similarly in the case of hydroelectricity development in

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Brazil. A coherent system of SEA application could identify ecologically or culturally sensitive river basins that are worthwhile sparing from dam building. Also, a multistakeholder approach could offer alternative development pathways to hydropower in the region. I agree with the potential of the SEA as an early planning tool but see the risk of similar shortcomings and injustices to the EIA emerging. As the case with an EIA, the SEA would take a snapshot of the region that, considering its extent of spatial scale (covering potentially quite different ecosystems and peoples), might be a rather superficial representation. And as future EIAs will rely on the SEA data, the limitation and injustices are in risk of being reproduced instead of solved. Lobos and Partidario (2014) reviewed 100 SEA cases conducted around the world between 2007 and 2012 and found that practice often lacked behind theory. Their analysis indicates that the studied SEA applications follow “a largely technocratic interpretation of environmental assessment” that does not “move away from the comfort zone established by EIA” (Lobos & Partidario, 2014, p. 43). Also Margato and Sánchez (2014) found in the context of Brazil that even if SEAs were applied (as not legally required) and reached a “relatively high level of technical quality and procedural effectiveness”, they had “low substantive effectiveness” on decision-making. Walking through the EIA process of the hydroelectric dam project El Quimbo in the South of Colombia, I revealed several shortcomings— blind spots, simplification, and serving power—that emerged within the planning process (Chapters 6–8). Instead of acting as a tool of accountability and knowledge generation (see Chapter 5), the EIA acted as a tool of knowledge appropriation and as such contributed to data injustice. However, considering the wider politics surrounding the project’s implementation posed the question if the EIA process could ever have prevented or changed a project that had already been approved by national politics (Chapter 9). Arguing that it indeed holds power in providing decision-makers with grounds for legitimising a contested development, I continued in showing how the EIA shaped the project’s materialisation, and how injustices were translated into the local realities (Chapter 10) and spurred resistance and conflict (Chapter 11). Following the question of how the power of EIAs could alternatively be used, I put my findings in conversation with the scholarship of energy justice and environmental data justice and proposed a new framework that integrates consideration of justice within the sphere of environmental assessments into the energy justice framework (Chapter 12). The seven

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elements of the “Energy Data Justice” framework cover three dimensions of the EIA process, namely “Data collection and composition”, “Data Use, Access and Control”, and “EIA accountability”. The first dimension addresses shortcomings associated with the identified blind spots and simplification, the second dimension responds to issues of serving power, and the third dimension targets problems of participation and the licencing process. All three dimensions should work towards energy justice which is represented with four additional dimensions: fair distribution of costs and benefits, accessible and affordable electricity for all, sustainable use of resources, intragenerational, intergenerational and multispecies equity. In total, I propose treating the EIA process as an explicit political tool in the service of social-environmental well-being and justice. This would imply what the Environmental Minister indicated above that the EIA would not be in corporate but in public hands. Of course, this would require an immense restructuring of administrational resources to build the capabilities within the public sector and to cover the demands of such a process. The registered need for such change on the level of the national government is however an essential starting point and the energy data justice framework can provide guidelines for the first steps to take in the process of implementing justice in the EIA system and in working towards a just energy transition in Colombia and worldwide.

13.1

The Peasant Reserve

La Honda in Huila, South of Colombia, on 13 September 2022 Paz territorial (Peace for the land) Let’s imagine an alternative reality in which the resistance was successful, and El Quimbo dam never built. It is exactly ten years after my first visit to the valley of El Quimbo. This time, the entry to La Honda is not guarded. Instead, upon approaching the farming compound, I pass a big sign placed on the side of the road welcoming the travellers into the valley and the agro-food peasant reserve established in 2012. The lush forest is still bordering the sandy beaches of the river and, looking closely, I can see the colourful cacao fruits hanging from the trunks. On my walk to the farmhouse, in which I stayed ten years earlier, a dog runs through its gates barking at me. My arrival is announced. Doña

