Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in Sub-Saharan Africa [1 ed.] 9781443878616, 9781443886512

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Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in SubSaharan Africa

Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in SubSaharan Africa Edited by

Wilson Akpan and Philani Moyo

Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in SubSaharan Africa The manuscript was double-blind reviewed through a process overseen by the publisher. Edited by Wilson Akpan and Philani Moyo This book first published 2017 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2017 by Wilson Akpan, Philani Moyo and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-8651-3 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-8651-2

CONTENTS

Preface ....................................................................................................... vii Acknowledgments ...................................................................................... xi Abbreviations ........................................................................................... xiii Chapter One ................................................................................................. 1 Science, Ethnoscience and a Dam: (Mis)Reading the Potential Impacts of the Ntabelanga Dam, South Africa Wilson Akpan, Johan Van Tol, Melissa Malambile and Ntombesizwe Nqalo Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 25 Corporations, Communities and Impact: The Case of Coal Freek Cronje and David Van Wyk Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 57 South Africa: Control of Biodiversity in the Context of Biopiracy Babalwa Sishuta and Anastasia Doyle Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 75 Vulnerability-Assets Nexus in Climate Change Adaptation: Reflections from South Africa and Zimbabwe Philani Moyo Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 93 Meteorological and Indigenous Climate Change Information Access and Usage for Adaptation in Matobo District, Zimbabwe Thulani Dube and Philani Moyo Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 103 When “Adequate” Counts for Nothing: Compensation and Collective Memory in a Postcolonial Mining Context Ikechukwu Umejesi and Wilson Akpan

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Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 121 Contending “Securities” in Nigeria’s “Globalised” Niger Delta: The Complex Intersections and Dimensions of the Oil Nexus Cyril Obi Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 137 Climate Change and the Oil Industry in Nigeria: Policy and Action Imperatives for Sustainability Engobo Emeseh Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 157 Titanium Mining, Graves, and Spirits in Kenya’s Coastal Province: Revisiting the Compensation Problem Willice Abuya and Wilson Akpan Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 181 Kenya: A Socio-Historical Analysis of the Role of Policy in Mining Conflict Mitigation Willice Abuya Contributors ............................................................................................. 203 Index ........................................................................................................ 211

PREFACE

In the last few years, the Environment and Natural Resources Working Group of the South African Sociological Association (SASA) has assembled African and international scholars and researchers, both established and emerging, to debate and offer insights into some of the continent’s most pressing social-ecological questions. Convened by Wilson Akpan under the aegis of SASA and happening within the association’s annual congresses, the dialogues have taken place against the backdrop of a new resource rush that has eventuated in the raiding and reraiding of the continent’s traditional extractive enclaves and pried open hitherto “unspoilt” treasure troves to some of the same exploitative forces (local and foreign) that have historically made resource development in Africa a study in paradoxes. At the 2014 SASA Congress in the beautiful coastal city of Port Elizabeth, a small group of environmental sociologists discussed the need to explore ways of bringing the SASA environmental and natural resource debates to a much wider, global audience—at the very least, to ensure that not only scholars but also policy makers, younger researchers and the environmental/development practitioner community had easy access to some of the key issues in the dialogue. Those discussions laid the foundation for this book. Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in SubSaharan Africa brings together the results of original, mostly field-based, case studies conducted by the authors in Southern Africa, West Africa and East Africa. The few chapters that are desk-based draw on the authors’ many years of carrying out original research on the respective topics; hence, the analyses and commentaries in those chapters bring equally refreshing angles to the issues in question. The case study countries— South Africa, Zimbabwe, Nigeria and Kenya—are among the continent’s notable mining countries (with the exception of Kenya, which may be termed an “emerging” mining economy). But, as the title suggests, the book is not only about mining and its antinomies within the context of Africa’s socio-economic rejuvenation. From the very beginning, the Editors’ idea had been to revisit cross-cutting questions of development, underdevelopment and anti-development, with a focus on how these intersect with “green”, “brown” and climate-related

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issues. Some of the questions that have occupied the minds of scholars through the years—about compensation, local participation, benefit- and burden-sharing, and dispossession, for instance—have been re-posed in the ten chapters of this volume and re-engaged from the vantage point of new (mostly empirical) evidence and new epistemic insights. The intellectual journey starts from South Africa. In Chapter One, Wilson Akpan, Johan van Tol, Melissa Malambile and Ntombesizwe Nqalo interrogate space-place sensitivities, public engagement antinomies, and lurking community-state conflict in some of the rural Eastern Cape communities where the government has proposed to build a major dam (the Ntabelanga dam) as a strategy to “stimulate development” in the area. Essentially the chapter reveals how the government and its consultants appear, in the preparatory stages of the dam development, to have misread both the communities’ “need” for development and the ethno-ecological dimensions of community existence. Freek Cronje (now late) and David van Wyk dissect, in Chapter Two, the multifarious social-ecological impacts of coal mining in selected communities in the province of Mpumalanga, and bring to light the fact that despite the huge economic importance of mining in South Africa, some of the mining-related environmental and public health issues in mining communities border on the tragic. In certain cases, the chapter reveals, these have been entrenched through “clever” stratagems perfected by mining corporations over many decades. The paradoxes not only call for a review of the institutional framework for mining operations (especially with regard to corporate-community relations) in the country; but, more fundamentally, they raise new questions about the corporatecommunity-environment nexus in a mining context. In Chapter Three, Babalwa Sishuta and Anastasia Doyle bring to light a new form of capitalist ecological brigandage in South Africa’s rural communities. Focusing on the multibillion dollar medicinal plant industry, the paper provides a compelling analysis and sociological exegesis of the processes through which communities in Nkonkobe (now Raymond Nhlaba) municipality in the Eastern Cape Province have lost control of a significant part of their ecological heritage (denoted by pelargonium sidoides and other indigenous flora). The concept of bio-piracy is deployed in the chapter to illustrate the intersection of ecological dispossession, economic appropriation (by big industry) and community impoverishment. Two additional case studies, both focused on climate change, complete the Southern Africa sample. In Chapter Four, Philani Moyo examines the array of “assets” at the disposal of Zimbabwean and South African small-

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scale farmers in adapting to climate change. A ‘bottom-up’ analysis guides the chapter’s examination of observed adaptation strategies adopted at the household level with the intention to establish asset “drivers”, their effectiveness and capacity to build local resilience to climate change. The core argument advanced is that environmental risk and natural hazardprone South African and Zimbabwe subsistence farmers are not passive victims of climate impacts. Instead, they are ‘active agents’ using ex ante and ex post adaptation strategies constructed using an array of endogenous ‘assets’ at their disposal. As evidence that the “assets” basket is not static, Chapter Five, by Thulani Dube and Philani Moyo, brings into the equation a crucial variable: access to climate information. They investigate the extent to which Zimbabwean subsistence farmers have access to climate change information and how well this information addresses their adaptation needs. The analysis reveals that subsistence farmers’ access and use of meteorological climate change information is limited by the fact that many do not have television and radio sets, the two crucial media through which official meteorological information is disseminated, while others cannot comprehensively decipher the information due to its technical complexity. In its place, these farmers are utilising indigenous knowledge-based forecasting techniques. This reliance on indigenous knowledge in climate change forecasting highlights the need to rethink how this rich repertoire of knowledge is perceived and used in climate change information dissemination and adaptation. Three Nigerian case studies are featured in the book and they focus on substantive and ideational clashes that have become emblematic of “solid minerals” and petroleum development as well as the management of environmental change impacts in the country. The first of these cases (Chapter Six) is on the popular, yet intricate, discourse on compensational justice. Using compelling archival, ethnographic and interview data, Ikechukwu Umejesi and Wilson Akpan engage two South-eastern Nigerian mining towns that are somewhat ecologically different, yet appear to live in a state of painful reminiscences. It is a study of how collective memory of colonial-era relations between mining corporations and local communities, especially on land matters, shape contemporary attitudes towards corporate-community financial exchanges. The analysis yields interesting lessons in how and when not to use financial settlements as a tool of ecological redress. In Chapter Seven, Cyril Obi brings crucial nuances to the concepts of security, insecurity and peace-building, especially when these terms are applied to one of Africa’s most traumatised resource-rich ecologies. The chapter argues that the granting of amnesty to Niger Delta militants and oil

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‘warlords’, a programme the Nigerian government touted at inception in 2009 as a political masterstroke, has broadly not been a success, but has merely only revealed the state’s parochial view of security. A grossly underdeveloped and rural oil province caught in the maze of a global petro-industrial complex is bound to face not simply a “security” problem, as the state often portrays it, but would be stuck in a morass of contending “securities” that demand holistic attention. The chapter offers far-reaching insights for scholarship and policy. Appropriately, Engobo Emeseh, in Chapter Eight, draws on the ecological crisis and socio-political panics associated with oil production in the Niger Delta to make a strong case for effective interventions in the crucial area of climate change impact mitigation. Kenya is where the journey ends. Chapters Nine and Ten focus on the country’s nascent titanium mining industry, where, paradoxically, conflict related to mining-induced social displacement has been, in part, a result of compensation payment, not its opposite. In Chapter Nine, Willice Abuya and Wilson Akpan provide an ethnographic account of the connects and disconnects between official compensation frameworks and idiographic narratives and existential realities in rural titanium mining communities. The analysis dovetails into Abuya’s in-depth socio-historical analysis (in Chapter 10) of the impact of policy on mining-related conflict. As the above synopsis shows, the ten chapters interrogate formal institutionalised positions and interventions, old and not-so-old orthodoxies, as well as local narratives relating to these issues. Attempts have been made in several of the chapters to highlight epistemic, theoretical and policy implications embedded in a given “clash of narratives”. In the main, the book highlights the peripheralisation (and, in some cases, outright silencing) of local knowledge in the ways crucial dilemmas associated with the community-development-environment nexus are tackled. It is the Editors’ hope that policy makers, academics, researchers, university students and everyone interested in environmental sociology, political ecology, and environmental policy will make the book their companion. The book is also recommended to anyone interested in global environmental and natural resource questions, particularly those pertaining to Africa.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the generous support of various institutions and individuals. The South African Sociological Association (SASA), through its Environment and Natural Resources Working Group, provided the intellectual platform over several years on which scholars from different countries debated many of the core ideas and positions advanced in the book. The University of Fort Hare’s Govan Mbeki Research and Development Centre (GMRDC) provided research funding for the research on which Chapters Six and Nine are based, as well as funding (in conjunction with the University’s Projects Office) for the out-of-town retreats that enabled the Editors to focus on their tasks without distractions. The Water Research Commission of South Africa funded the larger research project from which the first chapter of the book has been derived. The Editors are hugely grateful to these institutions. Grateful thanks are also due to the publisher-appointed experts who anonymously peer-reviewed the entire volume. Without a doubt, their critical comments have helped to enhance the book’s intellectual quality. Finally, the Editors would like to thank their colleagues in the Department of Sociology, University of Fort Hare, for their support and encouragement throughout the duration of the project.

ABBREVIATIONS

ACB

African Centre for Biosafety

BRICS Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa CBD

United Nations Convention on Biodiversity and Trade

FGD

Focus Group Discussions

GHG

greenhouse gas

MVP

Mzimvubu Water Project

PIC

Prior Informed Consent

TRIPS Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property

CHAPTER ONE SCIENCE, ETHNOSCIENCE AND A DAM: (MIS)READING THE POTENTIAL IMPACTS OF THE NTABELANGA DAM, SOUTH AFRICA1 WILSON AKPAN, JOHAN VAN TOL, MELISSA MALAMBILE AND NTOMBESIZWE NQALO

Introduction Among the declarations made by the South African President, Jacob Zuma, in his 2013 State of the Nation Address was that a large multipurpose dam would be built in the Eastern Cape as part of efforts to accelerate the economic rejuvenation of the province, but particularly the area chosen for the project. Ntabelanga Dam, as it has since been officially named, would be built in the Mzimvubu Basin, and, together with a smaller Laleni Dam (also proposed) and other related initiatives, formed part of Mzimvubu Water Project (MVP). Managed by the Department of Water Affairs, Ntabelanga Dam is expected to support irrigated agriculture, boost tourism and enhance water supply in an area where drought remains a major socio-ecological problem and poverty is deeply entrenched. When completed, it will be one of South Africa’s largest dams. 1

The contents of this chapter formed part of a report submitted by the first and second authors (and other members of the larger research team) to the research funders, the Water Research Commission, which reviewed and approved it for publication. WRC’s approval does not signify that the contents necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Commission, nor does mention of trade names or commercial products constitute an endorsement thereof or recommendation for use.

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Utilising empirical data obtained by the authors as part of a long-term multidisciplinary study of the (potential) impacts of the dam, this chapter accomplishes three things. One, it presents a condensed socio-economic profile of the dam communities, against which official discourses about dam dividends can be assessed. Two, it probes local narratives vis-à-vis the dam, and thus foregrounds the study’s key argument that one stakeholder’s reading of (potential) dam dividends can be another stakeholder’s misreading thereof. The slate of narratives and counternarratives helps to buttress the chapter’s argument that the prevalence of socio-economic deprivations in a community is not a guarantee that local residents would accept “development” without questioning, at the very least, its mode of delivery. Thirdly, the chapter posits that while a major, environmentally intrusive project such as the Ntabelanga dam is bound to present sustainability dilemmas for both benefactor and beneficiary, the destabilising consequences of a clash of narratives (between, say, “science” and “ethnoscience”) can be averted if the project implementation process is preceded and undergirded by rigorous engagement between dam developers and affected communities. It should be stated at the outset that while preparatory work towards the construction of the Ntabelanga Dam has commenced the project is referred to in this chapter as “proposed”. This is principally because, as at the author’s last major data collection exercise in the area in July 2015, the construction had not begun.

Public participation: the paradox of engagement A viable starting point to pondering the immediate to long-term socioeconomic impact of the proposed Mzimvubu Water Project (MWP), and specifically the Ntabelanga Dam, is to have a firm grasp, early in the project cycle, of the socio-economic realities in the communities that will be directly or indirectly affected by the dam, and that could drive support for and/or opposition towards the project. It is also important to take account of how community members articulate such realities. For the research team, this primarily meant seeking ways of accessing deeper narratives about livelihoods and livelihood dynamics, amongst other things. However, since this has to do with an intrusive development project of considerable magnitude, it also meant reflecting (based on the respondents’ narratives) on the quality of the public participation and community engagement processes that might have been one of the bases for the confirmation of the area as a suitable site for the dam project in the first place. Such processes have become not just a practical prerequisite for

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the commencement of major development projects globally (White 2000), especially in terms of Article 1992 United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity. In South Africa, it is clearly a legal requirement (see Republic of South Africa 2014). In other words, the research team’s attempt to understand the reality of local livelihoods, visions of the future, expectations and any oppositional impulses vis-à-vis the dam project was an attempt to demonstrate why engagement matters in the dam-community nexus, at least in a rural South African context. In the ‘age’ of sustainable development, local participation appears to have attained an axiomatic status: it has to be made integral to the project cycle not only because it enhances sustainability outcomes, but mainly because social justice demands it; it is the right thing to do, as it fulfils an important democratic and human rights imperative. To expand this axiom somewhat: it is indefensible that development should be imposed on people, as that would almost certainly do more harm than good in the long run. Within the context of development-induced displacement in particular—and the Ntabelanga Dam project is bound to lead to a fair amount of displacement—this axiomatic rendering of the imperative of engagement and community participation carries a strong appeal and has remained a powerful advocacy idiom among social ecologists in particular, who insist that both in theory and practice development must be pursued as if people mattered. This is in spite of the wide-ranging debates around the concept of community participation, one aspect of which can be gleaned from the cynical-sounding title of Khwaja’s (2004) paper: “Is increasing community participation always a good thing?” In the paper, Khwaja cautions against naïve faith in the power of participation, arguing that while autocratic development planning and development delivery can never be justified, community participation does not always enhance project outcomes. Those sentiments are part of a tradition of critical assessment of local participation in which Sherry Arnstein’s (1969) ideas remain quite seminal. Since local participation was primarily an expression of local power—or, more correctly, an attempt to decentralise decision-making power by enlisting the input of those who would be most directly impacted by such decision-making—Arnstein proposed an assessment scheme that would demystify the participation process. The proposition was that participation is a “ladder” with eight rungs. Arnstein termed the lowest rung manipulation and the highest, citizen control. In the climb from manipulation towards citizen control, the six rungs are: therapy, informing, consultation, placation, partnership and delegated power.

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Arnstein’s schema essentially implies that some types of participation —and some community participation approaches adopted by decisionmakers and project developers, or consultants working on their behalf— are tantamount to non-participation, yet they could easily be misconstrued as participation. This is precisely how David Wilcox (1994) views Arnstein’s typology. He describes manipulation and therapy as “nonparticipation”, informing and consultation as euphemisms for “tokenism”, and partnership, delegated power and citizen control as signifying a “degree of citizen power”. It is from this appraisal that Wilcox (1994, CAP 12) proffers a typology of his own—a five-rung “ladder” with information as the bottom rung and supporting independent community interests as the topmost. In between are consultation, deciding together, and acting together, in that order. An equally interesting typology is that proposed by Sarah White (2000, originally in 1996) in a paper that dissects the “uses and abuses of participation” in the development arena. White urges a shift from mere descriptions of diverse “forms” of participation, to an in-depth appraisal of the different interests that both project developers (and their consultants) and the beneficiary community bring to the process. Thus, according to White (2001, 144), whereas the interest that project developers have in nominal participation (the lowest in a four-step participation hierarchy) is “legitimation” (they seek to be seen as doing something for the community), what community members seek is “inclusion”. A slightly higher form of participation is instrumental. Here, the overriding interest of project developers in involving community members is to extract “efficiency”, whereas community members regard their participation as a “cost”. In representative participation, developers seek “sustainability” by devolving specific responsibilities to community members, while community members believe their involvement in such a way is important for “leverage”. It gives them a “voice”—which is a measure of influence. The highest form of participation is transformative. According to White, this is the only form of participation where the interests of developers and community members overlap: both regard participation as “empowerment”. Just looking at White’s typology, and Wilcox’s and Arnstein’s before it, it is obvious that community engagement and public participation processes can be abused or manipulated to serve narrow ends by project developers, their consultants, powerful segments of the local community, or through some form of opportunism involving any combination of these and other stakeholders (see Mnwana 2011). It is doubtful if the brazen disregard for EIA rules reported in Akpan (2005, 202-203) and Echefu and Akpofure (2003, 73) is possible in South

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Africa. However, the foregoing reflections about the paradox of engagement and public participation are important for at least two reasons. First, during the data collection, the authors listened to local stories that indicated that the dam-related community engagement processes they had so far been part of were not as water-tight as they could have been. Second, as shown later, some of the local narratives pertaining to livelihood dynamics, community expectations and fears—and even the metaphors utilised by respondents to describe their fears—were indicative of a community engagement and public participation process that might not have been conducted with utmost rigour.

Methodology The selection of the sites was done based on experience and information gained from work previously done by the first and second authors in the area (van Tol et al. 2014a,b), detailed investigation of maps and satellite images of the area, and a field visit conducted in March 2015.

Identification of representative communities The identification of communities for the study was based on the assumption that the Ntabelanga Dam would impact different communities and different subgroups within communities in different ways. It was therefore important to select communities that were representative of the entire area in terms of differential exposure to the variety of anticipated impacts. The five study communities were: Ngxoto, Lower Sinxaku, Ngqongweni, Ndzebe, and Ndibanisweni Administrative Area (AA). While two of these communities (Lower Sinxaku and Ndzebe) are identified differently in Google Earth, in this chapter the names used are those found on local signposts and by which community members know their villages. Table 1-1: Study location

Community Ngxoto (Emqokolweni) Lower Sinxaku Ngqongweni Ndzebe Ndibanisweni AA

Local Municipality

District

Elundini Elundini Nyandeni Mhlontlo Mhlontlo

Joe Gqabi Joe Gqabi OR Tambo OR Tambo OR Tambo

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Ngxoto (part of the bigger community of Emqokolweni) is situated at the dam inlet. When the research team first visited the community in March 2015 (in the site selection phase of the study), it found that despite the community’s significance as a dam inlet (it is located on the banks of the Tsitsa River), awareness of the dam inundation footprint was very low. Two informal interviewees informed the researchers back then that “the dam will not be here, but 20 km downstream”. This irony informed the inclusion of Ngxoto in the study, as it was an issue that could have significant implications for how residents would respond to any positive or negative impacts of the dam before, during and/or after its construction, especially in the light of existing socio-economic conditions in the community. Lower Sinxaku (identified as Sinxagu in Google Earth) is expected to be adversely affected by the dam, especially in terms of loss of the best grazing land (see van Tol et al. 2014a,b). The soils adjacent to the community are highly erodible. Besides, the town is not included in the formal irrigation plan linked to the dam. It was thus important to probe local perspectives on how the dam would impact the community. Ngqongweni is located next to the dam wall, and is therefore expected to be directly impacted by the dam construction. In an earlier phase of the study (van Tol et al. 2014b), it was only in this community that local residents knew for certain that a dam project was impending, as they had witnessed numerous visits to the village by “white people”. Now was the time to gain an in-depth understanding of local sentiments, given the community’s anticipated exposure to dam construction activities and close proximity to the dam wall. Ndzebe (or Machibini, according to Google Earth), in Mhlontlo Local Municipality (OR Tambo Ditrict), lies adjacent to the Tsitsa River and stands a chance of being mostly positively impacted. Some areas in the community have been included in the formal irrigation plan. Besides, the community is likely to experience fewer floods, even though, due to its proximity to the Tsitsa River, changes to the stream morphology and water regimes are likely to affect it. It was important to probe local socioeconomic narratives in the community, especially in relation to agriculture and irrigation. The peri-urban community of Ndibanisweni Administrative Area (AA) is on the outskirts of the main rural town of Tsolo (both in Mhlontlo Local Municipality in OR Tambo District). Although located approximately eight kilometres from the Tsitsa River, it is included in the formal plan for irrigated agriculture. The researchers were keen to document how narratives about livelihoods and livelihood dynamics vis-à-vis the dam

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project would compare to those in the other four communities, hence its inclusion in the study. Of the five communities, four are classifiable as “rural”, according to the official South African definition of this term, that is: the sparsely populated areas in which people farm or depend on natural resources, including the villages and small towns that are dispersed through these areas. [Rural] ‘clusters' in the former homelands, i.e. large settlements without an economic base except for transfer payments, are also included (Rural Development Task Team & Department of Land Affairs 1997).

Data collection techniques and sampling Four main data collection techniques were used: conventional focus group discussions (FGDs), town hall FGDs (see Zuckerman-Parker and Shank 2008), individual in-depth interviews, and field observation. A town hall FGD was conducted in Ngxoto, complemented by an in-depth interview of a key authority figure in the community. In Lower Sinxaku, both conventional and town hall FGDs were conducted. In Ngqongweni, a conventional FGD was complemented by in-depth interviews. In Ndzebe, eight in-depth interviews were conducted, and in Ndibanisweni AA, a town hall FGD was complemented by an in-depth interview of an established traditional healer/spiritual figure (a sangoma). Table 1-2: Data collection techniques

Community

Ngxoto Lower Sinxaku Ngqongweni Ndzebe Ndibanisweni AA

Conventional FGD No. Group Size 1 10 1 6 -

Town hall FGD No. Group Size 1 55 1 15 1 55

In-depth interview 1 4 8 1

Field observation 9 9 9 9 9

The 55 Participants in the “town hall FGD” (explained presently) in Ngxoto were middle-aged and elderly men and women, as well as younger men and women aged about 23 years on average. The (conventional) FGD participants in Lower Sinxaku were young men and women (group size

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10, average age 24). Participants in the town hall FGD in this community were all traditional healers (sangomas) - 15 in total (both male and female - see Table 1-2). They spoke passionately about, among other things, the socio-cultural and mystical significance of a river (with flowing water), as distinct from a dam with “stagnant water”, thus voicing their concerns about how the proposed dam would impact not just on their vocations but on the spiritual health of the community as a whole. Among the insights gained from the sangomas was the river-community nexus, from a sociocultural and mystical point of view, and how a major dam project could interfere with that relationship. Four women (average age 24) and four men (aged between 40 and 70) participated in the interview in Ndzebe. In Ngqongweni, four in-depth interviews were held, complemented by a (conventional) focus group with six female brickmakers. In Ndibanisweni AA, 55 men and women (including the youth) participated in the town hall FGD, while a separate in-depth interview was held with a local sangoma. The research process adhered strictly to standard ethical requirements of voluntary participation, guarantee of respondent anonymity and data confidentiality as well as informed consent. In all the data collection meetings, consent forms were signed by individual participants or by one or more participants signing on behalf of the whole group. A “town hall FGD”, it must now be stated, is a term ascribed to a “super-sized” FGD with a sample size much higher than the six to 10 participants conventionally prescribed for FGDs. The method has come into popular use in recent years among (qualitative) social researchers, especially those working on development and environmental issues in small rural communities. As more knowledge is gained about specific social dynamics in such communities, there is growing realisation of the need to adapt conventional data collection methods to the peculiarities of such locales (see Akpan 2005, 79-80). One such adaptation is with FGDs, which traditionally emphasised small-group dynamics, with six to 10, and sometimes 12, participants considered the maximum (Stewart and Shamdasani 1990, 57) and six considered ideal. Researchers do “breach” the “small group size” norm in order to accommodate peculiar dynamics of social organisation in such villages. For the present research team, negotiating access to a community invariably entailed working through the local Headman. Once the subject of a major dam project was introduced, the Headman would express his support for the research endeavour by offering to schedule an appointment for the researchers to meet with the target group—in a primary school hall, a village courtyard or some other suitable venue. However, on the appointed day, the researchers would find

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that far more people than originally intended had been invited to the meeting, “in the spirit of transparency and inclusivity”, and that the Headman had, in fact, called a “formal” town hall meeting, with the village scribe taking minutes (for the village record). In one of the villages, the meeting opened with a prayer. The town hall FGD, or “large FGD” (Zuckerman-Parker and Shank 2008, 632), therefore, is an “invention” birthed by necessity. When handled professionally and in the right circumstances, it can produce outstanding results. More than anything else, it yields, within a very short time, a spread of perspectives and insights that a “normal-sized” FGD cannot. Indeed, it was during the town hall sessions that the researchers encountered local sentiments that indicated that there might have been serious lapses in the dam-related community engagement and public participation processes hinted at earlier. These sentiments might have appeared isolated if they were only expressed in individual in-depth interview or “normal sized” FGD situations. The following remark by Zuckerman-Parker and Shank (2008, 631), who, like the present researchers, have made use of a town hall FGD, is instructive: “sometimes, we choose to take bold and pioneering moves to extend our research practices, but, more often, those moves are thrust upon us by virtue of circumstance.”