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Rosa steps out onto the porch and greets me. She and her partner Don Jaime now own the house that back then belonged to a large landholder that lived in the city. The adjutant lands, the majority of cacao cultivation, form now part of the peasant reserve. In cooperation with campesinos and cacaoteros in the valley, the regional environmental authority CAM and the local administrations developed an agroecological scheme to increase the local production of cacao (substituting older plants with new ones) and crops of subsistence, while providing habitat for a diversity of species home to tropical dry forests. The local fisherfolk association has teamed up with fisher associations downstream at Betania reservoir and scientists at the South-Colombian University to better understand fish migration and reproduction patterns in the upper stream to avoid overfishing and to ensure a healthy riverine ecosystem, while making a livelihood. Local civil society organisation supported the local initiatives in promoting them to the wider public, making the reserve an attraction for culinary and eco-tourists. The new revenue streams together with public funding allowed for the improvement of the irrigation system and the upgrading of water treatment plants. Sitting on the porch, listening to the stories of Doña Rosa and Don Jaime and their parrots’ call for food in the mango tree, I try to imagine this land being submerged in water—large quantities of water with no sunlight reaching these grounds. I shake my head to get rid of this frightening thought and to focus again on the stories shared with me—stories of a content and peaceful life on the land.

Notes 1. Debate accessible at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpMGyCEciyE (accessed 15/06/2023). 2. See press release of the law approval ceremony at https://www.cancilleria. gov.co/newsroom/news/presidente-gustavo-petro-sanciona-ley-apruebaacuerdo-escazu (accessed 15/06/2023).

References Gallego Dávila, J., Azcárate, J., & Kørnøv, L. (2019). Strategic environmental assessment for development programs and sustainability transition in the

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Colombian post-conflict context. Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 74, 35–42. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.eiar.2018.10.002 Lee, N., & Walsh, & F. (1992). Strategic environmental assessment: An overview. Project Appraisal, 7 (3), 126–136. https://doi.org/10.1080/026 88867.1992.9726853 De Lima Andrade, A., & Dos Santos, M. A. (2015). Hydroelectric plants environmental viability: Strategic environmental assessment application in Brazil. Renewable and Sustainable Energy Reviews, 52, 1413–1423. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/j.rser.2015.07.152 Lobos, V., & Partidario, M. (2014). Theory versus practice in Strategic Environmental Assessment (SEA). Environmental Impact Assessment Review, 48, 34–46. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.eiar.2014.04.004 Margato, V., & Sánchez, L. E. (2014). Quality and outcomes: A critical review of strategic environmental assessment in Brazil. Journal of Environmental Assessment Policy and Management, 16(2). https://doi.org/10.1142/S14643332 14500112

Index

A Accountability, 8, 23, 58, 62, 112, 120, 145, 178, 229, 252, 268–271, 274, 283

Classification, 62, 63, 102, 103, 105, 107, 113, 114, 149, 178, 271, 273

B Baseline studies, vi, 60, 179 Betania dam, 9, 25, 28, 29, 41, 91, 128, 172, 217 Bias, 60, 77, 79, 106, 113, 138, 272 Biomass, 75, 76, 200, 241, 242, 269

Commitments, 23, 125, 126, 129, 149–151, 158–160, 163, 164, 183, 241–243, 245, 269, 274

C Cacao, vii, 47, 50, 52, 99–101, 103–108, 112, 114, 211, 284, 285 Campesinos , 40, 47, 100, 103, 165, 230–234, 285 Census, vi, viii, 21, 45, 74, 79–83, 88, 89, 91, 103, 104, 106, 107, 109, 129, 132, 148, 154, 232, 234, 237, 239, 253 Church, 48, 153, 243, 244, 251

Commensuration, 102, 107, 110, 112, 113

Commodification, 203 Community council, 148, 213, 214, 276 Compensation, vii, 5, 21, 25, 47–49, 53, 59, 74–76, 79, 83, 84, 91, 98, 104, 105, 112–114, 126, 129–133, 135, 139, 146, 147, 152, 154, 156, 160–163, 171, 172, 179, 201–204, 206, 208–210, 212, 215–218, 225, 234, 237–239, 244, 249, 251, 267, 269, 271, 276 Competitiveness, 174, 175, 177 Constitutional court, 81, 158, 171, 237, 242, 275

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Helmcke, Engineering Reality, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-40643-0

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INDEX

Contamination, 41, 75, 121, 163, 208, 275 Contingency, 122, 126, 158, 161, 163 Co-production, 274 Cumulative impact, 84, 85, 122, 137, 282 D Data justice, 6, 7, 9, 62, 179, 252, 267, 270–274, 276, 283, 284 Detachment, 197, 199, 204, 206, 215–217 Development, 4–6, 17–19, 21–23, 25, 27, 30, 58, 59, 81–83, 110, 122, 124–128, 130, 133, 134, 138, 151, 153, 154, 160, 163, 166, 168, 171–177, 198, 199, 204, 206, 208, 214, 216, 229–231, 236–238, 244–248, 268, 270, 273, 281–283 Diagnostic of alternatives, 123, 150, 160 E Electricity, 3, 11, 12, 17, 29, 184, 198, 206, 269, 274–276, 284 Enclosure, 62, 120, 122, 123, 126, 138, 176, 203, 207, 213, 215, 232, 240, 273 Energy justice, 6, 23, 206, 267–272, 274–276, 283, 284 Environmental flow, 111 Environmental justice, 6, 7, 22, 33, 227, 228, 231, 244, 247, 267, 270, 281, 282 Environmental licence, vii, 4, 7, 12, 27, 29, 41, 49, 58, 59, 61, 80, 124, 126, 129, 130, 145, 147–154, 156, 158–162, 164, 168, 181, 182, 200–202, 205,

209, 215, 217, 234, 241, 242, 244, 269, 273, 282 Environmental monitoring, 4, 5, 24, 151, 158, 162, 183, 281, 282 Eviction, viii, 3, 27, 124, 139, 169, 170, 235, 249 Expertise, 63, 77, 86, 87, 160, 162, 164 Extractive, 22, 66, 130, 170, 230, 248 F Farmers’ cooperatives, 47, 103, 104, 231 Fisherfolk, v–viii, 41, 47, 74–77, 80, 85, 90, 106, 111, 113, 115, 128, 131, 156, 182, 212, 214, 230, 232–234, 239, 249, 250, 257, 269, 274, 285 G Green, v, 22, 42, 50, 179, 203, 269 Guerrilla, 6, 26, 32, 41, 155, 165, 170, 172, 183, 184, 252 H Hydroelectricity, 6, 18, 22, 156, 171, 174, 249, 255, 282 I Infrastructure, 7–9, 25, 26, 59, 82, 83, 102, 121, 122, 125, 133, 137, 168, 169, 174, 176, 197–199, 203–206, 214, 216, 233, 237, 270, 275, 276 Ingetec, 29, 59, 60, 63, 77, 80, 89, 90, 133, 136, 139, 148, 160 Investors’ confidence, 123, 171–173, 175 Ituango dam, 6, 25, 27, 41

INDEX

J Just transition, 284 K Knowledge, 4–6, 52, 57, 61, 63–65, 76, 105, 106, 112, 119, 120, 122, 130–132, 138, 146, 152, 153, 178, 184, 197–199, 217, 225, 227–229, 231, 239, 252, 267, 272, 274, 283 L Livelihood, vii, viii, 21, 23, 48, 80, 99, 105–107, 113, 208, 212, 233, 234, 239, 246, 251, 285 M Marginalisation, 21, 197, 215 Mining, 4, 11, 26, 59, 66, 85, 99, 110, 112, 120–122, 127, 129, 133, 158, 170, 176, 216, 230, 233, 240, 247, 248, 254, 257, 275, 277 Mining-energy locomotive, 148 Minister of Environment, 4, 83, 151 Mitigation, 5, 23, 32, 58–60, 62, 66, 81, 90, 91, 98, 112, 121, 122, 146, 147, 150, 160, 163, 177, 204, 215, 236 N National Agency for Environmental Licencing (ANLA), 27, 32, 59, 66, 85, 124, 137, 138, 154–164, 182, 183, 200–202, 234, 237, 241, 242, 244, 245, 249 National (common) interest, 5, 125, 172, 239 Negotiation, vii, viii, 5, 23, 49, 58, 109, 124, 130–132, 150, 172,