Findings The findings are reported under three headings: livelihood dynamics, oppositional discourses, and engagement dynamics.

Livelihood dynamics Empirical data from the various communities, but especially from the four rural communities, highlight the dire absence of sustainable income sources in the study area. Respondents made repeated reference to being “unemployed”, “poor” and “needing assistance”. This was in spite of the fact that they also reported having access to a number of income sources, including social grants, remittance income, construction and road works, teaching, farming, convenience shops (known locally as spaza shops), and traditional healing. It is only through a closer examination of local narratives about the different livelihoods that one gains a better understanding of why respondents described them as “unsustainable” and as “last resort” livelihoods—activities they engaged in because there was “nothing better to do to make a living”.

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Social grants Transfer payments in the form of child support grants, foster care grants and old age pensions were by far the most pervasive of all income sources in the community and a critical safety net given the precarious economic conditions in most households. Indeed, almost every household had someone who was a beneficiary of one form of social grant or another. Many of the younger women were single parents, whose children were beneficiaries of a child support grant. Older persons aged 60 years and above were recipients of an old age pension, while those with a disability were entitled to a disability grant. In many households, there were dependent children who were being fostered by grandparents or other relatives and who were, thus, recipients of a foster care grant (see Table 13). Table 1-3: Social grants in South Africa (October 2016) Grant type Old age pension Old age pension (age 75 and above Disability Foster care Child support Care dependency War veteran’s

Grant amount in 2015 (in ZAR) 1 510 1 530 1 510 890 350 1 510 1 530

Source: South African Social Security Agency (SASSA) (2016)

People aged between 18 and 60 years who have no disability and are not officially registered with the South African Social Security Agency (Sassa) as foster care providers fall outside the formal safety net provisioning. Technically, therefore, most people in the study communities were not direct beneficiaries of any social grant. This means that whatever social grant was being received in a given household was spread thinly, as it catered for more people than the intended beneficiaries, at least in terms of day-to-day subsistence. In many households, therefore, social grant income was more or less the same as household income. Many of those aged between 45 and 60 were caught in one of the unfortunate dilemmas of social welfare: they had children who were above the cut-off age for child support grant (which is 18 years) but were themselves not old enough to become beneficiaries of an old age pension (which commences

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in the year one turns 60). In many such households the burden of unemployment and poverty seemed particularly severe. From the respondents’ narratives, the researchers noted that within the context of safety net provisioning, especially its reach into the deep rural areas (despite reported grant administration hiccups), the South African state’s social role was quite evident. That citizens in such rural communities as those studied could access welfare grants—and were, to a large extent, dependent on them—was an indication that the South African state was making a great effort to be perceived as a “social state”. But it also raised questions about how far a state could flex its social muscle, and underlined the urgency with which the state must tackle the problem of rural unemployment and rural poverty in a more sustainable way. Boosting rural household incomes, drastically reducing dependency on welfare grants, and enhancing livelihood opportunities are key developmental imperatives in South Africa, and the extent to which the proposed Ntabelanga Dam contributes to the achievement of these goals must necessarily be viewed as an important sustainability challenge. Against this background a remark by one female interviewee in Ndzebe regarding the poor “employability” profiles of local residents is noteworthy: “Education plays an important role and determines how one lives; when you are not educated you are not able to get employment”.

Remittance income Although not as pervasive and as regular as social grants, remittances from urban-based working relatives were reported by research participants as a supplementary income source for some community members, especially households whose members were recipients of one form of social grant or another. The researchers learnt, however, that while only a few households had access to such informal “safety nets”, even those that benefited could not subsist entirely on it due to its irregularity. Besides, because such inflows ultimately support many household members who do not have a direct income of their own, the overall effect in terms of poverty alleviation in such households remains insignificant and unsustainable.

Construction Several participants reported that they had at one time or another in the recent past worked as casual labourers during the grading of dirt roads in the area. For a number of these respondents, this was their only form of “formal employment” in a long time. At the time of the fieldwork, most of

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the dirt roads in the area appeared to have been recently graded and were generally motorable (compared to when the researchers first visited the area in 2013), especially for off-road vehicles. However, the involvement of local residents was at very low levels. Young people were usually hired as “flag boys” and “flag girls” (to alert grader operators and oncoming road users of any hazards) and paid very low wages during the period of road grading. While the “construction of houses” was mentioned among sources of income, the researchers found that there were very few new construction sites in the study communities. Whatever construction activity was ongoing in the area was not of a scale that could provide sustainable (self-) employment opportunities, even for those who reported having earned an income through concrete brickmaking. In Ngqongweni, the researchers held an FGD with six women involved in traditional mud brickmaking. The findings showed that these brickmakers considered their vocation somewhat precarious due to the non-availability of water (as they were not permitted to use water from the communal taps), sporadic demand, and the relatively antiquated nature of the craft. The women found it nearly impossible to fetch water from the Tsitsa River, as the village is located on the hills and the brickmaking activity takes place there. They accessed water by furtively “causing” water from a nearby communal tap located further uphill to drain into a collecting point close to the brickmaking site so that it could be fetched to the site using plastic buckets. To emphasise the sporadic nature of the demand for mud bricks and the endangered status of mud brickmaking in the community, one of the FGD participants remarked as follows: Basically, we are employed by the person who owns the site where a house is [to be] built. When someone wants to build their house they come to us to make bricks for them. Usually they approach one of us to say they need bricks and we then gather ourselves and start working. We are right now moulding bricks for that house over there. If there is no house to be built that requires mud bricks, we have nothing to do. To make the bricks, we mix mud and water with our bare hands and use a box to shape it. We learnt the trade from our mothers and grandmothers. But the younger generation are not interested in this craft, and so passing on the skills has become quite difficult.

The women expressed awareness about the proposed Ntabelanga Dam. They were, however, not aware of the scale of the project, other than that some homesteads would be relocated elsewhere. They were confident that

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the dam project would help the local brickmaking initiatives in the area. For one thing, the drudgery of fetching water would become a thing of the past. Yet, this anticipated benefit had a counter-narrative that is noteworthy, as reported presently. Another construction-related income-generating activity that was mentioned in all the interviews and focus groups was ukurhela—the local term for the harvesting, drying and bundling of grass for sale to people building thatch-roofed homes. While thatching is an indigenous skill, the researchers found that residential dwellings with thatched roofs were no longer in fashion in the study area, as preference had shifted to corrugated iron roofing sheets. While the Eastern Cape has a sizable thatching industry due to the prevalence of thatched tourist cottages and lapas (outdoor entertainment structures with thatched roofs and supporting poles constructed near swimming pools in resorts and upmarket homes), ukurhela appeared not to be meaningfully linked to this market. Research participants classified it among the “dying” income generation activities in the area.

Teaching There was at least one primary school and a crèche in each of the communities. In Ngxoto, the town hall FGD was held in a primary school classroom after school hours. Besides teachers, each school employs a handful of administrators and manual workers such as cleaners and gardeners, and also serves as a source of indirect employment for providers of different services. The study revealed, however, that most of the teachers employed in the various schools were not indigenes of those communities. They worked in the schools on weekdays and returned to their homes (located, in some cases, more than a hundred kilometres away) on weekends and during school vacations. What this means is that while teaching was, ostensibly, an important facet in the latticework of income generating activities in the area, some of the key skills needed to run the local schools (teachers in particular) were sourced from outside the communities.

Farming In a previous phase of this study, which focused on Ndzebe and Lower Sinxaku, two of the five communities covered in the present study, it was observed that:

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Chapter One most families devote between 0.1 ha and 0.5 ha of the 1 ha homestead land allocated to them by the tribal authorities to subsistence agriculture. The arable lands are typically consolidated rainfed farming areas, which can be made up of several plots (1–3 ha or more). These lands are in the vicinity of the villages, whose residents cultivate the plots. Distances between homestead and farming area are, in some cases, quite substantial. Large areas of communal land—the higher-lying mountains surrounding the communities—are typically used for grazing of livestock, especially cattle. These areas are communally owned (van Tol et al. 2014a, 4).

This agro-ecological profile holds true for all five communities in the present phase of the study. Although every household had access to a farm plot, with mostly maize, potatoes and vegetables cultivated subject to the vagaries of the weather (“these days heavy rains come in the wrong season”), and some were involved in small farming “projects” funded by the Eastern Cape Department of Social Development as part of a poverty alleviation and rural livelihoods programme, crop farming was not a major income source for most households. Most households kept livestock such as cattle, goats, sheep, donkeys and pigs, as well as backyard chickens. In Lower Sinxaku, one FGD participant estimated that 80% of households had livestock. For most of those involved in animal farming, livestock was a store of wealth (“we use it as a form of savings”). Except for the very few who were commercial livestock farmers, cattle, sheep and goat were not seen as economic commodities that could be actively sold or exchanged for cash. According to one interviewee in Ngqongweni: “I sell a cow only when there is an emergency. Otherwise, cows are not for sale as such”. Generally, even those local residents with some access to livestock still described themselves as “unemployed”, living under “difficult economic conditions” and “needing assistance”. A crucial threat to livestock farming in the study area is stock theft. According to some of the research participants, livestock owners were increasingly hesitant to utilise the communal grazing fields located relatively further away from the homesteads. People preferred to have their cattle graze near the homesteads instead—a situation that respondents believed was not conducive to the growth of livestock agriculture.

Spaza shops Although reported as a source of income, there were very few informal convenience shops (known locally as spaza shops) in the study communities. Because of their small sizes, they were more a source of

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income for their owners than a source of employment for local residents who might have wished to work as shopkeepers. In each of the communities, the researchers sighted at least one spaza shop.

Traditional healing The inclusion of sangomas (traditional healers) in the sampling strategy was so as to privilege the perspectives and narratives of a subgroup in the community that has a special relationship with the Tsitsa River (discussed later). This was so that the researchers could gain a deeper, ethnographic understanding of the river-community nexus, how that nexus might be impacted by the dam project, and the possible consequences. It is necessary to state here that sangomas do not regard themselves as economic agents, in the sense of being in the vocation just to earn a living. Rather they see themselves—and are viewed by the wider community—as people endowed with supernatural abilities to communicate with “ancestors” and seek solutions to problems afflicting the living. As “intermediaries”, sangomas find their roles guaranteed within a belief system that defines the universe as a life-afterlife continuum. Each human in due time will “transition” to the “other side”, assume a new role as an ancestor and continue to take an interest in the affairs of the living. In this cosmology almost every social problem is (or can be) explained metaphysically. Clients of the sangoma are people who seek “release” from all kinds of social misfortunes (sickness, unemployment, business failure, “bad luck”, marital problems, fear of untimely death, and “bewitchment”, to name a few), which they believe are caused by supernatural forces and cannot be tackled through orthodox, western-style interventions. There is a belief in the study area that sangomas are unremunerated, as they act “on behalf of the ancestors”. However, for the purposes of this section, traditional healing is regarded as a livelihood. This is because practitioners charge consultation fees (in cash and/or kind). Also, established sangomas enrol trainees (umkhwetha or ithwasa in isiXhosa)—people who have found out that they have been “called” into the sangoma priesthood and need guidance and induction. The trainees “pay” fees, often in kind, “as directed by the ancestors”. A further observation made by the researchers was that despite the pervasive belief in ancestors and in the supernatural dimensions of health and wellness in the area, the study found that only a very small number of community members practised as sangomas.

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Ethnoscience and oppositional discourses Most residents acknowledged that because of the acute water shortage in the area, the dam would bring great relief. Animals would easily find water to drink, the fields would be irrigated, crop harvests would become abundant, commercial agriculture would become imaginable for many people, employment opportunities would be created, and life as they knew it would be positively different. However, the empirical data showed that despite the present deplorable socio-economic conditions in the study communities, and the near-desperate need for socio-economic rejuvenation, people had strong sentimental attachments to the homes, fields, animals, the river, and the socio-cultural networks that defined their existence. Especially in the communities nearest to the proposed dam—Ngqongweni, Ngxoto and Lower Sinxaku—the strong people-environment bond was such that even when no oppositional stance was openly expressed with regard to the proposed dam project, one could still feel a sense of how residents might react to any plans to relocate them. In several of the FGD and in-depth interview sessions, the fear of displacement was expressed using very strong metaphors: displacement was likened to being “killed”, being “torn down”, and being “thrown away”: Government will build this dam, right? And then they will move us and throw us far away where we will gain nothing. They want to tear our houses down. With it, the children will work and we will all get jobs. But we don’t want that work. You see that house over there? They are going to tear those ones down. (Female interviewee, Ngqongweni)

It was as if the prospect of a “better” life was at once the certainty of doom. During the town hall FGD with the sangomas near Lower Sinxaku, the following sentiments were repeatedly expressed by participants: From what I can see, we can get employment from the dam. Beyond that there is nothing to be gained. They will kill our fields. They are moving us, to put us where? They will look for a place for us? They will cut for us a place among the agricultural fields? The fact is that we don’t want to be moved, we don’t want to go to strange villages. We want to remain here. [Male sangoma, Lower Sinxaku)

In Ngxoto, one town hall FGD participant voiced the following as one of the many reasons the dam project could complicate their lives:

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Movement of graves and homes will be a problem because the ancestors won’t be happy. Elaborate rituals will have to be done and that is expensive. [Town hall FGD participant, Ngxoto]

Crucially, there was the “ethnoscience” of water. The sangomas expressed fears that were directly related to the peculiarities of their vocation. There was a mystical side to a river, and water by any other name was not the same thing as water: This is not good. We don’t use dam water. We use river water or the ocean [for healing purposes]. Our work will fail. With a dam, that means there is no more Tsitsa [River]. Tsitsa will be no more! We don’t go to the healing places on our own accord; we are shown where to go. Now what happens when you are directed [by the ancestors] to go to a place that now has still [stagnant] water? That is the big problem. When the elders left [when those who are now “ancestors” were still alive on earth], the water was moving. Now it will be a person purposefully stopping the flow. The government is robbing and deceiving us.

One female interviewee in Ngqongweni expressed her sentiments bluntly, indicating that while there would be jobs, the dam spelt trouble for the community: We don’t want that dam here. They may make promises of building people new houses. I have five houses in my homestead: will they replace all five? If the dam must come here, they must not move us or disturb our houses. They must find a way of working around our community.

Besides concerns that touched on space-place sensitivities, respondents also feared that the proposed Ntabelanga Dam might have a negative impact on the communities’ social fabric. There would be an influx of “migrant workers” and “strangers”, which would exacerbate the problem of unwanted pregnancies and drug addiction. There would even be “strange diseases”. New ways would have to be found to keep children safe; otherwise, incidents of drowning would be a serious challenge. The communities would now be faced with new levels, and even new types, of crime.

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Engagement and public participation dynamics Compared to 2013 when local awareness about the dam project was virtually non-existent, in July 2015 the researchers found significantly heightened levels of awareness in three of the five communities (Ngxoto, Lower Sinxaku and Ngqongweni). According to local residents, awareness was gained through a meeting called around November 2014 by “white people” to “inform” residents about the dam; “memos and circulars in 2013/2014”, poles planted near the proposed site of the dam wall to measure water levels, and information provided by surveyors working in the field. In the rural peri-urban community of Ndibanisweni AA, one local Councillor announced during the town hall FGD that he and a few others knew about the proposed Ntabelanga Dam project when President Jacob Zuma visited the district in 2014. A few others said they learnt of the dam through the Department of Agriculture. Overall, only about 5% of research participants in this community knew about the dam. Yet, as noted earlier, although this community is approximately eight kilometres from the Tsitsa River, it is included in the official irrigation plan linked to the Ntabelanga Dam. Despite the relatively improved levels of awareness, the researchers found that the quality of awareness was very poor, and that this was most likely a function of poor engagement between the dam developers (or their consultants) and the affected communities. It appeared that the engagement and public participation process had only sowed confusion and deepened the clash of science and ethnoscience in the area, as community members ended up knowing very little, if anything, about how the dam would affect them and the socio-cultural and economic adjustments that individuals and entire communities would have to make. In Ngxoto (located at the inlet of the dam), one in-depth interviewee (a local authority figure) was visibly angry at the “shoddy” process of “breaking the news” to the community: I only knew about the white people’s visit the evening before their arrival. People were taken by surprise. There was no time whatsoever for the community to meet and think through anything before the visitors came. They arrived the following day and that was it. By the time they left, no one had become better informed about this thing [the dam], and they haven’t come back since.

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This echoed the general sentiments at the town hall FGD in the same community. Respondents unanimously reported that “not much information was shared”. For instance: We weren’t aware of the dam capacity. We were told it would be about 20km, but no one knew how big that was. (Town hall FGD participant, Ngxoto)

In Ngqongweni, the dam wall community, where “white people” visited around November 2014: We were told that 12 homes would be moved, that people would be financially compensated, and that we will not be moved away from Nkosi (the local chief). But people do not really know the nature of the dam. (Indepth interviewee, Ngqongweni)

Also in Ngqongweni, an FGD participant said: Yes, we’ve heard about it [the dam] and that our children would get employment. They [the “white people”] were meant to come back and consult with us again as there were homesteads that were to be moved, but they have not come back to us. (Participant, FGD with female brickmakers, Ngqongweni)

Awareness about the dam project was of such poor quality that it could only have been a product of “tokenistic” public participation (Wilcox 1994, see also Arnstein 1969). Community members had no idea how they would have to skill themselves so as to become employable: As we do not know what kind of work gets done when building a dam we would not be able to say now what kind of jobs we will get. [Female interviewee, Ndzebe]

Almost entirely mirroring the third lowest rung in Arnstein’s (1969) “ladder of participation”, a respondent in Ngqongweni reported that the meeting called by the “white people” in November 2014 was to “inform” the community about the dam. Even so, from the responses reported earlier (especially those of the sangomas), it seems unlikely that efforts were made to elicit the deeper perspectives of different segments of the community.

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Discussion While the foregoing socio-economic profile demonstrates that local residents have access to a diversity of livelihood channels, it is nonetheless a diversity that is not very endearing. In any event, despite access to the identified livelihoods community members saw themselves as “unemployed”, “poor” and “needing help”—descriptions that show that various livelihood channels are simply emblematic of the debilitating web of poverty and deprivation in the area. The state steps into the space with considerable ambivalence, “leading” social development rather than “engaging” the community in the process. It flexes its social muscle by providing a fairly wide canvas of social grants, providing funds to support small-scale agricultural initiatives, creating sporadic employment through road works, and now proposing to build a major dam that it hopes will rejuvenate the communities economically and agriculturally. Not surprisingly, and not unlike how such initiatives have been pursued elsewhere (see Beck, Claasen and Hundt 2012, Bisht 2009, Biswas 2004), the proposed Ntabelanga Dam appears to have emerged as a site of an invidious clash of (developmental) narratives. While elsewhere (van Tol et al. 2014a) the researchers have discussed the conflict between “science facts and rural fiction” within the context of the proposed dam, the data reported above depict a chronicle of anticipation, despair, fear, anger and misconceptions all wrapped around the “science” and “ethnoscience” of the same dam. “Science” is represented by the objectives of the dam, as articulated by the state, and the engagement and public participation processes that had so far taken place in the area in relation to the dam project. “Ethnoscience” is represented by the varying local idiographic narratives about space, place, and the environment-community nexus, such as the beliefs held by local spiritual healers about river water being distinct from dam water. The findings corroborate decades of studies in Africa and elsewhere that show that while large dams may be pivotal development infrastructure, they often pose serious sustainability challenges, as a dam is in the main “a long-term, and largely irreversible environmental experiment without a control” (McCully 2001). What has emerged from the study is that the clash of narratives and developmental visions appears to have been exacerbated by a faulty—or more correctly, “tokenistic”—engagement and participation process. Community members were probably simply “informed” rather than “engaged”. However, from the point of view local residents, what appears to be the case is a sense of “manipulative”, and not simply tokenistic, participation (see Arnstein 1969). As stated earlier, “manipulative”

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participation is tantamount to non-participation. When people feel alienated from the decision-making process, it becomes difficult for them to take ownership of the outcomes. The expression “government is robbing and deceiving us” is probably the best indication of this form of alienation and powerlessness. The data show that different segments shared some optimism about the beneficial prospects of the dam, especially in terms of economic rejuvenation. What they seemed to be struggling with was how to reconcile this promise with the prospect of major socio-cultural and ecological disruptions.

Conclusion and policy implications The findings of the study indicate that when it comes to large-scale, environmentally intrusive development projects, genuine and rigorous engagement matters. While prior analysis of the socio-economic and agricultural situation in communities such as those covered in this study is paramount, it is only a first step. Care must be taken to ensure that it does not become a basis to “impose” development on people. The relatively benign narratives about anticipated benefits should offer some hope to developers (in this case the South African government) that the Ntabelanga Dam will eventually be embraced by the communities, but this cannot be overstated or taken for granted. The challenge is how the expressed hopes and fears, the conceptions and misconceptions, eventually become reconciled. The findings yield a simple set of advice for the policy and development practitioner communities, and it is this: pay careful attention to space-place narratives of people at the grassroots, especially in target communities of ecologically intrusive projects such as large dams. Above all, do not underestimate the imports and portents of those narratives, as they could be deep and far-reaching. A shared view of project impacts (whether beneficial or adverse) cannot be forged without careful deployment of ethnographic intelligence. While the poor have traditionally been assumed to be “powerless”, history has proved that view to be simplistic: the poor have consistently demonstrated the collective power to reject and disrupt certain trajectories of development and change.

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References Akpan, W. 2005. Between the ‘sectional’ and the ‘national’: Oil, grassroots discontent and civic discourse in Nigeria. Doctoral thesis, Rhodes University, Grahamstown. Arnstein, S.R. 1969. A ladder of citizen participation. Journal of the American Planning Association, 35(4): 216-224. Beck, M.W., Claasen, H. & Hundt, P.J. 2012. Environmental and livelihood impacts of dams: common lessons across development gradients that challenge sustainability, International Journal of River Basin Management, 10(1): 73-92. Bisht, T.C. 2009. Development-induced displacement and women: The case of the Tehri Dam, India. The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 10(4): 301-317. Biswas, A.K. 2004. Dams: cornucopia or disaster? International Journal of Water Resources Development, 20(1): 3-14. Department of Water Affairs (DWA). 2012. Feasibility Study: Mzimvubu Water Project. Newsletter 1. August. Echefu, N. & Akpofure, E. 2003. Environmental impact assessment in Nigeria: Regulatory background and procedural framework. In: UNEP: Studies of Environmental Assessment Practice in Developing Countries, 63-74. August. Geneva: UNEP. Khwaja, A.I. 2004. Is increasing community participation always a good thing? Journal of the European Economic Commission, 2(2-3): 427436. McCully, P. 2001. Silenced rivers: the ecology and politics of large dams. London: Zed Books. Mnwana, S. 2011. Participation and paradoxes: community control of mineral wealth in South Africa’s Royal Bafokeng and Bakgatla ba Kgafela communities. Doctoral Thesis, University of Fort Hare, East London. Republic of South Africa. 2014. Environmental Impact Assessment Regulations 2014. 4 December. Department of Environmental Affairs. Rural Development Task Team & Department of Land Affairs. 1997. Rural development framework. http://www.polity.org.za/polity/govdocs/rdp/rdevframe.html Accessed 10 October 2015. South African Social Security Agency (SASA) 2016. You and your grants 2016/2017. Pretoria: SASA. Stewart, D.W. & Shamdasani, P.N. 1990. Focus groups: theory and practice. London: Sage.

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Van Tol, J.J., Akpan, W., Kanuka, G., Ngesi, S. & Lange, D. 2014a. Soil erosion and dam dividends: science facts and rural ‘fiction’ around the Ntabelanga dam, Eastern Cape, South Africa. South African Geographical Journal, DOI: 10.1080/03736245.2014.977814. Van Tol, J.J., Akpan, W., Lange, D., Bokuva, C., Kanuka, G., Ngesi, S., Rowntree, K.M., Bradley, G. & Marroi, A. 2014b. Conceptualising long-term monitoring to capture environmental, agricultural and socioeconomic impacts of the Mzimvubu water project in the Tsitsa River. WRC project No: KV 328/14. Pretoria: Water Research Commission. White, S.C. 2000. Depoliticising development: The uses and sbuses of participation. In: Development, NGOs and civil society: selected essays from development in practice, ed. D. Eade, 142-155. Oxford: Oxfam. Wilcox, D. 1994. Community participation and empowerment: putting theory into practice. RRA Notes, Issue 21 (Ch. 12). London: IIED. pp.78-82. Zuckerman-Parker, M. & Shank, G. 2008. The Town Hall Focus Group: A new format for qualitative research methods. The Qualitative Report, 13(4): 630-635.

CHAPTER TWO CORPORATIONS, COMMUNITIES AND IMPACT: THE CASE OF COAL FREEK CRONJE AND DAVID VAN WYK

Introduction South Africa’s economy is highly fossil fuel dependent, with the main source (91%) of electricity being coal. Apart from the heavy domestic reliance on coal as a source of energy, South Africa is a significant participant in global coal markets. The majority of South Africa’s reserves and mines are in the Central Basin, which includes the Witbank (eMalahleni), Highveld and Ermelo coalfields. South Africa’s economically recoverable coal reserves are estimated at between 15 and 55 billion tonnes and coal production in the Central Basin is likely to peak in the next decade. Against this background, the purpose of this chapter is to expound some of the main concerns related to the impacts of coal mining operations in the Central Basin and how the critical issue of community engagement is being dealt with by various mining companies in the area. The research reflected in the chapter focuses on communities near mines in the Nkangala District including Witbank (eMalahleni) and Middelburg (Steve Tshwete), and mainly on the operations and activities of two mining corporations, Anglo American Corporation and BHP Billiton. It is important to note that the areas of eMalahleni Local Municipality and Steve Tshwete Local Municipality (Witbank and Middelburg), both falling under the Nkangala District Municipality, are intensely mined for coal, with an exceptionally high concentration of coal mines, power, steel and chrome-processing plants. The Nkangala Integrated Development Plan (IDP) states with regard to eMalahleni that it “is home to a number of large industrial concerns such as Highveld Steel, and mining companies such as Anglo Coal, Xstrata and BHP Billiton/Ingwe, as well as energy generating organisations” (The District Manager 2012, 58). eMalahleni is

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a coal mining area with 22 collieries in an area no more than 40 km in any direction (Ultra Quick Host n.d.). There are also a number of power stations, such as the Duvha Power Station, as well as a steel mill (Highveld Steel and Vanadium Corporation) nearby, which all require coal. This chapter therefore speaks to the Nkangala District communities. It is almost impossible to select one or two communities, as all the communities in these two districts are “near mine communities”. Although, as already indicated, the operations of Anglo Coal and BHP Billiton are quite prominent in the study area, the operations of other mining companies, where applicable, will also be put under the magnifying lens. The chapter provides an overview of coal mining in South Africa in order to contextualise the bigger picture; analyses the various impacts of coal mining of different companies on “near mine communities” in the study area, and recommends ways of enhancing sustainability in the area.

Research methodology The primary empirical data were obtained with the aid of qualitative methods, mainly focus groups, researcher observations and interviews. Community concerns were also captured during several visits to the area. These concerns were mostly confirmed by the minutes of “consultations” held with some members of the communities. These “consultative” meetings were organised by various mining companies. As the elements of focus group discussions and interviews with members of impacted communities (including farmers and farm workers, township residents and residents of informal settlements) were not fixed beforehand, they were semi-structured on the basis of a list of topics related to the project objectives. Although a basic schedule was used (for FGDs and interviews), a degree of flexibility was allowed to assist the interviewer(s) to probe deeper where more relevant information could be obtained through further questioning. Questions and topics were not necessarily asked in the same order each time as this depended on the way the interview developed. This allowed the person being interviewed a degree of freedom to voice concerns and to participate in directing the flow of the conversation. These focus group discussions, in-depth interviews and ‘consultations’ assisted in clarifying what themes and topics were considered to be important and what the major concerns of individuals and communities were regarding coal mining in Mpumalanga.

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Focus groups (8 to 12 people) and interviewees were selected purposely to take account of gender, race, migrant or local status, age and specific interest groups. To enhance the scientific nature of the study, at least two researchers (interviewers), and a translator where necessary, facilitated each focus group and each personal interview. Different individuals in different areas were also used as key informants. Patton (2002, 321) describes key informants as “people who are particularly knowledgeable about the inquiry setting and articulate about their knowledge—people whose insights can prove particularly useful in helping an observer understand what is happening and why.” The researchers also spoke extensively to members of communities impacted by coal mining operations as well as with different NGOs (nongovernment organisations) to get a ‘feel’ for the different sentiments on the topic. Non-participatory observation was also used to gather information. Different observations during time spent in different areas gave a valuable insight into the research setting. It can further be argued that the coal mining activities of Anglo Coal, BHP Billiton and other relevant companies thus served as case studies. According to Yin (1984, 23), the case study research method is “an empirical inquiry that investigates a contemporary phenomenon within its real-life context; when the boundaries between phenomenon and context are not clearly evident; and in which multiple sources of evidence are used”. Usually, and also in this study, case studies are longitudinal in nature. This means that a case or subject is examined over a certain time period. The case studies being dealt with in this research also serve as “show cases” to illustrate certain points and even help with the processes of pattern-matching and explanation-building (Babbie and Mouton 1998). Lastly, concerns are continuously raised about the community consultation processes (initiated by mining companies, and alluded to earlier under this section) that might have affected the collection and truthvalue of some relevant data. Although the research team also took into account some of these ‘data’ from the consultative meetings, they were well aware of some limitations in this regard, such as the dates on which consultations were held. The end of the year is, for example, a very bad time for community consultation given that many members of communities are migrants and return to provinces, districts or countries of origin during this time. The issue of language is also problematic; notifications only in Afrikaans will have little effect. Also problematic were the manner in which the consultations were advertised, the time lapse between advertisements and meeting dates, and the ‘classic’ and complete imbalance of knowledge and power between the

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community members and the consultants within such meetings. The consultancy doing the work on behalf of Anglo Coal, for example, advertised the consultation meetings in a number of local newspapers, and posted on fences and walls in the area involved. There is no evidence of radio or television adverts. If meetings take place within less than 14 days of being advertised, using only newspapers and fence posted adverts, semi-literate and illiterate communities will obviously not be properly informed. The following ethical considerations were continuously kept in mind throughout the research process: x Voluntary participation (no participant was forced to participate in the research and participants were free to withdraw from the research at any stage). x No harm to participants (the researchers ensured that no physical or psychological harm was done to the participants as a result of the study). x Anonymity and confidentiality (all information gathered during the study was dealt with confidentially and permission from the participants was obtained for all information to be shared publicly). x Not deceiving the subjects (participants were informed concerning the aim, the purpose and the procedures of the study and were not deceived in any way).

Overview of coal mining in South Africa South Africa’s economy is highly fossil fuel-dependent, with the main source of electricity being coal. It also has large reserves of uranium and small reserves of oil and gas. The second biggest energy carrier is imported crude oil (needed for the supply of liquid fuels for transportation) while moderate amounts of nuclear, gas and hydro contribute to the energy mix. The electricity generation mix is heavily dominated by coal (91%) with nuclear energy from Koeberg in the Western Cape making up an additional 5%. Open cycle gas turbines (0.1%) and pumped storage and hydro stations (2%) meet residual requirements (CTF Trust Fund Committee 2013, 11). Apart from the heavy domestic reliance on coal as a source of energy, South Africa is a significant participant in global coal markets. However, it is not the biggest player: China, the USA and India are much larger producers and consumers of coal; Australia, Colombia, Indonesia and Russia are larger exporters. Yet South Africa’s coal industry is noteworthy

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in a number of respects. First, the country is a relatively low cost producer (along with Columbia and Indonesia). Second, it has the world’s largest coal export terminal (Richards Bay) (see Figure 2-1), and is positioned conveniently between Atlantic and Pacific coal markets (see Figure 2-3). Third, it is a potential swing producer, able to export competitively to either Europe or the East (see Figure 2-3) (Eberhard 2011, 5).

Figure 2-1: Richards Bay Coal Terminal (RBCT) exports in million tonnes per annum (Mtpa) Source: Isaacs (2007)

South Africa produced 310.3 million tonnes of run-of-mine (ROM) thermal coal, of which 245.3 million tonnes was of saleable quality in 2007. Production of total ROM yielded 53% from opencast, 40% from board-and-pillar, 4% from stoping and 3% from long wall mining methods. Production increased marginally (0.2%) in 2007 to 245.3 million tonnes, although the year saw local sales tonnage increasing by 3.2% and export volumes declining by 2.1% to a suboptimal tonnage of 66.7 million tonnes (Steyn 2009, 34).

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The monetary value of coal per tonne increased for domestic and exported coal by R106/t and R360/t respectively. The five largest mining groups, Anglo Coal, BHP Billiton, EXXARO, SASOL and Xstrata, produced over 80% of the saleable production (see Figure 2-2).

Figure 2-2: Market share in coal production by corporation (2009) Source: Anglo American (2010)

Furthermore, in 2007, South African coal was exported to 34 countries, of which 84.5% were in the European Community (with the largest offtakers being the United Kingdom, Spain, France, Italy and Germany). Other regions were Africa, Middle East, Far East and South America (see Figure 2-3) (Steyn 2009, 34). South Africa’s economically recoverable coal reserves are estimated at between 15 and 55 billion tonnes. 96% of reserves are bituminous coal; metallurgical coal accounts for approximately 2% and anthracite another 2%. Production is mainly steam coal of bituminous quality. The majority of South Africa’s reserves and mines are in the Central Basin, which includes the Witbank, Highveld and Ermelo coalfields. Coal production in the Central Basin is likely to peak in the next decade. The Waterberg coalfield is the focus of recent exploration efforts and could become a major coal-mining centre in the future, subject to infrastructure and water constraints. Production in this area will double in the next five years.

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Exploration is also taking place in other coalfields in the Limpopo Province, with a focus on coking coal (Eberhard 2011, 7).

Figure 2-3: Global seaborne coal trade - 2006 Source: Isaacs (2007)

Coal seams are relatively thick and close to the surface, which allows for low-cost mining; a quarter of South Africa’s bituminous coal is between 15-50 m below the surface and much of the remainder between 50-200m. Half of the reserves are in seams 4-6m thick and a further third in 2-4m seams. Approximately half the production comes from opencast mines, and the balance from underground mines (Eberhard 2011, 7).

Impacts and externalisation costs of coal mining Given the cumulative nature of the impact of so many mines in such a confined space makes it difficult to disaggregate the impact of one operation from all others. In the discussions below the cumulative impact and externalisation of costs by coal mining is discussed, and where possible, individual operations are named. Coal mining is associated with a number of health and environmental hazards. Generally, coal mining stresses the environment during the extraction, beneficiation and transportation of coal to a power station

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(Mishra 2009). Human beings are also negatively affected in the coal fuel chain through exposure to harmful pollutants, as well as injuries and fatalities. In South Africa, the mining industry has an extremely cavalier attitude towards the closure of mines and the rehabilitation of the environment. The country has approximately 6,000 abandoned mines spilling acid water and heavy metals into the environment. Mines are abandoned despite strict environmental and water legislation and a legal requirement in terms of the Minerals and Petroleum Resources Development Act 9 (MPRDA) for mines to set aside funds for effective mine closure. This research shows that abandoned mines represent a major cost externalisation to society, as post-closure impact is extensive. There is also the negative tendency that coal majors such as Anglo or BHP sell off mines approaching end of life to ‘juniors’ who do not have the resources or capacity to close such mines properly. The main impacts associated with coal mining include climate change impacts from greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions, human health burdens due to air pollution, fatalities and injuries due to coal mining and transportation, water pollution, and impacts related to land use. The most important impacts of coal mining in the area are briefly discussed below.

Coal mining and water in Mpumalanga The study found that not only farmers but also municipal officials and even the Department of Water Affairs were worried about the impact of coal mining on water and environmental quality in the study area. For instance, farmers in the Kendal Ogies area were demanding clarification about the cumulative water quality impact of all the mines in the area. They were concerned that mine blasting destroyed their boreholes and that they were constantly having to repair the lining of boreholes. Borehole water was affected by the blasting at existing mines and was dirty after every blast. Another farmer complained that that borehole seals were broken after blasting at adjacent mines and the water turned red. Expensive filters had to be fitted to boreholes in the area. Farmers also complained about finding oil residue in their borehole water, suspecting that it was from mine operations. The blasting also cracked houses in the communities. Furthermore, farmers were concerned about the fact that their boreholes were deeper than the mine pits. They feared that seepage from the pit would pollute their boreholes. The researchers were given borehole water to taste and the water had a bad taste. Farmers were concerned that the full extent of impacts of the mines on water quality and

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quantity were still to be determined, which included sulphur, calcium and acidity levels (pH) levels. Acidity levels lower than 6.6 would have a significant impact on the irrigation of maize. Magnesium levels in the ground water potentially affected milk production and meat quality. High calcium levels could affect the growth of calves and skull formation. The mining companies responded by saying that they had put test boreholes in place around the pits to measure seepage impact into ground water. What farmers were not told was that these well fields around open pits were often used to drop the water table to ensure that mining operations occurred in dry conditions. Farmers were worried that underground water that was discharged above ground would alter the chemicals of the soil in the area. Various mining operations also appeared to be destroying other existing water resources, such as wetlands. In the town of Ogies, which periodically suffers water shortages and where boreholes regularly dry up, community members expressed concerns about the cumulative impact of all the mines on the quality of their tap water. The local council was in a quandary as to who should pay for cleaning mine-polluted water, noting the escalating cost of producing potable drinking water. Highlighting this dilemma, the local branch of the Democratic Alliance (the national opposition party) laid a case with the eMalahleni Council and the South African Human Rights Commission after collecting 4,000 signatures to complain about the poor quality of drinking water in the area (South African Human Rights Commission 2012). Community members were concerned about the impact of mining on wetlands, streams and rivers. They criticised the “poor track record” of the mines in the area vis-à-vis wetlands preservation. Some respondents cited the example of the Isibonelo Wetland Offset Programme—a rehabilitation initiative—which Anglo Coal was on the verge of abandoning due to “poor production performance”. There also seemed to be a problem reclaiming or re-establishing mined pans at Anglo Coal’s Mafube Colliery. These were indications that the communities were becoming more informed and concerned, but more importantly, more vigilant with regard to coal mining operations. There were also concerns expressed about the impact of mining on local streams and rivers such as the Wilge River. In 2010 the Department of Water Affairs conducted a study in the main coal-producing area, including the main town of eMalahleni, suburbs and surrounding settlements of Clewer, Wilge, Blackhill, Greenside, Paxton Prison, Pineridge, Klarinet, Hlalanikahle, Kwa-Guqa, Ferrobank, Ackerville, Schoongesicht, Tushanang, Lynnville, eMalahleni, Bankenveld, Phola, Duvhapark, Southview, Tasbetpark, Dixon, Reyno Ridge, Benfleur, Del

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Judor, Die Heuwel, Modelpark, Blancheville, Marelden, Jackaroo Park, Northfield, Hoëveldpark, Ogies, New Largo, Mpondozankomo, Khonzimfundo, Old Coronation, Kromdraai, Empumelelweni, Vosman Sand Pits, Santa Village, Blesboklaagte, Iraq, Naaupoort and Springvalley (Directorate: National Resources Planning 2010, 12). The study found that the major mining companies, such as Anglo and BHP Billiton, had little regard for water and environmental legislation and regulations, and that, with regard to eMalahleni (Witbank) Dam,“[t]here is no recorded licensed abstraction from this dam as found after an assessment of the WARMS data. The amount of water abstracted reaches a value of approximately 47.27 million m3 /annum. The assurance yield is notably exceeded. A large quantity of water is distributed for industrial and mining use. None of these quantities are recorded on WARMS database” (Directorate: National Resources Planning 2010, 7).

Mining and groundwater The effects of mining on groundwater are often localised to the mining area. This is dependent on the rehabilitation procedure adopted by the mining company (operational and closure phases), the extent to which blasting takes place, mine depth, geology, topography and the size of the catchment in which the mine is located. The effects of mining on groundwater adjacent to or close to a mining area are only possible if the area in question is situated downstream and in the same drainage/subcatchment region of the mine. Groundwater usually decants into tributaries and streams in the vicinity or area of the mine, and is determined by the geo-hydrological study. Pollution can occur both directly and indirectly. The direct effects manifest if groundwater is located down gradient from a surface mine, which drains into surface pits and ponds, or water that filters through to groundwater during rainfall, contaminated by surface pollutants on the mine property. Blasting may sometimes cause rock fractures to develop between two naturally divided areas, creating connections between underground seams through which polluted water can drain into adjacent unpolluted underground areas: this is an example of indirect water pollution. During visits to Clewer, Coronation informal settlement and MNS informal settlement, the research team found that communities were unable to access groundwater by means of wells or boreholes due to the impact of mining: either the water table in the area had dropped or the surface and groundwater was polluted. The Coronation community had an illegal plastic pipe connection to the local government’s water supply,

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while the MNS community was supplied once per week by means of a water tank truck. In participatory observations at community consultations between coal mining companies and communities in the Belfast area, the researchers found mine-appointed consultants misrepresenting well fields as water testing points at which the quality of groundwater was to be tested to determine mine impact. The well fields were only mentioned after a subsistence farmer complained that his cattle were becoming ill after drinking borehole water after mining commenced at a higher elevation than the land on which his animals grazed, which caused polluted water to seep into his boreholes. Where the landscape is undulating, groundwater rises as springs and streams in lower elevations. Previous studies have shown that the main impacts on aquatic ecosystems (mainly from gold, uranium and coal mining) relate to increased heavy metals in streams, addition of toxic and non-toxic metals, acid mine drainage, increased suspended solids, dissolved solids, increased hardness, increased sulphates, increased trace metal concentrations, decreased DO (Dissolved Oxygen), and decreased pH levels. In the case of Mpumalanga, a 2010 Report by the Department of Water Affairs Report found that: Extensive coal mining operations north and west of eMalahleni (Witbank) have resulted in large areas of subsidence and mine voids related to the historical mining of coal seams. This has resulted in extensive modification of the regional groundwater zone as well as contamination of both the groundwater and Brugspruit due to decant from the flooded mine workings. The natural groundwater flow direction follows the surface topography towards the Olifants River and the structural controls of the geology. Mine subsidence has resulted in a groundwater sink to the north and west of the eMalahleni (Witbank). The depth to groundwater is some 10 to 15mbgl. A number of point source pollution had occurred in this vicinity from mining infrastructure, waste water treatment works and landfill sites which could potentially impact the groundwater (Directorate: National Resources Planning 2010, 8).

Similarly, the Bench Marks Foundation (2009) found that at opencast diamond mines in Botswana, operators surrounded the excavation with well fields in order to drop the water table to ensure that operations occur in dry conditions.

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Coal mining and surface water On visits to Witbank’s Klarinet section, the research team and monitors came across seven poorly constructed, unsecured and untended “evaporation pans”. The team did pH tests which returned readings of 2.5 on a standard HTH test kit for Chlorine, pH, Total Alkalinity and Acid Demand. The reading implied that acid levels were too high to sustain biological life in the water, and the water was too acidic for humans or animals to drink. The evaporation pans had no fencing, the warning signs were completely inadequate, and the site had no exclusion zones, and was thus completely accessible to the public. The evaporation pans were not lined, implying that the acid water could freely seep into the groundwater, thus polluting boreholes in the vicinity. The pans flowed freely downstream into the Olifants River. Reporting on the condition of the surface water available to the public in eMalahleni, using the eMalahleni (Witbank) Dam as a case study, the Department of Water Affairs has remarked as follows: There is a concern in the quality of water in the eMalahleni areas as water quality has deteriorated in the period between 1995 and 2005. This expressed concern involves the presence of heavy metals including aluminium, cadmium, copper, lead, manganese and zinc found in treated water. In 2005 Arsenic, a potential dangerous element, exceeded the aquatic ecosystem guidelines and needed urgent attention. The fluoride levels exceeded both drinking water guidelines as well as those for aquatic ecosystems. However, this high level of fluoride can be explained through the high level of fluoride found in the immediate natural environment. Skeletal fluorosis may occur in humans and aquatic animals, if exposure to intermediate fluoride concentrations occurs over long periods and exposure to fluoride concentrations of greater than 4,000 mg/l may cause bone and tooth enamel fluorosis (Directorate: National Resources Planning 2010).

In 2012, residents of Carolina found acid coming out of their domestic water taps (Blaine 2012). They subsequently took the government to court arguing that they had a constitutional right to clean drinking water. The residents won the case; however, the “polluter pays principle” could not be enforced, as the mining companies argued that it was impossible to prove which one of the many mining companies was responsible for the impact (Kings 2012). Opencast mines can affect water quality through dirty mine water discharges, leachate from waste dumps or acid mine drainage. Surface water sources can be disrupted by surface mines through increasing runoff, reducing infiltration, which decreases groundwater recharge, and

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increasing sedimentation due to vegetation removal. Surface mines also disrupt large land surface areas, displace people, impact on local biodiversity and erode the soil. Underground mining, on the other hand, may cause surface subsidence, which imposes severe damage to engineering structures (Singh 2008). Abandoned pits also pose a risk of drowning. Subsidence of soil in filled in open pits causes a funnel effect, catching rainwater and concentrating it in the area of the former pit, affecting surface stream direction and groundwater through leaching. To prepare coal for use in power stations and for export, it is cleaned to reduce impurities. This is usually done using wet cleaning methods. This process can reduce the coal’s sulphur content, but leaves behind coal slurry (a mixture of water and fine coal) that is disposed of in tailings dams (Wassung 2010). The tailings dams are vulnerable to breaching and collapsing during heavy precipitation. As a result, they become significant contributors to water contamination and may even pose a threat to the natural environment. Some of the chemicals used and generated in processing coal are known to be carcinogenic and some cause heart and lung damage (Epstein 2011). When these tailings facilities dry out, windblown dust becomes a significant health threat to communities living in proximity to such tailings dams. The Bureau for Food and Agriculture Production has estimated that: pollution in the Middelburg Dam [where BHP Billiton operates] exceeds the quality limits for water for human consumption, and Witbank Dam is heading in the same direction. Moreover, these pollution levels are still on the rise. Coal mine drainage can be detrimental to the aesthetic appearance of streams and rivers and destroys the living organisms that inhabit them. This in turn reduces their self-purification power and makes streams unfit for domestic, industrial or agricultural use, requiring surface waters to be extensively treated (at very high costs) before they are suitable for such uses (Bureau for Food and Agricultural Production 2012, 6).

As indicated earlier, the purification of mine-polluted water shifts the costs of cleaning up pollution onto the South African public, thus making a mockery of the “polluter pays principle”. The researchers found that major coal mining companies around Carolina did not associate themselves with the acidic tap water allegation in Carolina. Xstrata Coal SA, for instance, maintained that the company sold its Mpumalanga assets, including Spitzkop and Tselentis, to the Msobo Group in 2011. According to one authoritative source in the company, “before the sale we received integrated water use licences for both mines and we have co-operated with the Department of Water Affairs

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fully on all water related matters, related to the mines”. In relation to this, the Ministry of Water Affairs implicated BHP Billiton’s Union Colliery, a colliery operated by Xstrata Coal, Northern Coal’s Mimosa Mine and a mine operated by Siphetha Coal in the pollution that led to a 2012 ruling by a Pretoria judge ordering the Gert Sibanda District Municipality to supply Carolina residents with at least 25 litres of drinkable water per person per day. The community had been without sufficient drinkable water since mid-January 2012 (Coal-Guru 2012). The researchers were informed that the water situation in Carolina had “somehow improved” since 2013. Ironically, in attempting to distance itself, Xstrata appeared to have exposed a common insidious practice in the South African mining industry: instead of closing mines properly before the mineral approaches depletion, the established mining houses sell their operations off to the minor operators, who often lack the skills and resources to manage the environment, and more importantly, cannot afford to properly close and complete the operation.

Coal mining and air pollution Air pollution in coal mines is mainly caused by emissions of particulate matter, namely coal dust, burning discard dumps, underground fires (Goldblatt 2002) and methane (CH4) emissions—a GHG that is released during coal extraction when coal seams are cut (Singh 2008). Apart from posing a health hazard to the exposed population, the GHGs contribute to global warming. The main operations that produce dust and gases in mines are blasting, drilling, hauling, crushing and transportation. Air pollution is more of a problem in opencast mines than in underground mines, as opencast mines not only create pollution on the mining premises, but also in the areas surrounding the mines (Singh 2008). From the literature it is thus clear that coal mining is a hazardous activity that is associated with high fatality and mortality rates. Mineworkers may suffer injuries or even die from rock falls, material handling, methane explosions or accidents while transporting coal. Another health-related risk emanates from noise pollution, which, as in all mining in South Africa, causes problems such as hearing loss, while air pollution causes problems such as pneumoconiosis or black lung disease (Goldblatt 2002). The risk of black lung disease is greatly increased in areas where tuberculosis is highly prevalent. Countries with the highest incidence and prevalence of black lung disease are:

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China: 10 million people exposed Brazil: 6.6 million people exposed Colombia: 1.8 million people exposed India: 1.7 million people exposed South Africa: 600,000 people exposed (WHITIA 2012). Black lung disease can affect both mine workers in shaft and opencast mines and near-mine communities. During visits to several near mine communities, especially Coronation (abandoned former Anglo Coal mine), MNS Informal Settlement and Clewer (bordering on Xstrata and Anglo operations), the research team came across individuals suffering from black lung disease. One elderly man (68 years old) living in Clewer, who was a contract grader operator on the coal mines all his life, indicated that he had been diagnosed with tuberculosis, but that his sputum was black every time he coughed. The symptoms he described were typical of someone suffering from black lung disease: coughing and disabling shortness of breath. According to the MERCK Manual of Medical Information, prevention of black lung disease “is crucial because there is no cure for black lung. Black lung can be prevented by adequately suppressing coal dust at a work site” (Beers 2003, 266-267). Apart from being exposed to coal dust most of his working life, the man lived in a house in Clewer less than 500 metres from a major Anglo Coal opencast mining operation. His family reports that their property is covered in dust and suffers major tremors every time there is blasting at the mine. Another individual residing in MNS informal settlement who was interviewed also spat black mucus every time she coughed, and she was weakened by poor lung function. She had lived all her life in this settlement surrounded by mines. Slater Mine operated less than 50 metres from her house, with dust particulate from both grading and haul trucking severely affecting her household. The Department of Environmental Affairs reported in 2011 that: “The total estimated emissions of fine particulate matter (PM10) on the High Veld Priority Area (HPA) are 279,630 tons, of which approximately half is attributed to dust entrainment on opencast mine haul roads. The emission of PM10 from the primary metallurgical industry accounts for 17% of the total emission, with 12% of the total from power generation. By contrast, power generation contributes 73% of the total estimated oxides of nitrogen (NOx) emission of 978,781 tons per annum and 82% of the total sulphur dioxide (SO2) emission of 1,622,233 tons per annum” (Chief Directorate Air Quality Management 2011, 10).