289

205, 206, 209, 225, 232, 234, 236, 251, 276 Neiva, viii, 25, 28, 40, 48–50, 81, 87, 91, 92, 114, 150, 158, 160, 179, 204, 225, 226, 228–230, 232, 233, 235, 237, 240, 250, 251, 253 Numbers, 20, 47, 75, 78, 80, 103, 153, 250, 270

O Objective, 31, 64, 78, 86, 89, 124, 130, 136, 170, 173, 176, 177, 198, 227, 230, 244, 250, 251, 256 Offsetting, 120, 203

P Paramilitary, 11, 26, 27, 40, 41 Participation, 4, 5, 8, 21, 23, 62, 66, 81, 89, 133, 138, 145–147, 149–153, 157, 159, 160, 162, 168, 175, 177, 182, 183, 212, 216, 225, 271, 274, 276, 281, 284 Peace, 6, 11, 23, 32, 42, 154, 230, 239, 240, 255, 256 Police riot control (ESMAD), 169, 234, 235 Power, 3, 4, 6–8, 12, 17, 18, 20, 24, 25, 28, 29, 33, 57, 60, 66, 83, 109, 112–114, 119, 120, 125, 126, 136, 138, 146, 151, 157, 159, 167, 172, 175, 178, 197, 198, 206, 216, 225–227, 231, 235, 238, 240, 246, 248, 252, 254, 256, 270, 275, 276, 283, 284 Productive activity, 80, 160, 162, 172, 207, 212, 233

290

INDEX

Public hearing, 41, 81, 132, 146–150, 152, 153, 157–159, 161, 165, 212, 216, 234, 244, 245, 249

R Reforestation, 201, 202 Renewable energy, 3, 89, 133 Reservoir, vii, 4, 8, 21, 22, 28, 31–33, 43, 45, 46, 48, 49, 52, 75, 76, 83, 84, 88, 111, 112, 122, 125–129, 150, 158, 170, 179, 200, 201, 204–206, 217, 232, 245, 249, 256, 269, 285 Resettlement, 21, 45, 47, 48, 84, 88, 127, 130, 148, 161, 201, 208–211, 213–215, 243, 249 Resistance, vi, vii, 22, 25, 30, 31, 39, 41, 50, 61, 152, 153, 156–158, 171, 209, 216, 217, 226, 231–238, 245, 246, 249–251, 253, 255, 256, 268, 269, 277, 283, 284

S Santos, Juan Manuel, 30, 124, 176 Scale (politics of), 109, 110, 113, 250 Science, 62–64, 73, 74, 102, 119, 136, 138, 213, 225, 227–229, 274 Security, 23, 41, 124, 133, 166, 168–171, 173, 176, 200, 204, 230, 242 Single purpose, 28, 128, 150, 212 State (capitalist), 167, 175, 198, 213, 216

Strategic Environmental Assessment, 282 Survey, 80, 82, 179 Symbol, 19, 48, 198, 206, 214, 216 T Technical, 8, 17, 25, 59, 60, 62, 76, 82, 86, 88, 106, 112, 113, 120, 122–124, 133, 137, 147, 152, 153, 156, 178, 228, 229, 275, 282, 283 Territory (defence of), 233, 239, 240, 243, 246, 247, 251 Tourism, 48, 128, 129 Tree cemetery, 200, 201 Tropical dry forests, v, 6, 50, 77, 98, 99, 101, 112, 181, 199, 228, 285 U University, vi, viii, ix, 49, 50, 179, 202, 226–229, 231, 232, 235, 240, 241, 248, 250, 285 Uribe, Álvaro, 123, 124, 160, 172 V Values, 4, 21, 23, 61, 62, 78, 91, 101, 105, 107, 152, 175, 203, 204, 229, 231, 238, 242 Venezuela, 170, 242 W Weak state, 4, 125, 165, 166, 168, 177