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According to the Department of Environmental Affairs, industrial sources in total are by far the largest contributor of emissions in the priority area, accounting 89% of PM10, 90% of NOx and 99% of SO2. The Department grouped the major industrial sources for these emissions into the following categories: Power generation Coal mining Primary metallurgical operations Secondary metallurgical operations Brick manufacturers Petrochemical industry Ekurhuleni industrial sources (other than the above) Mpumalanga industrial sources (other than the above) (Chief Directorate Air Quality Management 2011, 11). Visual confirmation of the Department’s findings were made by the research team on a number of visits to Witbank, Middelburg and the suburbs, townships and informal villages of Coronation, Klarinet, MNS informal Settlement and Clewer. Patricia Nicole Albers (2011, 85) did an assessment study of child respiratory health in the Highveld Priority Area, and looked at particulate matter 10 (PM10) distribution over the month of September 2008 showing exceedances of both the World Health Organisation (WHO) guidelines and South African Standards for Witbank and Middelburg. It should be noted that the South African Standard is extremely lenient and biased towards polluting industries and therefore undermines the Constitutional Rights to a clean and safe environment of the residents of both Witbank and Middelburg. The WHO guideline is massively exceeded on an almost daily basis (see Figure 2-4). It must be noted that the biggest single contributor to dust pollution in Mpumalanga is mining. Figure 2-5 shows that the greatest daily exposure to toxic dust and smoke in households in Middelburg and Witbank occur between five o’clock and nine o’clock in the morning, and between half past four in the evening and half past nine at night. These are typically the periods in which people wake up and prepare to go to work and school (with an associated increase in traffic), with elevated uses of energy and when they return from work (with an associated increase in traffic) in the evening and prepare the evening meal.

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Figure 2-4: PM10 distribution during September 2008 over Witbank and Middelburg Source: Albers (2011)

Figure 2-5: Diurnal distribution of particulate matter 10 (PM10) in Witbank and Middelburg Source: Albers (2011)

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Figure 2-6 shows that during the month of May 2009, the Sulphur Dioxide (SO2) emissions exceeded the WHO guidelines significantly on an almost daily basis. It is hugely problematic that South Africa does not have an SO2 standard at all (Albers 2011, 90). SO2 emissions are associated with the burning of fossil fuels by both the high concentration of coal-fired power stations in the area and by households. The graphs also indicate a heavy reliance on fossil fuels for household energy. The irony of the situation is that many people residing in the province with the highest number of coal-fired power stations supplying power to the entire country (8 out of 11 power stations are in Mpumalanga, where Witbank and Middelburg are located) have limited or no access to electricity.

Figure 2-6: Monthly distribution of SO2 for May 2009 for Witbank and Middelburg Source: Albers (2011)

Albers (2011) found a significant correlation between dust and air pollution in Witbank and Middelburg and major respiratory problems among the children residing there. The researchers were concerned that companies such as Sasol and Eskom, among others, could apply for exemptions and postponements from requirements in the National Environmental Management Air

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Quality Act (Kings 2014, 7), especially given that the Act was meant to protect the right of all South Africans to live in a clean environment.

Concerns about air quality Councillors and other members in the area were concerned about the cumulative impact on air quality caused by the existing Kendal power station and the new Kusile power station. They were also concerned about the dust from operations and the emissions from trucks, vehicles and machinery. Councillors and community members noted that the increase in smoke and dust in the Kendal and Ogies area was causing increasing respiratory problems and that it was straining the public health infrastructure in the area. Members of the community complained that on windy days dust could travel further than the standard 500m buffer zone and that the control of this dust should be better managed. Several farmers being interviewed complained that dust could affect the drinking water of their cattle, thus also affecting milk production and quality. Furthermore, farmers expressed their concerns that fertility and the ability to reproduce in cattle could decrease because of dust and water pollution.

Coal mining and soil A statement by Bench marks Foundation (2014) asserts that in order to produce 23 million tonnes of coal in its Middelburg mine, BHP Billiton’s operations exerted an enormous impact on the environment, including the “removal of 6 million cubic metres of topsoil”, use of 65.5 million kilograms of explosives, removal of 125 million cubic metres of overburden, and massive damage to some 339 hectares of land. According to the Maize Trust of South Africa, “based on statistics from AGIS (2011) it was calculated that in the year 2007, Mpumalanga’s cultivation equalled a total of 993,301 hectares. If the current mining areas are overlaid with the latest field crop boundaries, a total of 326,022 ha of farmland will be lost to mining and a further 439,577 hectares are at risk if the prospecting area is also transferred, totalling 765,599 hectares of cultivated land potentially transferred if all the mining activities are taken into account” (Bureau for Food and Agricultural Production 2012, 10). Mpumalanga is at the heart of the so-called maize triangle in South Africa and coal mining is drastically reducing the land available for the growth of maize. Maize is the staple food of the black African majority in the country, who also make up the bulk of the poorest of the poor. It is

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predicted that the loss of land to maize farming caused by coal mining will see a drastic reduction in the production of maize that will pose a threat to food security, and also bring about an escalation of food prices (Bureau for Food and Agricultural Production 2012).

Coal mining and human health Coal mining is a major contributor to acid mine drainage (AMD) in South Africa. Human exposure to acid mine drainage pollutants can occur through ingestion of contaminated water, food or through dermal absorption via water or air. If contaminated such plants are consumed by animals and humans, the metal concentrations may be carried along in the food chain. Animals that drink contaminated water and/or feed on contaminated plants have been shown to accumulate metals in their tissue or in their milk (Bureau for Food and Agricultural Production 2012, 6). Coal mining in Mpumalanga also has further health risks for communities as shown by recent studies. The effects of mining on local coal mining communities are also sometimes overlooked. A Social and Labour Plan (SLP) might detail how mining companies will build houses and provide water and other services, but, according to the West Virginia University Health Sciences Center, as cited in World Wildlife Fund-SA (2011, 58): “Studies have looked at health effects in coal mining communities and found that community members have a 70% greater risk of developing kidney disease and a 64% greater risk of developing chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) such as emphysema. They are also 30% more likely to report high blood pressure (hypertension)”. In 2006, it was reported that mercury emissions in South Africa were second only to China, contributing more than 10% of global mercury emissions. This was reportedly mainly from coal combustion by releasing the mercury that occurs naturally in coal and gold mining. People who have been exposed to mercury exhibit neurotoxic effects. Debilitating diseases such as Multiple Sclerosis, Parkinson’s Disease, and Alzheimer’s have all been linked to mercury poisoning. Mercury is particularly problematic in children and developing foetuses (Environment News South Africa 2006).

Impact of coal mining on land subsidence and sinkholes— the case of Coronation informal settlement The research team were shocked at the sinkholes that are occurring all over the decommissioned Coronation mine’s Likazi informal settlement

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community in Mpumalanga. The Coronation mine used to belong to Anglo Coal (Amcoal); the current ownership of this now abandoned mine is unclear (Vaal Industries and Business Guide 2013). What is clear is that Anglo Coal never rehabilitated the mining site after closure. The research team is still trying to determine if Anglo Coal was issued with a mine closure certificate, or whether it sold the operation just before closure to another mining company with less resources or skills to close the mine properly. The old mining area was not properly fenced off or guarded, allowing people seeking jobs in eMalahleni to migrate and settle in the dangerous exclusion zone of the former mine (Ljungberg and Wier 2012, 26). The land on which Coronation informal settlers reside in Likazi is extremely dangerous. South Africa’s shaft coalmines are extremely shallow and prone to caving into sinkholes, especially during the rainy season. In addition, the shafts fill up with water and then decant acid mine water into both the ground water and the surface water. The coal waste spontaneously combusts and residents risk being severely burned.

Coal mining and child labour In the late 19th and early 20th centuries child labour, particularly among black African children, was common on the coal mines around Witbank. Community monitors in eMalalheni informed the research team that the coal waste pile on the edge of Likazi informal settlement at Coronation mine was being re-mined by artisanal miners. These miners dig for coal to sell to people in informal settlements who do not have access to electricity, and to obtain coal for their own energy consumption. The standard mode of operation is one adult male with several male children, usually relatives. They tunnel their way under the coal pile and then pass trays loaded with coal in relay fashion to the mouth of the tunnel. Our guide in Likazi informed the research team of an incident where an adult and two boys died when the tunnel they had dug under the mine waste collapsed on them. Mines that are not properly closed serve as an invitation to the large numbers of unemployed people in South Africa to engage in uncontrolled and unregulated informal (‘illegal’) mining. There are increasing numbers of children drawn into this activity. Thus, while the major corporations truthfully deny employing child labour, their history of irresponsibility in terms of mine closure is leading to the re-emergence of child labour on our mines. A further problem is that the mine waste combusts spontaneously and community monitors told the researchers harrowing tales of people,

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especially children, burning their legs when mine waste collapses while they walked over it.

Impact of coal mining on road transportation and infrastructure Coal transportation produces a number of negative externalities, primarily in the form of air pollution, global warming, accidents, noise, congestion and damage to roadways (Jorgensen 2010). The establishment of new roads also impacts on local biodiversity. Coal transportation leads to both occupational and non-occupational injuries and deaths. Air pollution is a product of fossil fuel combustion in the engines of trucks and trains. The classic air pollutants emitted during transportation include sulphur dioxide (SO2), nitrogen oxides (NOx), carbon monoxide (CO), hydrocarbons (HC), non-methane volatile organic compounds (NMVOC), lead (Pb) and particulate matter (PM2.5). The GHGs associated with transportation include carbon dioxide (CO2), which is the main GHG associated with the transport sector, methane (CH4), which is emitted in small quantities, and nitrous oxide (N2O). Furthermore, different noises are caused by engines, car alarms, radios and road contact, to mention but a few. Linked to accidents are injuries, death, material damage and lost productivity (Gaffen 2000). In an interview with a coal truck driver the researchers found that the driver was driving 17 hours, non-stop, per day, getting up at 3am and working until 10pm every day. Driver fatigue must therefore be a major contributory factor in road accidents near coalmines. The roads in the area are shared by the mining companies, farmers and the public. Communities and individuals were concerned by the rapid deterioration of roads because of heavy vehicles servicing the coal mines and the power plants. Respondents cited increased levels of dust, increased numbers of accidents and the destruction of paved roads (potholes). Communities felt that due to financial constraints, the local and provincial governments were incapable of maintaining the roads in the area. They also complained that they paid the same amount of road tax (as part of the fuel levy) as the mining companies and their transport subcontractors, yet they did not have the same destructive impact on the roads.

Coal mining and economic concerns in the area People in the area complained that the various mines often held several meetings and promised the Ogies and Phola residents that they would

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benefit from local employment, however, the mines employed people from Witbank and other areas but hardly any local people. The violent protests early in 2010 were the result of the frustration of local people about the expectations created by mining companies in public meetings and the subsequent failure of these operations to live up to the promises made during consultation processes. The researchers were bluntly told that the community no longer trusted the mining companies because of their experiences with them. Communities had discovered that the number of jobs created during construction and operations was very limited; mining thus aggravates unemployment through land that formerly employed people in agriculture now being turned over to mining. This is particularly so for coal mining, which is more capital intensive than other forms of mining. Men in the community complained that mines relied heavily on subcontracting workers (men) who were mostly from other areas. There was no training or employment of locals. Mining companies looked towards local women to make up their Charter targets for HDSAs. This created conflict between local men and women, and between local men and men brought in from outside. Older people in the Witbank, Middelburg, Kendal, Wilge, Ogies and Phola communities complained that they suffered all the same negative impacts as the rest of the population but that they were completely excluded from any opportunities of employment by the mining companies.

Procurement Local traders and business people felt that the mines in the Kendal/Ogies area bought very little from local traders and business people. The only businesses that benefited from mining were trucking and transport, catering (for truck drivers and truck stops) and the renting of backrooms to mainly migrant workers.

Housing Where people have been or are to be relocated from housing that they rent in order to make place for mining, as at Wilge and from the New Largo village that was built while the mine was still a shaft mine, communities were concerned that the mining companies compensated the owners of houses when relocation took place, rather than the renting occupants. Renting occupants cited the inconvenience and costs of relocating to a new

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residence beyond the cost of the property to the owner as reasons for demanding compensation. Communities furthermore expressed concern about the impact of the living-out allowance resulting in backyard shacks and informal settlements.

Agriculture Apart from the impact of mining on water and air quality on agriculture production (as noted above), farmers specifically complained about: x The concept of the original landowner being responsible for relocation of his farm labourers, and not the mining company; x The impact of mining on service roads; x The devaluation of farm land surrounded by mining operations; x The loss of agricultural land, and ultimately food security to mining; x The loss of fertile topsoil due to the nature of opencast mining; and x Increased levels of crime, theft of crops (maize) and livestock, due to an influx of people attracted by mining into the area. Anglo Coal will be constructing a water treatment plant as part of its New Largo operation. However, some farmers in the area were exporting produce to the European Union. They were concerned that a mine is nonrenewable and the problem was always who will pay for its pollution, such as the old mines decanting into the system. The vegetable farmers downstream from the mines in the Kendal Ogies area were losing European clients due to the bad quality of water used for irrigation. According to respondents: “We need clean water, because the European Union does not want produce to be watered with recycled water”. Another concern was the decrease of farming activities. Many of the smaller farms along the supply roads to Kendal and Ogies, for example, had converted their land into truck stops and switched from farming to transport operations servicing the many collieries in the area.

Coal mining and social/cultural concerns in the area Social and health concerns Communities and individuals being interviewed raised the following social/health concerns:

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x The capacity of existing public health facilities were not coping with the rapid increase in population attracted by the rapid growth of coal mining in the area. x Increases in the number of squatter camps and informal settlements. x Lack of access to services such as electricity and clean water in squatter camps and informal settlements. x Increases in water borne illnesses due to water pollution in the area. x Increases in respiratory problems due to dust from mining operations. x Increases in alcohol and substance abuse. x Increases in sexually transmitted infections. x Increases in HIV/AIDS because of casual and transactional sex between single mineworker migrants and unemployed women in communities. x Increases in sex work, especially along supply routes to and from mining operations and between mining operations and power stations. Communities were completely uninformed about any disaster management plans developed by any of these mining operations. Every single one of these operations poses serious environmental and social disaster risks. None of the documents under scrutiny of the researchers talked about how disasters would be managed. There was no reference on how these mining companies would respond to, inform or involve the community regarding HIV/Aids, to a tailings collapse, or to unintended toxic spills into local streams and rivers.

Cultural issues The main concerns of communities in this regard were the following: x They were concerned about the relocation of graves on land taken over by mining operations. x They were concerned that relatively young people were dying from diseases such as HIV/Aids. The entire cultural institution of ancestor veneration is subverted by these diseases: “How can I worship my children as my ancestors”, an older person asked the research team. Deaths at a relative young age due to HIV/Aids can furthermore contribute to an increasing number of orphans.

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Recommendations In response to the research findings, this study presents the following recommendations as necessary steps to be taken by the coal mining industry to ensure the protection of human rights and to bring the sector more in line with global best practices. The researchers recommend to the Department of Mineral Resources, the Industry and the Chamber of Mines, the establishment of an independent central fund on which mining-impacted communities could draw to appoint their own expert law, geological, environmental, social and economic experts so as to offset the imbalance in knowledge and power that exists between mining corporations and communities in the consultation processes. The researchers recommend to the Department of Mineral Resources, Industry and the Chamber of Mines, the establishment of an independent national grievance and arbitration mechanism to which mining-impacted communities could refer all mine impact-related grievances. The researchers call for voluntary principles to be replaced with statutory and legally binding regulations and obligations as far as mine impacts are concerned: it was clear from the research that voluntary principles have a minimal impact. The researchers call for the Department of Environmental Affairs and the Department of Water Affairs to rigorously apply the ‘polluter pays’ principle, in particular to ensure that it is vigorously adhered to and imposed. The researchers call for absolute obligatory transparency by mining corporations regarding mine closure funds and plans. The researchers recommend that the industry effects and conducts community consultation, negotiation and participation across the life of mines from greenfields to closure. The researchers call for the obligatory adoption of the community’s informed continuous right to consent or refuse proposed mining operations and developments. The researchers recommend to the Department of Health that proper scientific epidemiological studies be done in the coal mining areas of the country to determine the full health impact of mining on near mine communities in terms of both respiratory and other health problems identified in this study. The researchers recommend that mining corporations scrap the livingout allowance and offer an array of corporate subsidised housing options to employees.

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The researchers call on the Department of Mineral Resources and the national parliament to effect changes in the MPRDA to make it illegal to sell off a mining operation near the end of the life of a mine so as to avoid the costs of proper mine closure. The researchers recommend to the Department of Mineral Resources that former owners of abandoned mines be tracked down and prosecuted. The researchers recommend that the Department of Water Affairs goes beyond just studying the problem of mine water decanting into the water systems of the country, and also prosecutes those responsible for the pollution of these systems. Finally, the researchers recommend that the Department of Environmental Affairs and the Department of Health cumulatively hold coal mining corporations accountable for air pollution, emissions and dust particulate impacts on communities in the coal mining areas of South Africa.

Conclusion During the visits to the area under review, the Research Team found that communities and individuals raised a number of concerns about the impact of mining in terms of their environmental health and security, their social security and their economic well-being. The results of this study are qualitative and perception-based: communities described their life worlds. In addition to the Research Team’s scientific analysis of, for example, water and air pollution, a full environmental, economic and social impact study in the area will be valuable, and will allow for the further validating/invalidating of community concerns. While interviewees showed a high level of awareness of the issues, there is need for community training in order to build the ability of communities to monitor and respond to impacts and potential disasters, as well as engaging on key issues in the life of mine, and even beyond mine closure. The inability of relevant state departments to implement and monitor legislation runs like a golden thread through the study. Except for the implementation and monitoring of legislation, the state also has the obligation to respect, protect and fulfil human rights and fundamental freedoms; this is not happening in the coal fields of Mpumalanga. Mining companies that contravene environmental, labour and social laws and norms, make the picture of the studied area even grimmer. Companies that are operating without water licences, starting opencast operations in close proximity to communities, causing the development of urban slums and squatter camps through the living-out allowance, and not controlling dust and smoke emissions, are the order of the day in the study area.

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Furthermore, the research suggests that the CSR and community engagement processes from the side of the companies are seemingly driven by philanthropy. In other words the corporation assumes what is best for the land owners or community and then implements its projects. As a result of all this, communities and workers are to a large extent being left powerless. They cannot expect remediation from the state or from the mining companies, and consequently, communities have lost faith in democracy. South Africa is faced with a crisis of representation and communities and workers are increasingly resorting to violence in their protests. The mining corporations, on the other hand, respond with the militarisation of mine security and using their undue leverage over the state and call for the ever more vicious use of the repressive apparatus of the state against its own citizens. Unfortunately the Marikana tragedy must be mentioned in this regard. In general it is evident that global best practice guidelines on corporate responsibility are currently not implemented in a meaningful manner and mining companies fall short in terms of applying the principles on human rights and community engagement as indicated in frameworks such as the UN Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights and the Bench Marks Principles. If urgent steps are not taken to address the valid grievances of mining communities by means of truthful, transparent and equal consensus-seeking community engagement practices, the social, labour and economic crises currently plaguing the industry are set to continue.

References Albers, P.N. 2011. Assessment of Child Respiratory Health in the Highveld Priority Area. Pretoria: School of Health Systems and Public Heralth, University of Pretoria. Anglo American. 2010. Anglo American Thermal Coal Investor Presentation. London: Anglo American. Babbie, E. & Mouton, J. 1998. The Practice of Social Research. Cape Town: Oxford University Press. Beers, M.H. (Ed.). 2003. The MERCK Manual of Medical Information (2nd edition). New Jersey: Merck Publishing. Bench Marks Foundation. 2014. Coal mining in South Africa is threatening food security. Media statement, 19 August. http://www.bench-marks.org.za/press/food_security.pdf Accessed 15 July, 2016.

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—. 2009. Policy Gap 5: Corporate Social Responsibility in the Diamond Mining Industry in Botswana – De Beers, Botswana and the Control of a Country. Johannesburg: The Bench Marks Foundation. Blaine, S. 2012. Carolina’s polluted water highlights growing problem in SA. Business Day. http://www.lhr.org.za/news/2012/carolina%E2%80%99s-pollutedwater-highlights-growing-problem-sa-business-day Accessed 4 September 2012. Bureau for Food and Agricultural Production. 2012. Evaluating the impact of coal mining on agriculture in the Delmas, Ogies and Leandra districts: A focus on maize production. Stellenbosch: The Maize Trust. Chief Directorate Air Quality Management. 2011. The Highveld Priority Area Air Quality Management Plan: Executive Summary. Pretoria: Department of Environmental Affairs. Coal-Guru. 2012. BHP Billiton denies responsibility for Carolina water pollution. http://www.coalguru.com/bhpb_denies_responsibility_for_carolina_wa ter_pollution/1352 Accessed February 8, 2013. CTF Trust Fund Committee. 2013. Update of CTF Investment Plan for South Africa. Washington DC: CTF. Directorate: National Resources Planning. 2010. Development of a reconciliation strategy for all towns in the Northern Region: Nkangala District Municipality and eMalahleni Local Municipality. Pretoria: Department of Water Affairs. Eberhard, A. 2011. The future of South African coal: Market, investment, and policy challenges. Stanford, CA: Freeman Spogli Institute for International Studies, Program on Energy and Sustainable Development. Stanford University. Environment News South Africa. 2006. South Africa second biggest global contributor of mercury emissions. http://www.environment.co.za/poisoning-carcinogens-heavy-metalsmining/south-africa-second-biggest-global-contributor-of-mercuryemissions.html. Accessed 16 March 2014. Epstein, P.B. 2011. Full cost accounting for the life cycle of coal. New York Academy of Science Annual 1219:73-98. Gaffen, M.N. 2000. A quantitative analysis of the full cost associated with motor vehicle use in South Africa. Pretoria: Report for the Department of Transport. Goldblatt, M.G. 2002. Synthesis report of South African study. WWF macroeconomics and sustainable development in southern Africa. Johannesburg: WWF.

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Isaacs, W. 2007. South African coal a bright future. Johannesburg: BHP Billiton Energy Coal South Africa. Jorgensen, A. 2010. Transport costs and the relevance of externalities.. http://www.rra.co.za/?p=16756 Accessed 2September 2012 Kings, S. 2012. Court orders municipality to provide water in Carolina. http://mg.co.za/article/2012-07-10-carolina-water-court-order Accessed 4 September 2012. —. 2014. Eskom spurns air quality controls. Mail and Guardian, 14 March, p. 7. Ljungberg, A. & Wier, M. 2012. A study of reasons for living in the highrisk community Old Coronation in South Africa. Lund: Department of Fire Safety Engineering and Systems Safety. Mishra, S. 2009. Estimation of externality costs of electricity generation from coal: An OH-MARKAL extension dissertation. Canada: The Ohio State University. Patton, M. 2002. Qualitative research and evaluation methods. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Singh, G. 2008. Mitigating environmental and social impacts of coal mining in India. http://www.ismenvis.nic.in/My_Webs/Digital_Library/GSingh/Mitigat ing%20Environmental Accessed 2 September 2012. South African Human Rights Commission. 2012. SAHRC is still continuing with its investigation of a complaint relating to poor water quality and service delivery in the eMalahleni Municipal area in Mpumalanga. http://www.sahrc.org.za/home/index.php?ipkMenuID=&ipkArticleID= 91 Accessed 15 February 2012. Steyn, M. 2009. Coal marketing in South Africa: The intricacies of product, distribution, price. Research report in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Science in Engineering University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. The District Manager. 2012. 2012/2013 Integrated Development Plan. Middelburg: Nkangala District Municipality. Ultra Quick Host. n.d. The History of Witbank. http://www.mpumalangahappenings.co.za/witbank_homepage.htm Accessed 3 April 2014. Vaal Industries and Business Guide. 2013. Anglo Coal.. http://www.vaaltriangleinfo.co.za/industries/index.htm Accessed 6 June 2013.

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Wassung, N. 2010. Water scarcity and electricity generation in South Africa Part 1: Water use in the coal-to-electricity process. Stellenbosch: University of Stellenbosch. WHITIA. 2012. Remote Electronic Medical Imaging Device.” Accessed September 4, 2012. http://www.worldhealthimaging.org/remi-d_black_lung.html Witbank News. 2006. Supplement to the Witbank News—Celebrating the City's 100th Birthday. Witbank: Witbank News. Yin, K. 1984. Case study research: design and methods. California: SAGE Publications.

CHAPTER THREE SOUTH AFRICA: CONTROL OF BIODIVERSITY IN THE CONTEXT OF BIOPIRACY BABALWA SISHUTA AND ANASTASIA DOYLE

Introduction The debate on access to and control of biological diversity is riddled with a history of hierarchical power asymmetries and contradictory policy frameworks that have created a fragmented foundation for global environmental governance. The case of Pelargonium Sidoides is illustrative of the contestation that exists between local communities, the state and industry. On a broader scale the case is informed by international debates regarding the renewed interest in indigenous medicinal plants appropriated for commercial purposes. It depicts the lack of efficacy on the part of the Convention on Biological Diversity in finding resonance between sustainable resource use, rural livelihoods and development in relation to the international trade regime governed by the agreement on Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property. More pertinently, it reflects a disparity within access and benefit-sharing (ABS) arising from the utilisation of biodiversity and knowledge of its use. Rooted within the history of knowledge production and dissemination the international policy framework regulating ABS is contradictory and insufficient at best. This chapter reflects on the case of pelargonium sidoides which, as the chapter argues, is indicative of biopiracy—the robbing of communities of vital ecological resources to which they lay claim as original stewards.

The politics of knowledge: epistemology and power The traditional and historic controversy, especially in the 21st century, in the paradigms of conservation and sustainable development whenever the

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term Indigenous Knowledge (IK) or more specifically Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) and biodiversity are discussed, is still pervasive. The current discourse has been hostile to the IKS-biodiversity nexus. This exists despite inroads that have been made in recent decades about the utility of IKS and the questioning of the distinction between indigenous and western knowledge (Agrawal 1995, 1). There is no unanimity when it comes to how knowledge from non-western societies or communities should be acknowledged, with some referring to it as “traditional knowledge” (Amankwah 2007, 1; Hayden 2006, 26; Srinivas 2012, 403), “local knowledge” (Akpan 2011, 116), “indigenous knowledge” (Agrawal 1995, 413; Briggs 2005, 2), “non-western/cultures” (Sachs et al. 2003, 45), “traditional ecological knowledge” (Dods, 2004, 549), “indigenous environmental knowledge” (Ellen, Bicker and Parkes 2000, 319), “traditional knowledge of the use of plants” (TKUP) (Mgbeoji 2006, 11), “farmers’ knowledge, folk knowledge, and indigenous science” (Nakashima et al. 2012, 30). Other names are more derogatory, such as “savage ecologists living in harmony with nature” (Ellen et al. 2000, 319), “primitives or indigenes” (Nakashima et al. 2012, 29), “small tribal peoples of non-European descent” (Ellen et al. 2000, 2) and “backward despoilers” (Roht-Arriaza 1996, 928). Cognisant of the different connotations and diverse interpretations embedded in each term, and at the risk of over-simplification, for the purposes of this chapter the terms indigenous or traditional knowledge will be used interchangeably. From the onset the position taken here is that indigenous communities are integral and inseparable from the collective community and their natural surroundings (Koyama and Mayet 2007, 10). As part of a huge contestation where power relations are concerned, IKS have long been subjugated because of their different nature, methodological and epistemological approaches to constructing and reproducing knowledge (Briggs 2005, 102; Agrawal 1995, 413). This has resulted in the ubiquitous polarisation of western (or “scientific” or “formal” or “international”) knowledge with indigenous (or “informal”) knowledge, characterised as “parochial, unintellectual, primitive and intellectual” (Briggs 2005, 102-103). This negates the long history of interaction between scientific and traditional knowledge in which colonial endeavours “focused their efforts on compiling lists of ‘useful’ plants and animals unknown to European science…they adopted from indigenous peoples entire classification schemes that order and interpret ecological systems according to an indigenous logic” (Nakashima et al. 2012, 31). The re-appraisal of the value and lessons that indigenous and traditional knowledge, in relation to biodiversity and its sustainable use,

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can provide for Western medicinal practice is relatively recent and inconsequential. As argued by Roht-Arriaza (1996, 96), “the shaman is no longer a witchdoctor but a healer with knowledge worthy of new respect from western science.” This has not removed the power asymmetries between the biodiverse-rich developing countries and the developed countries, but has cemented global inequalities in access to and control of biodiversity. Hence the natural living space of the developing countries comes into the firing line of the international resource economy, as primary suppliers of raw materials (Sachs 2003, 9). This has not been met by a corresponding case against the scramble for these natural resources and the illegal appropriation of IK and biological resources. Nor is this a useful indicator of the recognition of their economic rights, including beneficiation. This contrasts sharply with the collective property rights regime of local communities. This is most prevalent through the intellectual property rights (IPRs)1 regimes in the form of patents.

The bioprospecting-biopiracy debate In light of technological advancements there has been a renewed interest by pharmaceutical and agricultural companies in the biological resources of developing countries as a source of new chemical compounds (see Svarstad 2002). In 2006 the global market for pharmaceuticals grew 7% to $643 billion, with the US and Europe not only dominating the global sales, but also having the greatest concentration of pharmaceutical companies (Laird and Wynberg 2008, 11). It is estimated that the value of the global market for herbal remedies could be as high as $5 trillion by the year 2020 (Masango 2010, 75). What is more, of the 119 drugs now developed from higher plants on the world market, approximately 74% are estimated to have been discovered through interaction with traditional medicinal practices (Masango 2010, 75). Indigenous and local communities have long excelled at identifying and classifying the names, properties and uses of their biodiversity (RohtArriaza 1996, 928). According to Laird and Wynberg (2008, 26): Many companies have adopted a ‘hands-off’ approach to the use of traditional knowledge whilst others have little awareness of the need to enter into ABS arrangements when using traditional knowledge. The diverse ways in which companies use and interpret traditional knowledge adds a further layer of complexity. 1

See agreement on Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property (TRIPS) for detailed definition. Arising from IPRs in the context of this debate are patents.

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This assertion raises numerous questions about bioprospecting, access and benefit-sharing arrangements. Biopiracy and bioprospecting are two sides of the same coin. The debate is highly charged and polarised. Bioprospecting was first defined by Reid et al. (1993, 1) as “the exploration of biodiversity for commercially valuable genetic resources and bio-chemicals”. In terms of the South African National Environmental Management: Biodiversity Act (NEMBA), No.10 of 2004, bioprospecting is defined as, “any research on, or development or application of, indigenous biological resources for commercial or industrial exploitation” (Crouch et al. 2008, 358) It is exactly due to this formulation that critics view bioprospecting as a euphemism to legalise, expose, access, collect and exploit indigenous knowledge and biodiversity (Hamilton 2006, 159; Hayden 2003, 27; Shiva 2001, 64). For Shiva (2007, 307), one of the prominent and vocal critics of bioprospecting and biopiracy, the former is an inappropriate term and process and she refers to it as “sophisticated biopiracy” and “a new form of colonialism” (Shiva 2007, 5). Hence the bioprospecting perspective reflects the commodification and privatisation paradigm (Shiva 2007, 313) and therefore not a legitimate source of benefit-sharing but exclusion and marginalisation (Shiva 2007, 311). The biopiracy discourse was developed by solidarity activists for “Third World” rural poor and indigenous people (Svarstad 2002, 72). Biopiracy is a metaphor used to denote the piracy of biological resources and IKS. It is embedded in post-colonial theory and various strands of Marx’s ecology that continue to examine the North/South divide in a globalised world controlled by market forces. Shiva (2001, 49) defines biopiracy as “the use of intellectual property systems, reclaimed as western innovation and invention to legitimise the exclusive ownership and control over biological resources and biological products”, which have traditionally formed the fabric of life in developing countries. Finetti (2011, 59) says that biopiracy is Political given to the behaviour of some corporations, belonging both to the developed countries and to the traditional knowledge holders’ countries, which commercially exploit the information got by traditional knowledge, without any compensatory benefit to the stakeholder of such knowledge.

Authors place an emphasis on “unauthorised appropriation” (Amankwah 2007, 19), “illegal appropriation” (De Geer 2003, 179), “deliberate and intentional commercialisation” (Koyama and Mayet 2007, 11) and “breaching of a contractual agreement on access and use of traditional knowledge”

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(Akurugoda, 2013, 49). Simply put, biopiracy is theft and the complete undermining of IKS and biodiversity as a source of knowledge, wealth and modernity. The association of bioprospecting with widespread poverty and botched socio-economic transformation is widespread in the literature (Mgbeoji 2006; Hamilton 2006, 159). Similar to Shiva (2007), Mgbeoji (2006) argues within the same parameters. Interestingly, Mgbeoji (2006, 3) examines three main interrelated legal, economic and political forces that inform biopiracy: x Socio-cultural dimension: the denigration and denial of the intellectual input of traditional farmers and breeders, particularly women, in the improvement of plants and the creation of TKUP (traditional knowledge of the use of plants). x Institutional dimension: This involves the systematic collection of plant/crop varieties from biodiversity-rich developing countries by developed countries and depositing them in the network of gene banks and other research centres found throughout the world for the benefit of developed countries. x The legal dimension: The international regime for Intellectual Property (IP) protection in the form of the patenting system is the main focus. The deliberate lowering of the threshold for patentability and various forms of judicial and legislative intervention in the patent law system which serves the ever-expanding appetite and interests of Western corporate seed merchants, pharmaceutical and biotechnological companies. Critics of the biopiracy discourse suggest that these understandings are merely “alarmist exaggerations” or “a misguided reading” of the Intellectual Property regime and that “biopiracy is non-existent” (Hamilton 2006, 160; Dutfield 2006, 9). For Chen (2006, 2-5) Most allegations of biopiracy are so riddled with inconsistencies and outright lies that the entire genre, pending further clarification, must be consigned to the realm of ‘rural legend’. Through the dissemination of the ‘rhetorical power’ that biopiracy holds in the post-colonial era the West has been subjugated to the ‘political grievances’ of the South by usage of the terms ‘biological colonialism, genetic imperials and even plain plunder’ embedded within the ‘alleged northern greed and southern victimhood.’

In contrast, for Svarstad (2002, 72) bioprospecting provides opportunities for a win-win scenario for all: benefit opportunities for conservation and

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development in the source countries; for providers of genetic resources and knowledge; and lastly, for new medicines for patients and profit for the industry. The biopiracy discourse as a rights-based global justice perspective advocates for the interests of developing countries against the commodification of nature and unfettered accumulation which replaces social and environmental objectives. The discourse sees developing countries as locked in an unjust and unequal world whose interests are undermined and subjugated through a battery of international trade and environmental laws. Sachs et al. (2000, 6) call for fairness which includes enlarging the rights of the poor to their habitats, while on the other hand cutting back the claims of the rich to resources.

The United Nations Convention on Biodiversity and Trade (CBD) Broadly, the United Nations Convention on Biodiversity2 (hereafter the CBD) is a product of the emerging modern environmentalism of the 1960s and global environmental diplomacy of the 1970s. This period of heightened environmental consciousness reached its zenith with the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (UNCED/Rio Summit) in 1992. The UNCED was a symbolic and political milestone in “mainstreaming environmental concerns” (Sachs et al. 2000, 10). Its overwhelming attendance by many heads of states and civil society formations gave the impression that the environment mattered. Not only was this milestone critical in promoting and institutionalising sustainable development3 but its outcomes were even more revealing in terms of the global environmental agenda that was to be pursued in the next decade, into the millennium. Critics such as Foster (1994) have long treated the conventional discourse on environmental progress as somewhat “rigged” by the fact that it cannot be easily divorced from the development of capitalism and the market paradigm. 2

The UN Framework Convention on Climate Change, the CBD, the UN Convention to Combat Desertification and the Statement of Forest Principles are the three seminal multilateral environmental governance instruments agreed during the Rio summit. 3 The World Commission on Environment and Development (the Brundtland Commision) (1983-1987) defines sustainable development as “development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs”. It has been criticised for its exclusive focus on economic growth, neglecting the social and environment pillars.

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The need for a global instrument such as the CBD cannot be disputed. This was a long-term demand by developing country governments for the protection of their biodiversity. As such the CBD “was a compromise between the developed countries and developing countries” (Srinivas 2012, 402). Indigenous communities were not among the parties that negotiated the CBD even though their rights were recognised by the CBD, but that did not override the sovereign rights of states to develop appropriate legislation (Srinivas, 2012, 402). The CBD is not retrospective and thus is not applicable prior to 1993. The CBD is “the world’s first legal instrument on biodiversity and its conservation” (Amankwah 2007, 22), underscoring the importance of Prior Informed Consent (PIC)” (Srinivas 2012, 402). The CBD rests on the principle of biodiversity as a common concern for humankind rather than common heritage. Article 1 of the CBD states the three principal objectives as the conservation of biological diversity, sustainable use of its components and the fair and equitable sharing of the benefits resulting from the commercial use of genetic resources. The following Articles of the CBD are relevant to our discussion: x Article 3 recognises the authority and sovereign rights of states; x Articles 8(j), 15(6), 15(7), 16 and 19(1)(2) recognise the rights of indigenous and local communities; promote its wider application with their approval and involvement; and encourages the equitable sharing of benefits; x Article 15(5) focuses on the PIC of the Contracting Party providing such resources; x Articles 15(4) and 15(7) provides for access and sharing of benefits to be on Mutually Agreed Terms (MAT); x Article 16 focuses on access and transfer of technology. This is inclusive of biotechnology as specified in Article 16(1). The CBD regime is continuously evolving. It co-exists with other instruments, making it complex and fragmented. More specifically, Principle 22 of the Rio Declaration, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, Agenda 21, and Article 24 of the African Charter on Human Rights. The Bonn Guidelines and the Nagoya Protocol on Access to Genetic Resources and the Fair and Equitable Sharing of Benefits Arising from their Utilisation4 (2010) all make reference to 4

The Nagoya Protocol (2010) is the instrument for the realisation of the CBD requirements on access and benefit-sharing (van Niekerk and Wynberg 2012, 531).

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indigenous communities. In this sense, the claim to traditional resource rights clashes with the claim to state sovereignty over natural resources (and even more so with the claim to open access for foreign interests) (Sachs et al. 2000, 43). The CBD lacks effective mechanisms for dispute settlement, and terms such as “fair and equitable” are open to multiple interpretation whilst at the same time leaving PIC vague and undefined (Srinivas 2012, 403). Fundamentally, far from putting an end to the colonial legacy of resource robbery without payment, the CBD did not succeed in putting a break on the outflow of biological resources either from South to North or from rural areas to urban centres (Sachs et al. 2000, 41-42). The exclusion of ex situ collections does not affect ownership, control or use of seed banks, leaving the status quo intact (Roht-Arriaza1996, 945). Contrary to van Niekerk and Wynberg’s (2012, 542) argument that the CBD offers opportunities for redress, the argument herein is that it is an ineffective mechanism for redress, especially in terms of benefit-sharing. Much of the debate on biopiracy and the CBD focuses on the patenting of life forms through the system of intellectual property rights as stipulated in Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property (TRIPS). TRIPs is an international agreement created in order to establish a multilateral binding agreement which globalised the standards for intellectual property regulation and the role such regulations would play in international trade concerning intellectual property. Controversies around TRIPs centre on its ontological assumptions, which deepen power asymmetries around the world, especially in developing countries. Patent requirements under Article 27(1) of TRIPs (novelty, non-obviousness and usefulness) completely disregard TK and permit exclusive monopoly and unequal sharing of benefits. Furthermore, the TRIPs agreement severely undermines the sovereignty and autonomy of states through corporate globalisation which allows for unfettered access to natural wealth. TRIPs represents a legitimisation of biopiracy by privatising ownership through claims of innovation and economic development granted within patent laws, thus distorting the foundational basis of the CBD (Arewa 2006, 156).

Environmental governance in South Africa South Africa has been a signatory to the CBD since 1995. It is within this international context that South Africa embarked on an expansive policy formulation process which informed bioprospecting, access and benefitsharing (BABS). At the core of environmental legislation is the South

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African Constitution Act No. 108 of 1996. The White Paper on the Conservation and Sustainable Use of South Africa’s Biological Diversity (1997) emphasises “the need for policies and formal structures to govern access to indigenous genetic resources…acknowledges that benefits arising from ‘bioresources’ serves the nation and that access to these resources should not be overtly limited and should fuel economic activity” (Crouch et al. 2008, 358). The National Environmental Management Act (NEMA) 107 of 1998, as framework law, mechanised the objectives of the White Paper into legal provisions (Sunde and Isaacs 2008, 7). Additionally, Chapter 6 of the National Environmental Management Biodiversity Act (NEMBA) No. 10 of 2004 regulates BABS. These regulations emphasise the need for a permit to access resources for bioprospecting or research purposes (ACB 2009, 6). The granting of a permit is subject to full disclosure of bioprospecting activity, obtaining prior informed consent from the local community, a bioprospecting, access and benefit-sharing agreement and a material transfer agreement (MTA) that have been negotiated on mutually agreed terms (MAT) by the affected parties (Wynberg 2006, 138; Koyama and Mayet 2007, 21; Crouch et al. 2008, 359). However, these provisions have been met with problems of ambiguity, enforcement and compliance failing at implementation on a practical level (Sunde and Isaacs 2008, 8), where environmental policies still remain problematic rooted in contestations between objectives of social justice and the technocratic ideals of the state (Sunde and Isaacs 2008, 4; Khan 2002, 15). South Africa is a signatory to the 2002 Group of Allied Mega-Biodiverse Countries, designed inter alia to negotiate equitable trade rules on patenting and registering products based on bio-resources, to improve the monitoring of bioprospecting activities, insisting on PIC and MAT for concessions (Sachs et al. 2002, 45-46). The Patents Amendment Act, No. 20 of 2005, requires patent applicants to meet all provisions under BABS. Patent applications are subject to provisions of novelty and prior art. However, there are no mechanisms in place that oblige the patent office to ensure that the provisions have been met (Koyama and Mayet 2007, 23). The responsibility to ensure full disclosure rests solely on the patent applicant. Patent applications remain non-transparent, and local communities remain excluded from decision-making processes. Once granted, the costs of fighting against a patent are very expensive for the affected local communities who opt for legal litigation (Koyama and Mayet 2007, 23).

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Pelargonium sidoides5 and the Masakhane community The Masakhane Community forms part of a group of areas commonly referred to as rural areas within the former homeland, the Ciskei. By extension these areas are generally under-developed with high rates of unemployment and poverty, and lack access to basic services. Under these conditions it is impossible to envision fully-fledged viable sustaining economies as per various policies. Geographically, the area is in the Eastern Cape province, in the Nkonkobe municipality (now Raymond Mhlaba municipality), between the historic towns of Fort Beaufort and Alice. The Masakhane area consists of five villages: Victoria Post, Klipfontein, Eensaamdal, Penryn and Ebenezer, covering about 7,000 hectares, which were formerly white-owned farms. With Ciskei attaining independence in 1981 these farms fell under its jurisdiction. The majority of the current inhabitants are either descendants of the farm workers and/or previous farm workers. The Masakhane residents have experienced various periods/stages of capitalist penetration: as labour reservoirs, as farm labourers, subjects under homeland/tribal rule and now as environmental proletariats for the growing and expanding biodiversity market. The land question in this area was never resolved under the Ciskei government and the current dispensation. As a result contestation over ownership between the Masakhane residents and the Chieftaincy remains problematic. The former do not recognise chieftaincy, except for ceremonial purposes. They have subsequently lodged a land claim in 2001 for total ownership and control. They have since reconstituted themselves as a legal entity known as the Masakhane Communal Property Association (CPA). The Masakhane community struggle for recognition of their ancestral rights to land, without which any natural resource claims are nullified. It is clear that settling this dispute will strengthen the local community’s voice with regard to their own development, resource rights and benefit-sharing arrangements. As a landless peasantry, the community have their local environmental knowledge, biodiversity and labour as their most valuable commodities. Assisted by various non-governmental organisations they have intensified their land and environmental struggle, threatening to expose the inept attitude of the government. Against this 5

Known as Uvendle in isiXhosa. Other names include Umckaloabo, Kalwerbossie, Rabassam and Khoaara e nyenyane. Pelargoniums are part of the Geranium plant family. The two types in this case study are pelargonium sidoides and pelargonium reniforme.

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backdrop, the Masakhane community has experienced double exclusion, marginalisation and alienation from the land and resources from which they have historically derived their livelihoods. The pelargonium sidoides dispute runs parallel with that of the land claim. Rampant harvesting of and the demand for commercial exploitation of pelargonium sidoides coincided with frequent visits by foreign interests to local research institutes and surrounding villages. Pelargonium sidoides is not the only medicinal plant under contestation within the Masakhane community: others include Aloe ferox, pelargonium reniforme and African potato6. In addition to the above other tradable medicinal plants in South Africa include Buchu7, Hoodia, Rooibos8 and Devils Claw9. Reliable statistics on the trade and amount of wild harvesting do not exist. It can be said that due to the commercial value of the plants and a growing international demand for pelargonium-based medicines (particularly those treating respiratory ailments), and with the trade of the plant growing significantly, there has been an increase in the trade and harvesting of the plant (Raimondo 2009). Quoting Dold and Cocks (2002), Koyama and Mayet (2007, 10) of the ACB state: South Africa’s traditional medicine is big business. 525 tonnes of medicinal plants per annum were traded from the Eastern Cape. In monetary terms this is valued at $60 million, with 97% of the traded plants having been harvested unsustainably…at least six endemic species have been driven into extinction and a further 126 taxa threatened to extinction.

As a multi-billion dollar industry, this raises serious questions about beneficiation with local communities. Nor is there any skills transfer or capacity building of any sort. This is in contradiction with the Integrated Sustainable Rural Development Strategy’s (ISRD) (2000, 1) vision of “socially cohesive, resilient, stable rural communities that are economically empowered and productive, contributing substantially to South Africa’s growth and global competitiveness”. Geographically, Pelargonium sidoides is endemic to Lesotho and South Africa, with historically large concentrations in the Eastern Cape province. Other provinces include Limpopo, Free State, Mpumalanga and parts of Gauteng. Fields are now being cultivated in the provinces of the Western Cape, Eastern Cape and Limpopo by commercial interests. The 6

Hypoxis hemerocallidea. Agathosma betulina. 8 Aspalathus linearis. 9 Harpagophytum procumbens. 7

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use of medicinal plants including pelargonium sidoides is, historically, integral to the lives and livelihoods of the Masakhane community. Pelargonium is not listed on the International IUCN Red List of Threatened Species as a global assessment has not yet been carried out, according to the Department of Environmental Affairs (DEA). Pelargonium sidoides is classified under one of the South African specific categories, as ‘Declining’ (DEA 2011, 9). It is evident from the research that scientists have conflicting views with the current listing criteria and believe the plant should be listed in one of the IUCN categories of those under threat (Critically Endangered, Endangered or Vulnerable). This is echoed by the Masakhane community and the rural elite, which include the chieftaincy. No doubt, the species is under threat. Two controversial processes were initiated with regard to pelargonium sidoides. Firstly, the Pelargonium Working Group, started in 2008, was represented by government, industry and the NGO sector. It is predominantly a state-capital-elite coalition. Local communities exist on the periphery of the trade value chain only as labourers. The process was not transparent, and undemocratic without community participation. Secondly, in the process of the drafting of the Biodiversity Management Plan for Pelargonium sidoides (BMP-S), due process was not followed as required under NEMA, NEMBA and Regulation 5 of the Norms and Standards prescribed for Biodiversity Management Plans for Species. These requirements include, inter alia, the participation of all interested and affected stakeholders, the documentation of the species in question, and provision of this information to all. The Masakhane community and the ACB were excluded. The BMP-S fails to provide proper supporting evidence on harvesting, trade statistics, and revenues generated by the various local traders/intermediaries and/or pharmaceutical companies involved in the trade and production of pelargonium sidoides (ACB 2011, 10). A controversial finding in the BMP-S (DEA 2011, 11), which was summarised from the research by van Wyk, van Oudtshoorn & Gericke (1997), states: There appears to be a long history of traditional use, however the actual origin of the intellectual knowledge remains unknown and it is likely to prove impossible to allocate property rights to any particular group or person. Detailed ethnobotanical studies may help to clarify the situation.

This conclusion is made despite public knowledge about a court case against local traders/intermediaries and international litigation, because of the illegal appropriation of local knowledge and biodiversity. In other

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words, the government, through various processes has created a permissive environment for biopiracy to thrive without consequence to those involved. Putting the phenomenon of bioprospecting into context within South Africa, the contestation between the Masakhane community and the industry/capital group shows a classic case of biopiracy. The Masakhane community, assisted by the African Centre for Biosafety, opted for international litigation between 22 December 2008 and 25 January 2010, to revoke the patents that were granted to Schwabe Pharmeceuticals, a German-based multinational corporation. By patenting, Schwabe has intellectually pirated information without the consent of local communities. On the other hand, Schwabe has materially pirated the pelargonium plant through its lopsided benefit-sharing, and due to the fact that local communities are compensated only for labour extended in pelargonium harvesting and essentially are paid nothing for the raw materials used in pelargonium products by companies, the plant itself is not seen as property of the local communities (Mayet, 2010). What results from the monopolisation of pelargonium is that individual harvesters are disenfranchised as decision makers and bargaining entities. As Parceval is the permit holder for the plant, the individual communities end up being price takers, accepting any price that Parceval is willing to pay, and as Parceval does not pay a fixed price for the produce, a devaluation of biological resources and indigenous knowledge is practised. In addition to this, the monopoly on bioprospecting of pelargonium and international supply of the plant has been secured by a permit system in collaboration with the South African government (Feiter 2011). At the time of litigation by Masakhane, the South African company Parceval was the only firm that held a national permit for the bioprospecting, and subsequent supply of Pelargonium. As such all Pelargonium that was legitimately sold could only be sold to Parceval. Currently, several local intermediaries have obtained various permits. Individual community members are required by law to obtain permits for harvesting in the wild which they can only sell to the intermediaries. The value chain is further aggravated by industry preferring to set up networks with structurally organised and established groups such as the Imingcangathelo Community Development Trust (part of the Pelargonium Working Group) presided over by the elite and the chieftaincy. The establishment of a trust for benefit-sharing, harvesting and cultivation of pelargonium in the Alice community is also indicative of the centralisation of power and bargaining in pelargonium trade. The process is undemocratic and unaccountable since the benefit sharing agreement is not

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available for public scrutiny. It is not clear what it entails or what funds have been deposited into the trust, if any. As such no development has filtered down to the community. By establishing a trust, the state-capitalelite coalition easily maintains the façade of benefit-sharing when in fact the trust is not representative of the community. The benefit-sharing agreement encompasses a top-down approach indicative of hierarchical relations and power asymmetries. The abovementioned discussion highlights the violation of the CBD regime of PIC, mutually agreed terms and equitable benefit-sharing. As Schwabe claims to make a turnover in the region of 40 million euros from the sale of Umckaloabo (a pelargonium-based medicine) and essentially only pays for the labour in sourcing their active ingredient, it is indicative that the patents it holds on pelargonium processes and treatments shows blatant disrespect for and theft of IK in South Africa (Hulserman, 2011). At the same time the individual permit system for the local harvesters is a violation of collective interests and rights as embodied in TK. Fundamentally, it exposes communities to the brutality of the state-capitalelite pact. There has been, however, a slight victory for the Masakhane community regarding pelargonium patents. In 2010 the community were successful in having the European Patent Office revoke one of Schwabe’s five patents involving Palegonium (Isaac, 2011). This is a momentous step in reclaiming indigenous knowledge and the rights to biological resources, albeit with numerous constraints and challenges. The community has yet to receive any form of compensation. The Masakhane case study illustrates that patents can be challenged. One of the lessons of the Masakhane case study is that no part of the globe is safe from corporate globalisation, no matter how remote the area is from centres of accumulation and production.

Conclusion It is clear that the commercial value of biodiversity in the South of Africa has led to increased contestation over its access and control. It is evident that in light of rampant biopiracy a developmental framework and adequate political praxis is required to protect forms of IK and to ensure the equitable and sustainable use of biological resources. A continuation of South Africa’s political history of unsustainable land-use practices and policies, unequal access to and ownership of natural resources is at play here. Social and environmental injustices experienced by the Masakhane community continue unabated. The case study raises serious challenges for

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communities who might face similar challenges in the future. Even though the state is the custodian of natural resources this case study questions the state’s neutrality in resolving disputes such as these. With the country scouting for foreign direct investment with a common slogan “South Africa is open for business” it is unlikely the government will take a tough position against capital. The state, through its various organs and processes, has followed an exclusionary, technocratic and top-down approach which eliminates any kind of meaningful participation by the locals, and reinforces the power of the state.

References African Centre for Biosafety. 2009. Critical overview of South Africa’s bioprospecting laws. Press Print. African Centre for Biosafety. 2011. Objections and Comments to the Biodiversity Management Plan for Pelargonium Sidoides. www.biosafetyafrica.net. Accessed 20 March 2015. Agrawal, A. 1995. Dismantling the divide between indigenous and scientific knowledge. Development and Change 26(3): 413-439. Akpan, W. 2011. ‘Local’ knowledge, ‘global’ knowledge, ‘development’ knowledge: Finding a new balance in the knowledge power play.” South African Review of Sociology 42(3): 116-127. Akurugoda, C. L. 2013. Biopiracy and its impacts on biodiversity: A critical analysis with special reference to Sri Lanka. International Journal of Business, Economics and Law 2(3): 48-52. Amankwah, H.A. 2007. Traditional values and modern challenges in property law. Journal of South Pacific Law 11(1): 18-38. Api, N. 2011. Pelargonium: Trading traditional knowledge. Produced and directed by Andre, G. and Baux, V. France: Ciao Productions. Arewa, O.B. 2006. TRIPs and traditional knowledge: Local communities, local knowledge, and global property frameworks. Marquette Intellectual Property Law Review 10(2): 156-180. Briggs, J. 2005. The use of Indigenous Knowledge in development: problems and challenges. Progress in Development Studies 5(2): 99114. Chen, J. 2006. There’s no such thing as biopiracy…and it’s a good thing too. McGeorge Law Review, 37:1-32. Crouch, N.R., Douwes, E., Wolfson, M.M., Smith, G.F. & Edwards, T.J. 2008. South Africa’s bioprospecting, access and benefit-sharing legislation: current realities, future complications and a proposed alternative. South African Journal of Science 104: 355-366.

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Mgbeoji, I. 2006. Global biopiracy: Patents, plants, and indigenous knowledge. Canada: UBC Press. Nakashima, D.J., Golloway, M.K., Thulstrup, H.D., Ramos, C.A. & Rubis, J.T. 2012. Weathering uncertainty: Traditional knowledge for climate change assessment and adaptation. Joint UNESCO-UNU Report. United Nations University. Raimondo, D., von Staden, L., Foden, W., Victor, J.E., Helme, N.A., Turner, R.C., Kamundi, D.A. & Manyama, P.A. 2009. Red list of South African plants. Strelitzia 25. Pretoria: South African National Biodiversity Institute. Reid, W., Laird, S.A., Meyer, C.A., Gamez, R., Sittenfeld, A., Jazen, D.H., Gollin, M.A. & Juma, C. 1993. Biodiversity prospecting: Using genetic resources for sustainable development. Washington DC: World Resources Institute. Roht-Arriaza, N. 1996. Of seeds and shamans: The appropriation of the scientific and technical knowledge of indigenous and local communities. Michigan Journal of International Law 17(919): 920-965. Sachs, W. 2003. Environment and human rights. Wuppertal paper No. 137. Wuppertal: Wuppertal Institute for Climate, Environment and Energy. Sachs, W., Acselrad, H., Akhter, F., Amon, A., Egziabher, T.B.G., French, H., Haavisto, P., Hawken, P., Henderson, H., Khosla, A., Larrain, S., Loske, R., Roddick, A., Taylor, V., von Weizsäcker, C., Zabelin, S. & Agrawal, H. 2002. The Jo’burg memo: fairness in a fragile world. Memorandum for the World Summit on Sustainable Development. Heinrich Böll Foundation. www.joburgmemo.org Shiva, V. 2001. Protect or plunder? Understanding intellectual property rights. New York: Zedd Books. —. 2007. Bioprospecting as sophisticated biopiracy. Signs 32(2): 307-313. Srinivas, K.R. 2012. Protecting traditional knowledge holders’ interests and preventing misappropriation—Traditional knowledge commons and biocultural protocols: Necessary but not sufficient? International Journal of Cultural Property 19(3): 401-422. Sunde, J. & Isaacs, M. 2008. Marine conservation and coastal communities: who carries the costs? A study of marine protected areas and their impact on traditional small-scale fishing communities in South Africa. Samudra Monography. International Collective in Support of Fishworkers. Svarstad, H. 2002. Analysing conservation-development discourses: The story of a biopiracy narrative. Forum for Development Studies.

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Van Niekerk, J. & R Wynberg, R. 2012. The trade in Pelargonium sidoides: Rural livelihood relief or bounty for the ‘bio-buccaneers’? Development Southern Africa 29(4): 530-547. Van Wyk, B.E., van Oudtshoorn, B. & Gericke, N. 1997. Medicinal Plants of South Africa. Pretoria: Briza Publications. Victor, J.E. & Dold, A.P. 2003. Threatened plants of the Albany Centre of Floristic Endemism, South Africa. South African Journal of Science 99: 237. Wynberg, R. 2006. South African legislative case study. In: Case studies on access and benefit-sharing, ed. R.J. Lewis-Lettington and S. Mwanyki. Rome: International Plant Genetic Resources Institute.

CHAPTER FOUR VULNERABILITY-ASSETS NEXUS IN CLIMATE CHANGE ADAPTATION: REFLECTIONS FROM SOUTH AFRICA AND ZIMBABWE PHILANI MOYO

Introduction Climate change is one of the biggest threats to human development in the 21st century. Climate science evidence shows that global carbon dioxide emissions, especially from the global north, continue unabated thereby increasing global warming. Consequently, current global warming is at 0.8°C above pre-industrial levels (World Bank, 2014). This unprecedented global warming is happening in the absence of neither tangible immediate mitigation actions nor binding commitments to reduce future emissions by the biggest carbon dioxide emitters and polluters. As a result of this lackadaisical approach, “there is growing evidence that warming close to 1.5°C above pre-industrial levels is locked-in to the Earth’s atmospheric system” (World Bank 2014: viii) with dire consequences for human development. These negative consequences are already impacting environmental, social, economic and physical aspects of human development, especially in the global south. Ongoing debate about climate change impacts has moved from clairvoyant impact scenarios to a dissection of observed evidence. In other words, the focus now is on what the concrete impacts of climate change at local level are and how individuals and communities are adapting to these impacts. Global observed impacts can be broadly categorised into four groups: rising temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, increasing extreme weather events and rising sea levels. Extreme heat events similar to those experienced in Russia and Central Asia in 2010 and the United

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States in 2012 are now more recurrent, precipitation changes in the form of low unpredictable rainfall in Sub-Saharan Africa has increased in frequency and intensity, droughts are now more widespread and more extreme in drought-prone regions such as Southern Africa and the Mediterranean, while rises in sea levels are threatening small island states and low-lying coastal zones (World Bank 2014; Steger 2009). At a local level, climate change impacts are affecting natural and human systems. They are damaging and reducing crop yields (with implications on food security), increasing water insecurity and the spread of some vector and water-borne diseases, damaging coastlines (due to sea level rises), accelerating loss of ice from Antarctica and Greenland, and widespread bleaching of coral reefs (World Bank 2014; Ziervogel and Cartwright 2011; Steger 2009; Bulkeley and Betsill 2003). There is also evidence of negative impacts on fisheries, livestock production, terrestrial ecosystem services and marine ecosystems productivity (World Bank 2014; Ziervogel and Cartwright 2011; Thornton et al. 2006). In Southern Africa, the impacts of climate change at local level are now well documented in countries such as Zimbabwe (see Moyo and Dube 2014, Manyeruke, Hamauswa and Mhandara 2013, Mugandani et al. 2012) and South Africa (see Taruvinga, Muchenje & Mushunje 2013; Ziervogel and Cartwright 2011; and Gbetibouo 2009). Due to varying vulnerability levels of countries, individuals and communities, their exposure to climate change impacts also differs. These different vulnerability levels, as explained further below, are the product of the compound effect of the physical, economic, social, political, institutional, policy and environmental factors in which they exist. These compound factors are also partial determinants of adaptive capacity which mediates vulnerability levels. A well-known argument is that Africa (specifically Sub-Saharan Africa) is more vulnerable to climate change impacts than other continents. This is due to a variety of reasons. For example, the fact that the majority of people in Sub-Saharan African countries such as Zimbabwe and South Africa depend directly upon the climate-sensitive natural environment for their livelihood activities such as agriculture, forestry, fishing and pastoralism (Ziervogel and Cartwright 2011, Chagutah 2010, Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) 2007) partly explains the continent’s high level of vulnerability. Secondly, the already hot arid and semi-arid conditions prevailing in many subSaharan African countries (Steger 2009; IPCC 2007) compound the vulnerability of the continent. Thirdly, climate sensitivity exists in an African environment characterised by chronic poverty (for example, in Zimbabwe), limited adaptation capacity, lack of “climate proof” infrastructure,

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limited climate information, weak governance systems and weak/non-existent climate-compatible development strategies (Ziervogel and Cartwright 2011; Steger 2009; IPCC 2007). These “African conditions” thus exacerbate the continent’s vulnerability, making it more susceptible to climate change impacts. However, within Africa there are significant variations of climate change patterns and impacts regionally, nationally and locally. This means climate change impacts are not evenly distributed within the continent. Similarly, local coping and adaptation strategies to climate change are not uniform within the continent. This is because individuals and communities are not only experiencing different impacts, but they have diverse assets (tangible and intangible) which they rely on in constructing livelihood portfolios. Adaptation to climate change behaviour is thus asset determined as well as place- and time-specific. This context and specificity of adaptation behaviour is the main focus of this chapter. Focusing on Zimbabwe and South Africa, the chapter uses the vulnerability approach as a heuristic-theoretical tool in analysing the adaptation behaviour of subsistence rural farmers. In this analysis, vulnerability to climate change is the degree to which geophysical, biological and socio-economic systems are susceptible to, and unable to cope with, adverse impacts of climate change. The term “vulnerability” may therefore refer to the vulnerable system itself, the impact to this system, or the mechanism causing these impacts (IPCC 2007, 73). Informed by secondary sources, this vulnerability “bottom-up” analysis guides the chapter’s examination of observed adaptation strategies adopted at the household level with the intention to establish their asset “drivers”, effectiveness and capacity to build local resilience to climate change. Such a “bottom-up” approach recognises and advances the human agency of subsistence farmers as it proceeds from a realisation that their responses to climate change impacts are built more on their endogenous assets than on external assistance.

The vulnerability-assets nexus The concept of vulnerability has a rich history in rural and urban livelihoods scholarship. It gained prominence in the 1990s through the work of Chambers and Conway (1992), Chambers (1995), Scoones (1998), Carney (1998, 1999) and Rakodi (1999) all of whom advanced community-based participatory approaches in understanding and addressing poverty in the global south. Building on the same principles, vulnerability analysis has now been extended and applied to climate

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change adaptation research. Within this research community, vulnerability is generally understood as “a function of exposure, sensitivity and adaptive capacity of a system or…only as a function of exposure and sensitivity to adverse events where adaptive capacity forms part of the system’s resilience” (Moser et al. 2010, 2). There are two dimensions of vulnerability to climate change. The first is “an external dimension that comprises the risks, shocks, and stresses to which people are subject; and second, an internal dimension that encompasses their capacity and associated means to withstand, or adjust, to damaging losses” (Moser et al. 2010, 6). The external dimension is generally known since it is regularly and widely discussed in academia and the mass media. This external dimension is essentially biophysical and concerns human exposure to climate change stress and threats. It also relates to the external damage inflicted on human and natural systems by rising temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, increasing extreme weather events and rising sea levels. On the other hand, the internal dimension of vulnerability concerns “how assets, institutions, and relationships of people are affected by such external threats, and in turn deal with them” (Moser et al. 2010, 6). This internal dimension links vulnerability and livelihood assets since it also relates to how these assets are used to respond and withstand external shocks and stresses. But what kind of assets are these, and what is their connection with vulnerability and adaptation? Livelihood assets are the basic material, social, tangible and intangible resources that can be acquired, developed and transferred across generations to construct livelihood strategies (Moser et al. 2010; Krantz 2001; Scoones 1998). These resources “are conceptualized as different types of ‘capital’ to stress their role as a resource base from which different productive streams are derived, from which livelihoods are constructed” (Scoones 1998). Five types of capital assets emerge from this conceptualisation: human, physical, natural, financial and social capital. Their specific characteristics, as outlined by Krantz (2001, 9), are as follows: x Natural capital—the natural resource stocks (soil, water, air, genetic resources, etc.) and environmental services (hydrological cycle, pollution sinks, etc.) from which resource flows and services useful for livelihoods are derived. x Financial capital—the capital base (cash, credit/debt), savings, and other economic assets, including basic infrastructure and production equipment and technologies) which are essential for the pursuit of any livelihood strategy.

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x Human capital—the skills, knowledge, ability to labour, good health and physical capability important for the successful pursuit of different livelihood strategies. x Physical capital—livestock, equipment, vehicles, houses etc. which are all essential in livelihood strategies. x Social capital—the social resources (networks, social claims, social relations, affiliations, associations) upon which people draw when pursuing different livelihood strategies requiring co-ordinated actions. These capital assets are used (individually or collectively) by individuals and households to construct complex and differentiated livelihood strategies in response to climate change impacts. Those individuals and households in possession of, or with access to more assets, are less vulnerable than those with a less diverse assets portfolio. This suggests that poor and marginalised people with fewer assets are more vulnerable to the internal dimensions of climate change since they have limited physical, financial, human, social and natural capital for use in adaptation. This nexus between assets and vulnerability is the foundation of the asset-based framework used for analysis herein. This asset-based framework “incorporates an analysis of a range of resources or assets held by individuals, households and communities and as such allows for assessing the diverse nature of sensitivity of residents both to incremental climate changes as well as to disaster events” (Moser et al. 2010, 2). It links vulnerabilities and assets through analysing how individuals, households and communities use asset-based adaptation strategies as an immediate response to climate change impacts, while relying on the same assets to create long-term resilience. The idea of the framework, as Moser et al. (2010, 6) further explain, is to link “vulnerability, assets and climate change”. Assets are thus seen as creating a buffer or source of resilience to climate change impacts. They “enable households and communities to protect themselves, or to recover from, the negative effects of severe weather associated with climate change” (Moser et al. 2010, 6). This framework thus squarely places the agency of individuals, households and communities at the centre of the adaptation process. It is interested in endogenous, local internal capacities to respond and survive climate change impacts. In other words, it places emphasis on local level (bottomup) asset-based adaptation to climate change.

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Asset-based adaptation in South Africa and Zimbabwe In response to climate change impacts, subsistence farmers in South Africa and Zimbabwe are intensifying reliance on an array of existing and new asset-based adaptation strategies. Their adaptation is either automatic or a planned process. The intention of these adaptation strategies (automatic or planned) is to minimise the adverse effects of climate change and maximise any possible benefits (Pittock 2007). The existence of automatic and planned adaptation strategies suggests that communities have organic risk anticipation since they routinely adapt to erratic weather patterns and inter-periodic climate variability. This anticipation enables the deployment of existing risk-coping strategies to cushion against climate change impacts. Tanner and Mitchell (2008) call these anticipatory strategies “ex ante”; these are different from “expost” (reactive) adaptation strategies relied upon to address the experienced negative effects of climate change. This existence of community in-built ex ante adaptation strategies to climate change risks means individuals and households in different subsistence farming communities in South Africa and Zimbabwe are “active agents” utilising different assets to ameliorate their vulnerability. Subsistence farmers’ adaptation to climate change is an iterative process heavily influenced by adaptive capacity. Why is adaptive capacity so influential in responding to climate change impacts? It matters because it determines “the ability of a system to adjust to climate change (including climate variability and extremes), to moderate potential damage, to take advantage of opportunities, or to cope with the consequences” (IPCC 2001 cited in Gbetibouo 2009, 1). This means that adaptive capacity is essentially about the inherent ability of a system or society to undertake actions that enable better coping with climate change impacts and/or recovery from the negative effects of the same. While a number of factors influence the adaptive capacity of a system or society, the focus herein is capital assets which include natural, physical, human, social and financial capital. These “constitute stocks of capital which can be stored, accumulated, exchanged or depleted and put to work to generate a flow of income or other benefits” (Rakodi 1999, 316) as individuals, households and communities adapt to climate change. Amartya Sen notes that these assets are “the basis of agents’ power to act, to reproduce, challenge or change the rules that govern the control, use and transformation of resources” (Sen 1997 cited in Moser et al. 2010, 7). The centrality of assets in determining adaptive capacity means that an appraisal of how individuals, households and communities in Zimbabwe and South Africa are adapting to climate change, should factor them into any analysis.

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Growing evidence from the Limpopo province in South Africa shows that individuals and households are relying on an array of assets in response to the negative impacts of climate change. These assets are being used for damage limitation and livelihood protection within the prevailing local physical, social, economic, and institutional environment. For example, asset-based adaptation strategies include switching from traditional maize varieties to planting drought-resistant small grains, crop diversification/mixed multi-cropping and shifting planting dates in response to erratic rainfall patterns (Gbetibouo 2009, 16). To be able to shift to drought-resistant crop varieties and engage in crop diversification, individuals and households are investing their own financial capital in this crop production transition. The same goes for other Limpopo farmers who have increased crop irrigation while also investing in their cattle by buying feed supplements (Gbetibouo 2009, 16). Their financial capital is thus an asset that is acting as an immediate buffer to climate change impacts while also laying the foundation for long-term resilience. In view of the fact that households have different financial resources (and sources of the same), it is obvious that not all households have an asset base that allows them to adopt the aforementioned adaptation strategies. This is confirmed by Moyo and Dube (2014) in their research focusing on Matobo in Zimbabwe. They argue that even though local farmers had a desire to introduce irrigation in their crop production, this was made impossible by the non-availability of boreholes or dams within a reasonable distance from their homesteads. The farmers also did not have the financial resources to hire borehole drillers or bulk water tankers to supply them with water for irrigation purposes. Hence, while irrigation was the ideal adaptation strategy, practical financial limitations meant it could not be relied on in response to climate change. These observations by Moyo and Dube (2014) are instructive on a number of accounts. They emphasise the fact that household wealth (financial capital or other resources) is one of the key determinants of adaptive capacity. Households with more wealth have better adaptive capacity since they are in a financial position to bear more risk. This wealth also enables the said households to diversify their livelihoods portfolio more broadly in response to climate change. For example, their creditworthiness allows them to access loans for use in on-farm or off-farm income-generating activities. Access to credit has a positive effect on adaptation since, as Caviglia-Harris (2002) explains, it allows the credit worthy to access money to buy, for example, new drought resistant seed varieties or irrigation equipment.

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Education, knowledge and information (which are elements of human capital) are also important elements in constructing asset adaptation portfolios. Education is not just “one aspect of socialisation which involves the acquisition of knowledge and the learning of skills” (Haralambos and Holborn 2008, 599), it is an influential variable which often plays a role in partly determining economic opportunities and livelihood strategies for individuals and households in different socioeconomic and institutional contexts. It is also a mediating factor in decision-making. This is the idea advanced by Wozniak when he notes that “indeed, education is expected to increase one’s ability to receive, decode, and understand information relevant to making innovative decisions (Wozniak 1984 cited in Gbetibouo 2009, 20). This influential role of education in decision making is also evident in choices and options that individuals and households take in asset adaptation portfolios. For example, Brown et al. (2012) observe that high levels of education increase the likelihood of new technology adaptation by subsistence farmers in Zimbabwe. The inference is that higher levels of education increase awareness and acquiescence to innovation in asset adaptation portfolio construction. In addition, education is also a powerful tool that enables subsistence farmers to understand, decrypt and use climate change information they access for adaptation. This argument is supported by the World Bank (2014) which notes that the adaptive capacity of some households in the global South is often undermined by lower education levels and limited understanding of climate change information. There is however need to caution that there is no suggestion here that all subsistence farmers with limited education do not understand climate change information and are averse to new climate adaptation techniques and technology. “Informal” education through oral tradition and lived experience are also central components of community level asset adaptation portfolios. Experience in whatever field of expertise is, to use a cliché, “the best teacher”. This applies to farming experience and adaptation within the context of a changing climate. Most experienced farmers with decades of local ecological knowledge, weather patterns and climate variability memory, are better capacitated for ex ante and ex post asset adaptation, as compared to some young farmers lacking requisite knowledge. Research by Nhemachena and Hassan (2007) in Zimbabwe shows that experienced farmers have high skills in farming techniques and management and are able to spread risk when facing climate variability, by exploiting strategic complementarities between activities such as crop-livestock integration. These observations are echoed by Gbetibou (2009, 25) in South Africa

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where the researcher found that “experienced farmers have an increased likelihood of using portfolio diversification, changing planting dates, and changing the amount of land under production”. This means farming experience, although unquantifiable, is an essential asset used in adaptation. This experience is acquired over many years of “home-grown” farming management practices and internalisation of expert agricultural extension advice. “Informal” education is also transmitted through indigenous knowledge systems. Therefore, indigenous knowledge systems are also a crucial local level asset that is being utilised in asset-based adaptation in Zimbabwe and South Africa. Without getting into the contentious debate about the reliability and validity of indigenous knowledge information (see Akpan 2011; Berkes 2009), this aspect of human capital is “a cumulative body of knowledge, practice and belief evolving by adaptive processes and handed down through generations by cultural transmission, about the relationship of living beings (including humans) with one another and with their environment” (Berkes, Colding and Folke 2000, 1252). While it has been used for generations by many societies to transmit (and store) different forms of knowledge, what is of interest here is its transmission of local ecological, weather and environmental knowledge. Such knowledge is crucial in adaptation decision making since it is based on individual and community lived historical memory. It also situates past and current climate change experiences within the local observed context. As Speranza et al. (2010, 229) further explain: “indigenous knowledge is found to be of special importance to adaptation as it is at the local level that people have to adapt to the impacts of climate change”. The local specificity of indigenous knowledge means that the choice of a specific adaptation strategy informed by it is embedded in the best available local evidence and not in some “imagined scenario or simulation”. Evidence by Dube (2015) from Zimbabwe confirms the veracity of this observation. He notes that the majority of subsistence farmers in Matobo district value and trust indigenous knowledge systems for climate change forecasting and adaptation, more than meteorological information. He adds that “enhancing climate change adaptation in Matobo district would be unsustainable if it overlooks the role played by indigenous knowledge systems” (Dube 2015, 227). This observation confirms the centrality of indigenous knowledge information in ongoing asset adaptation among some Zimbabwean subsistence farming communities. The important message from this is clear: any attempt to understand and build the resilience of local communities to climate change impacts should be done with cognisance of the role of indigenous knowledge systems in their asset

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portfolios. This knowledge system is a rich repertoire of local agroecological knowledge which partly anchors household livelihood portfolios in response to the changing climate. Another recognisable human capital asset used by households to mediate livelihood portfolio diversification is available labour. Two contrasting views can be extrapolated about the influence of labour on adaptation capacity. The first is that large households (with more inhabitants) are in a better position to adapt to climate change impacts, while the second dismisses this hypothetical positive influence of abundant labour on adaptive capacity. The premise of the former argument imagines a large household size as a proxy for abundant labour. Consequently, large households are practically in a position to pursue different adaptation strategies simultaneously, thereby diversifying their livelihood portfolio. For example, this might mean assigning different family members to a variety of adaptation strategies which could be onfarm or off-farm income generation. This is an advantage which smaller households lack due to limited labour. The implied reasoning here is that bigger subsistence farming households are better able to diversify their livelihoods portfolio. While that might be the case in some contexts, given the foregoing arguments in relation to the positive influence of wealth and farming experience on adaptation capacity and choices, it is perhaps not necessary to have a large household as an ex ante strategy for adaptation since wealth and farming experience can be partly relied on ex post to ameliorate some climate change impacts. Social capital, which is an intangible asset that embodies social networks, norms, obligations, reciprocity and social trust embedded in social relations and social structures (Putman, 1993), is entrenched in most Southern African societies’ ex ante risk anticipation, coping and adaptation strategies. It is for this reason that subsistence farmers in Zimbabwe, South Africa and Botswana are utilising this asset in their adaptation portfolios. For example, in Zimbabwe and Botswana, some livestock farmers have intensified usage of a long standing semi-arid climate coping strategy called ukusisa (in Zimbabwe) and mafisa (in Botswana). Under this system, cattle are loaned by livestock owners to relatives, friends, associates or poorer households who live in water secure areas with adequate grazing pasture: “The beneficiary family takes care of the cattle and in exchange has use of the animals’ labour and milk, plus a payment at the end of the lease that would depend on the condition of the animals and whether the herd has increased in number” (Dube and Sekhwela 2009, 75). In response to climate change impacts, ukusisa/mafisa is now widely used and entrenched in community climate

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change adaptation structures. Through it, some subsistence farmers in Zimbabwe and Botswana are conserving one of the cornerstones of their rural livelihoods and building resilience to climate change in the process. This demonstrates the vitality of social capital networks and trust in facilitating cooperation for mutual benefit in response to climate change impacts. However, the elasticity of social capital (especially practices such as ukusisa/mafisa) will be fully tested if climate change continues at this ferocious rate, engulfing even those areas which are presently considered “safe havens” for livestock, with secure water sources and grazing pasture.

Vulnerability analysis value in adaptation discourse: Some reflections Given the foregoing central role of assets in climate change adaptation among subsistence farmers in Zimbabwe and South Africa, is there any knowledge and analytical value that vulnerability analysis is adding to the adaptation discourse? Certainly there is. This framework is shifting focus away from preoccupation with macro estimation of the climate change impacts, towards understanding how local people are actively adapting using their own resources at the micro level. Exploration of the actual asset adaptation behaviour of subsistence farmers shows that they are not passive “victims” of climate change impacts, but active agents. Vulnerability analysis therefore recognises human agency in climate change adaptation. Its emphasis of assets that subsistence farmers have, rather than what they do not have, highlights the importance it attaches to human capability within the limits of individual and household constraints. Its actor-oriented view takes into account the fact that the poor and vulnerable are not generally helpless victims of constrained environments (Schutte 2004) but capable social actors, whose actions and assets partially influence their adaptation portfolios. Subsistence farming communities are at the forefront of responding to climate change, adapting to the changing circumstances using their own resources in the absence of sustainable state support for the same. Another instructive point emerging from this vulnerability analysis is the “twin processes” of how individuals and communities in Zimbabwe and South Africa are adapting to climate change impacts. Their responses seem to be seamlessly intertwined into two ongoing processes: (1) limit (or discontinue) immediate negative climate change impacts and (2) build long-term resilience. These two adaptation processes are instructive for knowledge and policy purposes. Firstly, they suggest that adaptation is not done in a haphazard manner, but is a process through which households

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and communities respond to immediate threats, while simultaneously laying the foundation for long-term resilience. Secondly, the twin process provides entry points for policy intervention purposes. If the policy imperative is to build long-term resilience, then the twin process provides policy makers with an operational framework as they plan to build on what subsistence farmers are already doing in response to climate change. It needs to be emphasised, however, that despite the role of human agency and capability in driving adaptation at local micro level, the success or failure of the adaptation process is determined by adaptive capacity. This adaptive capacity is a function of (or determined by) assets. The assets at the disposal of different individuals or households affect their capacity to adapt to climate change impacts. Individuals and households require a range of assets to achieve positive livelihood outcomes: no single category of assets on its own is sufficient (Scoones 1998; Carney 1998) for successful adaptation to climate change. This is particularly true for many subsistence farmers in Zimbabwe and South Africa whose access to any given category of assets tends to be limited. As Moser et al. (2010, 6) further explain: “the more and diverse assets people have, the less vulnerable they are, and the greater the erosion of people’s assets, the greater their insecurity”. Availability of, lack of, or limited assets, thus have a bearing on the diversification of a livelihoods portfolio that an individual or a household constructs as adaptation to climate change. The agency and capability of individuals, households and communities to adapt should not however be romanticised. Even in the presence or possession of one or many assets, there is a multitude of barriers to adaptation at micro local level. These barriers include (but are not limited to) lack of information about long-term climate change impacts, lack of knowledge concerning appropriate adaptations, water insecurity, insecure property rights, age and gender of the head of the household (Gbetibouo 2009; Chagutah 2010; World Bank 2014). Some interesting arguments about the negative effects of the gender of the head of the household on adaptive capacity are worth highlighting. It is generally well known that the social roles and responsibilities of men and women in many communities in Zimbabwe and South Africa differ, especially among subsistence farming communities. Consequently, women’s adaptation capacity is mediated by their societal gender roles and responsibilities. Even though most female household heads in rural settings are at the forefront of subsistence farming activities, evidence shows that they have limited access to assets such as land, livestock and cash compared to men. This limited access to assets by women has a negative influence on their adaptive capacity because it often undermines their ability to carry out

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capital-intensive agricultural innovations and adaptation (De Groote and Coulibaly 1998 cited in Gbetibouo 2009). This suggests that for female household heads to improve their adaptive capacity, patriarchal practices which continue to deny some women access to assets, must be abolished. It is precisely for this reason that the World Bank (2014) and some gender activists are justified in arguing that: Promoting gender equality is an important component of an effective strategy for developing resilience to climate change, since gender differentials in education, access to and control of assets, access to information and social networks can all limit disadvantaged women’s adaptive capacity (World Bank, 2014:24).

Gender equality should thus be at the epicentre of any climate adaptation or resilience strategy so as to make equal opportunities available to men and women as they continue to adapt.

Conclusion Climate change will remain a human development challenge for decades to come. The rising temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, increasing extreme weather events and rising sea levels are impacting, and will continue to impact, natural and human systems for years. While the impacts of climate change are being felt globally, they are more severe in Africa due to the spatial, physical, socio-economic and political vulnerability of the continent. Consequently, climate-sensitive natural and human systems such as agriculture, food security, water security, human health, coastal infrastructure etc. are being ravaged by unprecedented unusual extreme climate elements. Environmental risk and natural hazard-prone African rural residents are, however, not passive victims of these impacts. In South Africa and Zimbabwe, subsistence farmers are using ex ante and ex post adaptation strategies constructed using assets at their disposal. These financial, human, social, physical and natural assets are used individually or collectively to construct an array of livelihood portfolios within specific vulnerability contexts. Assets are being used as a buffer to contain or address immediate climate change stress and threats, while also building a foundation for long-term resilience. These assets also determine the internal vulnerability of specific households. Those households with more assets (or access to assets) are less vulnerable since they can rely on various assets to diversify their livelihoods portfolio. The converse is also true. This asset-based adaptation brings to the fore the human agency and

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capability of subsistence farmers in South Africa and Zimbabwe in response to climate change. While these farmers might not have all requisite resources (and face a multitude of adaptation barriers), they are demonstrating agency through reliance on locally available assets in response to climate change impacts. This local level asset-based adaptation to climate change is instructive from a knowledge and policy perspective. It is shifting analytical focus away from a preoccupation with clairvoyant climate change impact “scenarios” and “top-down” technical adaptation proposals to a “bottomup” asset vulnerability analytical framework. This framework—which builds on participatory development principles—also recognises that in order for external agencies (such as governments and non-governmental development agencies) to fully understand and assist in strengthening the resilience of local communities to climate change impacts, there is need to appreciate endogenous local community adaptation practices. Recognition, and building on local level asset-based adaptation, will make subsistence farmers “partners” in strengthening community resilience while also demonstrating the value of indigenous technical knowledge in planned, relevant and locally applicable adaptation.

References Akpan, W. 2011. ‘Local’ knowledge, ‘Global’ knowledge, ‘Development’ knowledge: Finding a new balance in the knowledge power play. South African Review of Sociology, 42(3): 116-127. Berkes, F. 2009. Indigenous ways of knowing and the study of environmental change. Journal of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 39(4): 151-156. Berkes, F., Colding, J. & Folke, C. 2000. Rediscovery of traditional ecological knowledge as adaptive management. Ecological Applications 10(5): 1251-1262. Brown, D., Chanakira, R.R., Chatiza, K., Dhliwayo, M., Dodman, D., Masiiwa, M., Muchadenyika, D., Mugabe, P. & Zvigadza, S. 2012. Climate change impacts, vulnerability and adaptation in Zimbabwe. IIED Climate Change Working Paper No. 3. http://pubs.iied.org/10034IIED.html Accessed 3 June 2015. Bulkeley, H. & Betsill, M. 2003. Cities and climate change: Urban sustainability and global environmental governance. London: Routledge.

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Carney, D. 1998. Implementing the sustainable rural livelihoods approach. In: Sustainable rural livelihoods: What contributions can we make? ed. D. Carney. London: DFID. —. 1999. Approaches to sustainable livelihoods for the rural poor. ODI Poverty Briefing No. 2, ODI, London. Caviglia-Harris, J. 2002. Sustainable agricultural practices in Rondônia, Brazil: Do local farmer organizations impact adoption rates? Paper presented at the Second World Congress of Environmental and Resource Economists, California: Monterey. June 24–27. Chagutah, T. 2010. Climate change vulnerability and adaptation preparedness in Southern Africa: Zimbabwe Country Report. Cape Town: Heinrich Böll Stiftung Southern Africa Chambers, R. 1995. “Poverty and livelihoods: Whose reality counts?” IDS Discussion Paper 347, Brighton: IDS. Chambers, R. & Conway, G. 1992. Sustainable rural livelihoods: practical concepts for the 21st century. IDS Discussion Paper 296, Brighton: IDS. Dube, T. 2015. Climate change information usage for adaptation purposes: The case of smallholder farmers in Matobo District, Zimbabwe. PhD thesis, University of Fort Hare, South Africa. Dube, O. & Sekhwela, M.B.M. 2009. Indigenous knowledge, institutions and practices for coping with variable climate in the Limpopo Basin of Botswana. In: Climate change and adaptation, ed. N. Leary et al. London: Earthscan. Gbetibouo, G.A. 2009. Understanding farmers’ perceptions and adaptations to climate change and variability: The case of the Limpopo Basin, South Africa. IFPRI Discussion Paper 00849. http://www.ifpri.org/sites/default/files/publications/ifpridp00849.pdf Accessed on 7 April 2015. Haralambos, M. & Holborn, M. 2008. Sociology: themes and perspectives (7th edition). Hammersmith: Harper-Collins. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. 2007. Climate change 2007: impacts, adaptation and vulnerability. Contribution of Working Group 11 to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Krantz, L. 2001. The sustainable livelihood approach to poverty reduction: An introduction. http://www.sida.se/contentassets/bd474c210163447c9a7963d77c64148 a/the-sustainable-livelihood-approach-to-poverty-reduction_2656.pdf Accessed on 17 June 2015.

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Manyeruke, C., Hamauswa, S. & Mhandara, L. 2013. The effects of climate change and variability on food security in Zimbabwe: A socioeconomic and political analysis. International Journal of Humanities and Social Science, 3(6): 270-286. Moser, C., Norton, A., Stein, A. & Georgieva, S. 2010. Pro-poor adaptation to climate change in urban centers: Case studies of vulnerability and resilience in Kenya and Nicaragua. Washington DC: World Bank. Moyo, P. & Dube, T. 2014. Edging towards a tipping point? An appraisal of the evolution of livelihoods under climate change in semi-arid Matobo, Zimbabwe. International Journal of Development and Sustainability, 3(6): 1340-1353. Mugandani, R., M Wuta, A Makarau, AS. & Chipindu, B. 2012. Reclassification of agro-ecological regions of Zimbabwe inconformity with climate variability and change. African Crop Science Journal 20(2): 361-369. Nhemachena, C. & Hassan, R. 2007. Micro-level analysis of farmers’ adaptation to climate change in Southern Africa. IFPRI Discussion Paper No. 00714. Washington DC: International Food Policy Research Institute. Pittock, A.B. 2007. Climate change: Turning up the heat. London: Earthscan. Putman, R. 1993. The prosperous community: Social capital and public life. The American Prospect, 4(13): 27-40. Rakodi, C. 1999. A capital assets framework for analysing household livelihood strategies: Implications for policy. Development Policy Review, 17: 315-342. Schutte, S. 2004. Livelihoods of the urban poor in Afghanistan: Conceptual issues and review of literature. http://www.areu.org.af/Uploads/EditionPdfs/439ELivelihoods%20of% 20the%20Urban%20Poor%20WP%200204.pdf Accessed 10 June 2015. Scoones, I. 1998. Sustainable rural livelihoods: A framework for analysis. IDS Working Paper 72. http://www.ids.ac.uk/ids/bookshop/wp/wp72.pdf Accessed 10 June 2015. Speranza, C.I., Kiteme, B., Ambenje, P., Wiesmann, U. & Makali, S. 2010. Indigenous knowledge related to climate variability and change: Insights from droughts in semi-arid areas of Makueni district, Kenya. Climate Change, 100(2): 295-315.

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Steger, M. 2009. Globalisation: A very short introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tanner, T. & Mitchell, T. 2008. Introduction: Building the case for propoor adaptation. IDS Bulletin 39(4): 1-5. Taruvinga, A., Muchenje, V. & Mushunje, A. 2013. Climate change impacts and adaptations on small-scale livestock production. International Journal of Development and Sustainability, 2(2): 664685. Thornton, P.K., Jones, P.G., Owiyo, T., Kruska, R.L., Herrero, M., Kristjanson, P., Notenbaert, A., Bekele, N. & Omolo, A. 2006. Mapping climate vulnerability and poverty in Africa. Report to the Department for International Development, ILRI, Nairobi, Kenya. World Bank. 2014. Turn down the heat: Confronting the new climate normal. Washington, DC: World Bank. Ziervogel, G. & Cartwright, A. 2011. The use of climate science in agricultural adaptation in Africa. In: Climate change and international development: making development cooperation more effective, ed. R. Fujikura and M. Kawanishi. London: Earthscan.

CHAPTER FIVE METEOROLOGICAL AND INDIGENOUS CLIMATE CHANGE INFORMATION ACCESS AND USAGE FOR ADAPTATION IN MATOBO DISTRICT, ZIMBABWE THULANI DUBE AND PHILANI MOYO

Introduction Climate change information, in particular seasonal climate forecasting, is an important prerequisite in adapting to the effects of climate change in general. In the agriculture sphere, meteorological climate forecasting methods have made it possible to present farming communities and relevant stakeholders with seasonal forecasts three to six months in advance of cropping seasons (Blench 1999, 1). Farmers who receive relevant timely seasonal forecasting information that is up-to-date are generally able to use that information to minimise agricultural risks that come with climate change and variability (Unganai et al 2013). Accurate weather information about the coming agricultural season(s) allows farmers to make strategic decisions about which crops to grow, where and when. This means access to information equips farmers with knowledge about climate change ex ante and ex post adaptation strategies (O’Brien and Vogel 2006). However, the positive potential “of seasonal forecasting is contingent on the expectation that the content, format, and mode of delivery of the climate information will not thwart the effective use of the information” (Eakin 1999, 448). This means that the availability and utility of seasonal climate forecasts can be of great assistance to farmers only if the information is contextual and the chain of its communication is without bottlenecks. Ensuring that farmers get climate information that is locally relevant and in ways they can use to inform and support their farming

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decisions is thus crucial in their livelihoods. In spite of this clear importance of climate change information in adaptation, there is limited understanding of whether smallholder communal farmers actually have access to such information in Southern Africa. There is also minuscule analysis of the community context-specific factors that affect the effective use of such information by smallholder communal farmers. Based on empirical data from Matobo district in Zimbabwe, this chapter investigates the extent to which smallholder farmers have access to climate change and variability information. It asks: How well does this information address smallholder farmers’ needs in adapting to climate change and variability? Furthermore, it examines the context within which farmers access and utilise climate change and variability information. This contextual focus is crucial since it brings into debate the role of local factors in influencing the use or non-usage of meteorological climate information in adaptation.

Meteorological climate forecasting for agricultural purposes Several studies have examined the effectiveness of climate change information, and in particular, seasonal climate forecasts in influencing farmers’ decisions in climate change adaptation (Ziervogel and Calder 2003; Ingram, Roncoli & Kirshen 2002; Hansen et al. 2011). This information helps farmers to adjust and adequately prepare for new seasons. In Burkina Faso, “most farmers expressed strong interest in receiving seasonal precipitation forecasts” (Ingram, Roncoli & Kirshen 2002, 338). This information was used to make important decisions in the planting season. In Lesotho, Ziervogel and Calder (2003) observed that appropriate forecasts help vulnerable farmers adapt to climate variability. They further established that the specific seasonal climate information required for decision making was the following: (1) start of the rainy season, (2) maximum rainfall in one month, (3) distribution of rain throughout the season, (4) minimum temperatures, (5) maximum temperatures, (6) number of days or months without rain, and (7) total rainfall in the season (Ziervogel and Calder 2003, 409). Another interesting observation by Ziervogel and Calder (2003) is that farmers who timeously received the above climate information were able to make decisions to safeguard their agro-based livelihoods. However, they caution that the use of such seasonal climate forecast information should be understood in the context of other determinants of climate change adaptation, in particular, the availability (or lack) of tangible and nontangible resources.

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The fact that seasonal climate forecasts are part of the repertoire of climate risk management tools that can be used in adapting to climate change (Cooper et al. 2008) has also been demonstrated among Australian farmers. Risbey, Kandlikar and Dowlatabadi (1999, 161) note that Australian “farmers who make tactical planting decisions on the basis of historical climate trends are outperformed by those who use even moderately successful seasonal forecast information.” They add that “even relatively large errors in forecasts can be tolerated and still preserve the substantial benefits of using climate forecast information over decision rules based on historical trends” (Risbey, Kandlikar and Dowlatabadi 1999, 149). This demonstrates the importance of climate forecasting for tactical farming decision making and underscores its critical role in agrobased livelihood systems. The economic value of seasonal climate forecasting in agriculture is also worth debate. Meza, Hansen and Daniel (2008) argue that the essential economic value of seasonal climate forecasts lies in the fact that this information allows farmers to deal with decision making under conditions of uncertainty. Farmers who have access to seasonal climate forecasts and make use of that information are likely to economically outperform those with no access. This becomes clear when one considers the behaviour of risk-averse farmers. Risk-averse farmers approach every season expecting the worst case scenario. As a result, “a more risk averse farmer is less able to take advantage of favourable average years because they tend to minimise investment even when there is a good season forthcoming” (Meza, Hansen and Daniel 2008, 1271). In the long run, risk aversion results in reduced productivity and lost opportunities. However, if these risk-averse farmers access seasonal climate forecasts, then their production decision making positively changes. Seasonal climate forecasts therefore “allow risk-averse farmers to relax the additional protective strategies in climatically favourable or average seasons” (Meza, Hansen and Daniel 2008, 1271). The existence of climate change information by itself has little meaning if that information is not put into decision making for improving livelihoods. Hansen et al. (2011, 215) argue that the value of information can only be seen if there is an improvement in economic outcomes partly influenced by the incorporation of that new information. If people do not change their adaptation behaviour as a result of receiving climate change forecasts, then the information that they would have received cannot be considered to be of any significant livelihood value (Luseno et al. 2003, 1488). Furthermore, the usefulness of forecast information is affected by a variety of social, economic and political factors which affect information

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dissemination and access as well as decision making processes (Roncoli, Ingram & Kirshen 2002). It is these contextual factors that this chapter actively engages. It interrogates the flow of climate change information from forecasters to grassroots farmers in Matobo. The main objective is to understand the type of climate change and variability information available to smallholder farmers in Matobo and the local factors that affect the use of such information for adaptation purposes. In so doing, the specific questions addressed are: What climate change information do smallholder farmers in Matobo have access to? To what extent does this information address smallholder farmers’ climate change adaptation needs? Such a line of enquiry is timely because while much attention has been directed towards assessing the value of climate change information, there is a dearth of research that goes beyond that discourse to investigate factors affecting the dissemination, access and use of such information by smallholder farmers.

Data collection Empirical data informing arguments in this chapter were collected in Matobo district, Zimbabwe. A survey of 400 households was conducted in four villages within the district: St. Anna, Matankeni, Tohwe and Sontala. This survey employed a multi-stage probability sampling technique, first to draw four wards out of 25 from the district, secondly to draw a village from each ward, and lastly to draw households from each village. Four hundred questionnaires were then administered to the selected households in the four villages. In addition to the survey, four focus group discussions (one per village) were conducted. Each focus group discussion consisted of between six and ten people. Lastly, in-depth key informant interviews were held with officials from the Meteorological Services Department, the Department of Climate Change Management in the Ministry of Environment, Water and Climate, and indigenous knowledge specialists.

Availability and access to weather forecasts in Matobo District A significant number of Matobo smallholder farmers were conscious of the importance of knowing about climate change. To that end, they used various formal means for accessing daily and seasonal weather forecasts, namely, radio, television, newspapers and the internet as shown in Table 5-1.

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Table 5-1: Climate change information sources in Matobo Source Radio Television Newspaper Internet No access TOTAL

Number 186 15 5 2 192 400

Source: Field data

The principal medium was radio which was relied on by 186 farmers while others received information through the television (15), newspapers (5) and online (2). Community members with radios and TVs were therefore most likely to hear about meteorological seasonal weather forecasting and climate change. This means that community members who had radio and TV sets (and the very few who read newspapers and online content) stood a better chance of anticipating risk, and instituting relevant adaptation strategies that gave them a better chance of improved yields compared to the 192 with no access to meteorological climate change information. Given that ownership of a radio or TV was closely related to relative local financial affluence, this suggests that those community members of a higher economic status and social standing were more likely to have (and indeed had) more climate change knowledge. This is confirmed by survey data which shows that households at the lower end of the income bracket ($0—$49 and $50—$99 per month) had the least climate change knowledge. The association between income levels and knowledge levels about climate change is clear. Hence, it can be argued that lack of climate change knowledge can be attributed to the inability to purchase gadgets such as radios and television sets which regularly broadcast weather patterns and climate change information. However, regardless of whether farmers accessed meteorological climate change information through the radio, television, newspapers or online, it was evident that this cohort of farmers (who constituted 42%) valued the importance of meteorological climate change information, especially seasonal weather forecasts, for farming decision making and adaptation purposes. This was emphasised in the focus group discussions where farmers noted that these weather climate forecasts were crucial information which allowed them to anticipate risk and thereafter make informed decisions about the proper seed varieties to sow, when to plant them and how much fertiliser to apply. Such informed decision making is

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important in a changing climate context since different levels of precipitation can only sustain particular types of crop varieties. It is however indicative that the majority (48%) of farmers did not have access to meteorological climate change information and seasonal weather forecasts in preparation for forthcoming seasons. A plethora of reasons were given for this indifference towards forecasts. For example, some farmers noted that they did not know where to find such information. As some focus group participants indicated: We do not have anyone to tell us about climate change. When it rains we just get into our fields and start planting, if we win we win, if we lose we lose. Agriculture and extension services officials teach us about farming only, they do not teach us about climate change (St Anna Focus Group Discussion, Participant 6). We are not able to find information on whether in any season there will be good rains that can allow us to plant well. Most of us just know that the rains have fallen, and tomorrow we will plant (St Anna Focus Group Discussion, Participant 4).

This means that some farmers simply do not know about climate change due to limited or non-existent communication and information sharing channels. There is therefore a need to know where the gaps in the communication channel are so as to identify the reasons why this information is not filtering through to farmers. If the farmers are not using available channels, then it means there is a need to conscientise them about the availability of seasonal climate-related information and the centres where this information can be accessed. Other farmers were of the view that forecast information was unreliable. As one participant in a focus group discussion noted: We do this because even weather forecasters always say ‘we think that the weather will be such and such’… They are not sure also. Sometimes they might say there will be limited rain, but when it rains you might have a lot of rain… They say what they see and think (Matankeni Focus Group Discussion, Participant 4).

This perceived unreliability of weather forecasts and lack of trust in the meteorological climate forecasting system was further entrenched and explained by the prevalent religious interpretation of weather events. There was a prevailing unscientific view that weather was beyond the predictions of meteorological science since the Christian God was ultimately the final authority on climate patterns. Those farmers who

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subscribed to this “religious” world view did not seek meteorological climate forecasting information since they believed that issues of the weather were beyond the ability of weather forecasting scientists. While some farmers did not fully trust meteorological weather and climate forecasts, it was instructive to discover that the majority of farmers believed and trusted indigenous knowledge climate forecasting systems and information. Survey results show that 78% of the respondents used and trusted indigenous knowledge systems. This figure includes those who used a combination of indigenous knowledge systems and meteorological forecasting as well as those who exclusively relied on indigenous knowledge systems. This means that indigenous knowledge systems for seasonal weather forecasting play a major role in informing and influencing agricultural decision making in Matobo district. This widespread usage of indigenous knowledge systems is in contrast with the widely held view that meteorological seasonal weather forecasts are the main source of information for farmers with regard to climate change adaptation (see Philips et al 2002; Hansen 2002). This finding calls into question the hype about meteorological climate forecasting as the panacea for African farmers in climate change adaptation. There are several reasons why farmers were using indigenous knowledge climate forecasting systems in Matobo. One of the reasons is that meteorological climate information was not easily accessible for those without radios and TVs. Traditional ecological knowledge, on the other hand, was readily available to all who were willing to learn and apply it as it was based on the immediate local environment. Another reason cited for the prevalent use of indigenous knowledge systems was that people trusted this knowledge system based on their lived experiences of its reliability in predicting weather and seasonal climate over many decades. Survey results show that 67% of the respondents found traditional ecological knowledge to be either “reliable” or “very reliable”. This suggests that this is not only a widely used knowledge system, but also one that is widely trusted. Given that these observations were gathered from respondents who had a minimum of 20 years’ experience living in the area, there are justifiable empirical grounds for their veracity. Since indigenous knowledge systems had long been an important part of Matobo farmers’ repertoire of tools in making farming decisions, it has been seamless for them to adapt this rich knowledge heritage to their climate change ex ante and ex post adaptation. Indigenous knowledge climate forecasting systems are therefore held in high regard in Matobo. Agriculture and extension services (AGRITEX) officers confirmed that in the event that meteorological forecasts .

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conflicted with indigenous knowledge forecasting systems, community members invariably preferred to take their cue from the indigenous knowledge climate forecasting systems. This is significant for policy purposes. As the Provincial Agronomist for AGRITEX noted: There is a problem with the way that the information is presented by the Meteorological Services Department. We may understand it here as AGRITEX but with farmers it is very difficult so farmers use their own indicators out there in the wards saying such and such a tree this year is fruiting well hence there will be a lot of rain or if you see this particular tree not fruiting this year there will be no rain. When you come with your own forecast that is conflicting they will not understand because they use their own methods.

The above comment brings to the fore several important issues about the use of indigenous knowledge climate forecasting in Matobo. Firstly, it shows that where (and when) information does reach farmers, it is mostly too technical and complex for their comprehension. For example, the probability forecasts require a certain level of knowledge and skill to interpret and comprehend. Secondly, in the event of conflicting forecasts between meteorological climate forecasting and indigenous climate forecasting systems, meteorological climate forecasts were considered less trustworthy. This means that, from the farmers’ perspective, indigenous knowledge systems take precedence over meteorological climate forecasts. Matobo farmers’ decision making and behaviour suggests that if climate change information is to be effectively used for adaptation, there should be synergy between meteorological climate forecasts and indigenous climate forecasts to produce synthesised forecasts that are trusted by community members, and above all, highly accurate. This is crucial because traditional ecological knowledge is used as reference knowledge by local communities whereas meteorological forecasts (when available) are used to validate locals’ observations of their environment. Traditional ecological knowledge is not seen as some kind of supplementary knowledge but rather as the core knowledge. This calls for a rethink in terms of how traditional ecological knowledge and indigenous climate forecasting systems are perceived and used in climate change discourse and adaptation interventions.

Conclusion Access and usage of meteorological climate change information is limited in Matobo for a variety of reasons. For example, the current reliance on

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radio and television as preferred mediums for disseminating this information is disadvantageous to many households at the lower socioeconomic strata since they lack the financial means to access these electronic gadgets. Such households are therefore structurally excluded from accessing crucial information, thereby deepening their vulnerability since they cannot fully anticipate impending climate change risks. This therefore calls for a rethink of how meteorological climate change information is communicated to rural smallholder farmers. Secondly, the technical content of meteorological climate information needs to be revisited. It needs to be made more intelligible for its target recipients who are rural smallholder farmers. Limited access to meteorological climate change information has “pushed” the majority of Matobo farmers to rely on indigenous knowledge based forecasting techniques. This indigenous knowledge forecasting system is highly regarded and trusted by the community. For the community members, this system’s authenticity is based and confirmed by their lived experiences. This reliance on indigenous knowledge in climate change forecasting (and in farming decision making) suggests that there is need to rethink how this rich repertoire of knowledge is perceived and used in climate change information dissemination and adaptation. A systematic integration of indigenous knowledge forecasting techniques and meteorological forecasting probabilities is perhaps the most practical way of ensuring that farmers receive locally relevant, trusted and practical climate change information for adaptation purposes.

References Blench, R. 1999. Seasonal climatic forecasting: Who can use it and how should it be disseminated? Natural Resource Perspectives, 47: 1-4. Cooper, P.J.M., Dimes, J., Rao, K.P.C., Shapiro, B., Shiferaw, B. & Twomlow, S. 2008. Coping better with current climate variability in the rain-fed farming systems of sub-Saharan Africa: An essential first step in adapting to future climate change. Agriculture Ecosystems and Development, 126: 24-35. Eakin, H. 1999. Seasonal climate forecasting and the relevance of local knowledge. Physical Geography, 20(6): 447-460. Hansen, J.W., Mason, S.J., Sun, L. & Tall, A. 2011. Review of seasonal climate forecasting for agriculture in sub-Saharan Africa. Experimental Agriculture, 47(2): 205-240.

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Hansen, W.H. 2002. Realising the potential benefits of climate prediction to agriculture: Issues, approaches, challenges. Agricultural Systems, 74: 309-330. Ingram, K.T., Roncoli, M.C. & Kirshen, P.H. 2002. Opportunities and constraints for farmers of West Africa to use seasonal precipitation forecasts with Burkina Faso as a case study. Agricultural Systems, 74: 331-349. Luseno, W.K., McPeak, J.G., Barrett, C.B., Little, P.D. & Gebru, G. 2003. Assessing the value of climate forecast information for pastoralists: evidence from Southern Ethiopia and Northern Kenya. World Development, 31(9): 1477-1494. Meza, F., Hansen, W.H. & Daniel, O. 2008. Economic value of seasonal climate forecasts for agriculture: Review of ex-ante assessments and recommendations for future research. Journal of Applied Meteorology and Climatology, 47: 1269-1286. O’Brien, K. & Vogel, C. 2006. Who can eat information? Examining the effectiveness of seasonal climate forecasts and regional climate-risk management strategies. Climate Research, 33: 111-122. Philips, J.G., Deane, D., Unganai, L. & Chimeli, A. 2002. Implications of farm level response to seasonal climate forecasts for aggregate grain production in Zimbabwe. Agricultural Systems, 74: 351-369. Risbey, J., Kandlikar, M. & Dowlatabadi, H. 1999. Scale, context and decision making in agricultural adaptation to climate variability and change. Mitigation and adaptation strategies for global change, 4: 137-165. Roncoli, C., Ingram K. & Kirshen, P. 2002. Reading the rains: Local knowledge and rainfall forecasting in Burkina Faso. Society and Natural Resources: An International Journal, 15(5): 409-427. Unganai, L.S., Troni, J., Manatsa, D. & Mukarakate, D. 2013. Tailoring seasonal climate forecasts for climate risk management in rainfed farming systems of southeast Zimbabwe. Climate and Development, 5(2): 139-152. Ziervogel, G. & Calder, R. 2003. Climate variability and rural livelihoods: Assessing the impact of seasonal climate forecasts in Lesotho. Area, 35(4): 403-417.

CHAPTER SIX WHEN “ADEQUATE” COUNTS FOR NOTHING: COMPENSATION AND COLLECTIVE MEMORY IN A POSTCOLONIAL MINING CONTEXT IKECHUKWU UMEJESI AND WILSON AKPAN

Introduction Since the 1990s, there has been an escalation of violent grassroots protests in the oil-rich Niger Delta region of Nigeria, targeting oil facilities and, in some cases, government installations. During this period, crude oil production and security in the Niger Delta declined. The conflict has, however, subsided since 2009 with the federal government’s amnesty programme intended to address regional grievances through the disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration of the militants (Umejesi 2014). Scholars have typically blamed the decades-old crisis on the inadequacy of compensation payments made by the state or mining companies to local communities (Ebeku 2001, 2004; Ghazvinian 2005; Akpan 2005; Porto 2003; Jike 2004; Ukiwo 2009). The dominant narrative sees inadequacy in three ways: inadequate monetary compensation on expropriated or degraded land, inadequate periodic rents paid by extractive firms to landowners, and deficits in infrastructure provisioning in the mineralendowed communities or the resource-rich province as a whole (see Frynas 2000; Ogedengbe 2007). The subscript of this narrative is that compensation is the key explanatory variable in anti-corporate and antistate militancy. This chapter examines the “compensation discourse”, especially in relation to the pervasive poverty, environmental damage and continuing corporate-community conflict in Nigeria’s resource-rich rural communities. The central argument is that, as a result of some of its underlying neoliberal assumptions, much of the compensation discourse is faulty—which is why the discourse obscures the true nature of state-community and corporate-

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community conflict. The chapter explores the intersection of collective memory and specific practices in the extractive sector (with particular reference to land acquisition) and demonstrates the salience of conflict in that intersection.

State-community conflict: Compensational justice versus the weapon of memory In Africa, a dominant explanation for local agitation against the state and multinational companies in natural resource-rich communities is that local communities do not participate in the ownership of resources in their domain, or that they receive little or no compensation for the resources extracted from their land (Akpan 2005; Ghazvinian 2005; GlobalSecurity 2010). According to Mnwana (2014, 1): Studies have shown that the absence of direct community control of, or meaningful participation in, mineral wealth remains a major factor in the communal resistance and socio-political conflict witnessed in the natural resource-endowed regions of, among others, Nigeria.

Grassroots mobilisation against the government and the international oil companies in the Niger Delta region of Nigeria is among the best known cases of natural resource-related conflicts in Africa. Here, indicators of compensational inadequacy include widespread poverty, decrepit or complete absence of socio-economic infrastructure, pervasive youth unemployment, as well as a degraded natural environment (Jike 2004; Ukiwo 2009). Ebeku (2004, 1) linked the cause of the conflict in the Niger Delta to issues of compensational inadequacy, arguing that: In recent years, local inhabitants of the [Niger Delta] region have been publicly protesting about, inter alia, their non-participation in the exploitation, the non-payment of compensation or inadequate compensation for oil operations damage, unemployment in the oil exploration and exploitation companies.

In an earlier analysis, Ebeku (2001, 1) pointed at what he called “the injustice of the Land Use Act”1 (hereafter referred to as Land Use Decree 1

The Land Use Decree was promulgated in 1978 as a decree by the then military government. It became an Act of the National Assembly in 1979 when the civilian government was inaugurated.

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of 1978). Ebeku identifies the major problem with the Land Use Decree as its denial of the right of local people to negotiate the payment of compensation with oil companies which they had under previous laws (Ebeku 2001, 11). The loss of this right is seen as “the injustice”, especially given that the payment of compensation to land owners was an established practice in the period before the enactment of the Land Use Decree, as this served as “a soothing balm to oil-bearing/land-owning communities” (Ebeku 2001, 11). Ebeku believes grassroots opposition to the state and the oil companies in the Niger Delta is linked to the loss of this right to negotiate compensation under the Land Use Decree of 1978. Analysing the Niger Delta conflict, Frynas (2000, 158) contends that the inability of international oil companies in Nigeria, such as Shell, to pay communities “adequate compensation” for acquired and degraded land constitutes one of the “underlying problems” to community militancy. According to the author, the companies avoid “addressing underlying problems such as the inadequate payment of compensation and ecological damage [resulting] from oil operation”. The argument is presented slightly differently by Nwokedi (2003, 26), who suggests that the conflict emanates from colonial era marginalisation of the oil-producing region and the failure of the independent state to: Redress the inequalities suffered by the people of the Delta area and the need to adequately compensate them for the extensive and severe encroachment of their small land by oil companies which pay out huge royalties and land tax to the Federal Government.

For Nwokedi, the goal of community rebellion is the appropriation of “good compensation” from the government and the oil companies: Since then, the agitation of the Niger Delta Area [has been], to obtain a lion share of the revenue derived from mineral resources within their area has continued to generate political tension and sometimes communal unrest (Nwokedi 2003, 26).

In his work on land-related conflicts, which often emanate from the state’s exercise of “eminent domain” (powers of overriding interest) when expropriating land for developmental purposes, Akpan (2005) highlights certain problems associated with the manner in which eminent domain is exercised, among them the problem of inadequate compensation. The Niger Delta crisis is: about what constitutes adequate and equitable compensation to the affected communities (or the oil-producing province as a whole) when land is

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Akpan has, however, subsequently acknowledged the limitations of the compensational theory and its applicability to the understanding of the Niger Delta conflict (see Akpan 2009, 113). One question that has not been adequately explored is: How does the memory of historical events influence grievance construction and conflict in the post-colonial context—in Nigeria’s Niger Delta or any other mineral-rich communities in Sub-Saharan Africa? The present authors recognise the imperative of adequate compensation for resource-rich communities, especially in the face of massive poverty and environmental degradation. However, the perception of grassroots mobilisation in resource-rich communities of Nigeria as agitation for compensational justice overlooks other variables and leads to an over-simplified view of the socio-historical problems that have shaped state-community relations since the evolution of the Nigerian nation-state. The compensation discourse measures the justness, or otherwise, of compensation in strict economic terms—a problematisation Adams and Thompson (2002, 41-46) refer to as “single metric rationality”. In other words, while the discourse ignores the impact of history (especially the collective memory of communities’ relationship with the state) on the agitation, it focuses solely on the economic benefits of resource exploitation. Collective memory—sometimes referred to as “popular” or “public” memory (Glassberg 1996, 8)—relates to “a current of continuous thought whose continuity is not at all artificial, for it retains from the past only what still lives or is capable of living in the consciousness of the groups keeping the memory alive” (Halbwachs 1980, 80). It gives meaning to places and events, and connects stories of former events to a particular environment (Glassberg 1996). The connection here is between “history” and “place”. In recognition of this link, Glassberg (1996, 17) notes that “historical consciousness and place consciousness are inextricably intertwined; we attach histories to places, and the environmental value we attach to a place comes largely through the memories and historical associations we have with it”. The ecological space, or “spatial framework” (see Halbwachs 1980, 6), is primary to the idea of collective memory. In other words, the framework of the space in which communities have lived and interacted, and in which generations have been born or buried, traded, practiced religion, warred, suffered deprivations or prospered, bear currents of memories on both those who experienced the events and the unborn generations to whom the

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events will be relayed. For Foote (1997, 33), “the relationship between tragedy and the negotiation of meaning suggests an important connection between landscape, culture, and social or collective ‘memory’”. Although scholars analysing conflicts in modern African states often ignore the role of memory, and tend to focus on postcolonial developments, collective memory of community heritage, sovereignty, pride, land, or the loss of these to another authority (the state or business corporations), affect the way local communities perceive the “others”—state and corporate miners. This is particularly true of extractive rural economies. How is the concept of collective memory (or history) relevant? Briefly, while this chapter does not give credence to the notion of Africa as a static continent, chained to its “history”, it views a reference to history in this context as a compelling dynamic in the formation of group view. The “Kaiama Declaration of 1998”2 for instance, illustrates how grievance construction appears to have been shaped by collective memory: It was through British colonisation that the IJAW NATION was forcibly put under the Nigerian State...but for the economic interests of the imperialists, the Ijaw Ethnic Nationality would have evolved as a distinct and separate sovereign nation, enjoying undiluted political, economic, social, and cultural AUTONOMY...We cease to recognise all undemocratic decrees that rob our people/communities of the right to ownership and control of our lives and resources (Kaiama Declaration 1998, 1; see also MOSOP 1990).

Collective memory, as expressed by this declaration, gives insights into how community ownership and control of common property resources gave way to state ownership and control, and to the broadening of the public space from “communal” to “national”. It further illustrates how resource ownership and related legislation (which deemphasises indigenous rights and active community participation in resource exploitation) could bring back collective memories of a long-gone era when the community enjoyed “unabridged” ecological sovereignty. The result of this could be conflict, which could take different forms, including a truncation of allegiance to the modern state.

2

This is a declaration by the ethnic Ijaw youths, outlining their grievances against state ownership of oil wealth in their ancestral land. It follows the Ogoni Bill of Rights of 1990 and other similar “Declarations”. A common issue raised by these grievance documents is ‘injustices’ perpetrated by the state against their peoples since its evolution.

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Coal and petroleum development in Nigeria: A brief history of the “land question” Coal was discovered in 1909 in Enugu-Ngwo by a British colonial Engineer, Mr. Ernst Kitson, while active mining began in 1915. Prior to the commencement of mining, the colonial government had in 1912, acquired the land where the coal deposit was found from Enugu-Ngwo community. The acquisition (or Crown land), was made on behalf of the people of Nigeria and vested in the state for “public good” (Deed of Cession 1915, 1; Hair 1954, 62). Incidentally, the land, as shown later in this chapter, included the inhabited villages of Enugu-Ngwo (Hair 1954, 65). Since the cession of the land in 1915, its ownership has been contended between the state and local people. According to colonial records obtained by the first author from the National Archive, Enugu, the state claims that the land was “willingly” ceded by local chiefs (see Deed of Cession 1915, 1). On the other hand, local people argue that the land was forcefully appropriated from unsuspecting local chiefs (see Onoh 1997, 4-5). Prior to 1950 when the Nigeria Coal Corporation (NCC) was established, the Federal Ministry of Mining managed the colliery and its landed assets. However, the establishment of the NCC as a state monopoly saw the transference of the assets and liabilities of the colliery, including the Crown land in EnuguNgwo, to the NCC. The Corporation’s monopoly lasted from inception until 1999 when the Government of Nigeria deregulated coal mining in Nigeria and initiated the process of privatising the mines and disposing of its landed assets. The history of the colliery and the privatisation exercise, and what these implied for community cohesion and sense of identity and pride, are crucial for understanding the agitation of the citizens of EnuguNgwo, as demonstrated further below. Oil was discovered in commercial quantities in Egbema in 1958, two years after a similar discovery in Oloibiri in June 1956 (see NAE: OP24/1929, 1906; Orji 1999, 98). While land in Enugu-Ngwo was acquired as Crown or government land, in Egbema for other oil-producing communities, land was, in theory, “rented” from its indigenous owners (Ebeku 2001, Akpan 2005). While the word “rented” connotes freedom on the part of the owner to refuse to rent his land to the oil companies, oilproducing communities do not reserve such ownership rights by virtue of the Petroleum Act of 1969 and the Land Use Decree of 1978 (Ebeku 2001). These laws appropriated and vested all land and minerals in the state (Nwokedi 2003; Azaiki 2003). While these laws were made by postcolonial government, they reflect colonial era land/mineral laws which

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had alienated indigenous landowners. The consequence of this framework is that the state determines what may be paid as compensation to land owners, while oil companies determine where to acquire land for oil production activities. Local communities are excluded from this relationship. The sense of alienation bred by this framework, community impoverishment and the ecological practices of the oil companies, collectively reinforce opposition to what is often seen as “historical injustices”.

Data collection This chapter is based on data collected in 2008—2010 by the first author, during which four months were devoted to fieldwork. The data collection methods were key informant interviews (22 respondents), in-depth interviews (111 respondents), focus group discussions (FGD—two groups of eight participants each), oral history (first-hand accounts of several elderly residents who witnessed mining activities in the 1950s; in the case of Egbema, the onset of oil exploration activities), and archival inquiry (at the National Archive, Enugu). Enugu-Ngwo is in the Enugu-North Local Government Area of Enugu State, Southeast Nigeria. The community is semi-urban, as a result of its geo-historical relationship with Enugu city, the capital of Enugu state. A tour of this hilltop community portrays what may pass as a once “wellcompensated” mining town. This is informed by the presence of socioeconomic amenities provided by both the state and the defunct Nigerian Coal Corporation, although these amenities have fallen into gross disrepair. The amenities or “compensation” obviously masks the historical realities that underpin community agitation against decades of coal mining in this community. Although originally built around the colliery, the local economy is dependent on petty trading and subsistence farming. The second study community, Egbema, is in Ohaji-Egbema Local Government Area of Imo State, South-east Nigeria. An inland oil producing community in the Niger Delta, Egbema provides a contrasting scenario to Enugu-Ngwo in terms of socio-economic infrastructure. It is characterised by decades of oil-production in settled neighbourhoods, ecological damage, land deprivation, social maladjustments and lack of good socio-economic infrastructure. The local residents are mainly subsistence farmers, fishermen and traders. While these two study communities portray contrasting images in relation to “compensation”, perhaps the role of memory (or in a broader

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sense, “history”) in grassroots agitation in both communities provides a commonality which this chapter explores.

Findings The findings are presented in two segments. The first deals with historical and contemporaneous land-related agitation in the coal mining town of Enugu-Ngwo, and the second focuses on local sentiments about oil production activities in Egbema.

The past as present: land agitation in Enugu-Ngwo In 1912, the colonial state acquired a total of 16,700 acres of indigenous land in Enugu-Ngwo, principally for coal mining and related uses. One key statement in the agreement between the colonial state and EnuguNgwo chiefs is that the land was ceded to the state for “public purposes”, such as: the purposes of a [railway] station and colliery, for the working of all coal and other minerals, the building of works, railways and houses, the establishment of traders’ sites, and for all and any other purposes for which the said Government may think fit to use the said land (Deed of Cession, 1915, 1).

The consequence of this acquisition to Enugu-Ngwo, as P.E.H. Hair, a colonial officer, recorded in his memoirs (obtained from the National Archives, Enugu), is that: In the case of [Enugu-]Ngwo…over half of the tribal [communal] land became Crown property. And the land ceded by [Enugu-]Ngwo included the site of [Enugu-]Ngwo [the villages]. It is not surprising that in later years [Enugu-]Ngwo people protested against the cessions of 1915 and 1917…It is only in recent years the tribal groups [local communities] have fully realised what they lost in 1915 and 1917…The situation is particularly alarming to the people of [Enugu-]Ngwo, so many of whom now find that they are farming their land and living in their houses simply by grace of a landlord, the Crown. There is alarm.

However, during the fieldwork the researchers encountered narratives that suggested that the eleven elders (chiefs) who supposedly ceded communal lands to the colonial state for mining were actually “tricked” or “coerced” into thumb-printing an already drafted Deed of Cession.

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According to one in-depth interviewee, an octogenarian and a former high level political office holder in the former Anambra state3: The chiefs of Udi4 met white people [British colonial officials] for the first time around 1908 when they came from Onitsha. They found coal in 1909 here in Enugu-Ngwo, while active mining began in 1915...By the time they acquired our land in 1912; our fathers did not know coal or trains. Now tell me, how our fathers would have appreciated the benefits of a train station and coal? This is why we say they were tricked or forced.

Another interviewee, an elderly traditional leader in the community and a former high ranking official of the moribund Nigerian Coal Corporation (NCC), “British diplomacy” played a vital role in the acquisition: It was a result of British diplomacy...in 1915, they employed the very terrible and ruthless Warrant Chief Onyeama5, ordered him to go inside the bush and fish out the leaders of these people to sign a Deed of Grant so that the land they took by force can be covered by a legal document. In 1915, the eleven chiefs of Enugu-Ngwo were brought and they signed the Deed of Grant, under duress, granting the land...Although there was a document stating that the grant was made, that grant was not a consensus agreement ad idem—as required by law. Two persons in a contract must show equal understanding and interest in the contract they are to sign.

It is this background of the colliery in Enugu-Ngwo that has shaped state-community relations since 1915, a situation which has worsened since the Nigerian government initiated the privatisation of the colliery in 1999. Respondents acknowledged that the community was relatively “well compensated” during the active years of the colliery. According to the former high ranking state official cited above: We did benefit from the colliery. Take employment for instance, they [local people] were trained in mining, some were sent abroad, trained properly by the British and they became experts especially in underground 3

The former Anambra state consisted of present day Anambra state, Enugu state and parts of Ebonyi state. 4 Enugu-Ngwo was part of colonial era Udi district. 5 His role as the warrant chief of the Agbaja clan (from 1914 to 1933), which included Enugu-Ngwo, epitomises the height of the reign of the warrant chiefs. It is alleged that he facilitated the cession of Enugu-Ngwo land to the colonial state for coal mining by gathering local chiefs who signed the agreement with the colonial officials in 1915 and 1917 (Eze, Mbah and Ezea 1999, 72-78).

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Chapter Six mining which needed special skills unlike the opencast mining. Ngwo population provided a ready pool of unskilled labourers, an advantage our neighbours never had. The coal mines management did not need to go far before getting their labour needs. There were jobs right after secondary school or primary school education. Even illiterates got jobs in the mines. The jobs kept the indigenes busy and they got the advantage of what God gave them.

The researchers observed other evidence of compensation, such as primary and secondary schools, pipe-borne water, telephone, electricity and tarred roads. Respondents, however, insisted that privatisation was a violation of the Deed of Cession of 1915, which had recognised the acquisition as a “public good”. One 44-year old respondent (a “youth leader”) in Enugu-Ngwo argued thus about the issue of compensation visà-vis landownership rights: “Did the government substitute our [EnuguNgwo] birth right with social amenities? I am sick and tired of that. Yes, we had those things [social amenities], but we lost our land. Must we lose our land to get good things?” In a lawsuit against the state, the community argued: We are worried and at pains, not for the sale to private persons of the movable assets of the 2nd Defendants [NCC], but for the obvious fact that 80% of Ngwo aboriginal indigenes’ homestead, land/plots acquired by the 1st defendant [Federal Government of Nigeria] for “public purpose”, from our forefathers represented by sundry chiefs of Ngwo in 1915 and 1917...these land assets through privatisation of the 2nd defendant means that the new owners of the plot/structures will become Landlords to the aboriginal Ngwo Community (see FHC/EN/CS/216 2004, 6).

A female youth activist and lawyer from the community also noted: We are concerned with our ancestral land. We do not accept the wilful flouting of an agreement the colonial masters entered into with our fathers. It is on that agreement we stand, we will fight for our heritage with every legal means.

These narratives bring to mind what Josiah Agu, an indigene of the community, wrote in the 1990s about the irony of the colliery in EnuguNgwo: “Coal has made and marred [Enugu] Ngwo” (Agu 1990, 48). In other words, while the colliery may have brought socio-economic development to the community, it also brought about dispossession. This dimension of the debate on the ownership of land—that is, the intersection of community land rights and the benefits of the resuscitated colliery—

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raises the question as to the adequacy of compensation as an explanation for local agitation.

Egbema: Mining as “conquest” Egbema, an oil town since 1958, lacks many of the socio-economic amenities found in Enugu-Ngwo. However, the researchers found that the role of collective memory in community agitation was quite salient. Like many other communities in the Niger Delta where oil production activities take place within inhabited neighbourhoods, the researchers encountered narratives around the “inconveniences” of living with oil facilities, and stories of dispossession of land through an “unholy alliance” between the state and multinational oil companies. There were also indications that these sentiments bred communal resistance and coincided with a partial withdrawal of loyalty from the state. In this regard, land-related agitation appeared to be a moral strategy to recover what was “lost” to the state and oil companies. One elderly respondent6, who witnessed the exploration of his community by Shell D’Arcy field workers in the 1950s, put all this into context: To them [Shell D’Arcy], we were not real human beings. I have not forgotten all their injustices, arrogance, and intimidation. The Queen of England was with them, the West African Frontier Force (WAFF) and the colonial government could overrun your community if you refused to comply with them. We did not know what they were doing; the Native Authority did not even speak to us. In those days if a decision that could affect the community was taken, the town crier used to go round the town very early in the morning with his gong alerting people about the new decision or community work. No one informed us about Shell’s mission.

Several other elderly respondents had first-hand accounts of early oil exploration activities in the community and described the “shock” brought about by the “invasion” of the community by oil exploration workers and the “intrusiveness” of oil-production activities. For them, there was no distinction between Shell D’Arcy and the colonial government7: the two were one and the same. One respondent, a septuagenarian whose father’s land was one of the first areas to be explored for oil in Egbema, said:

6

This respondent said he was 82 years old in 2007. Another name for colonial government among ordinary people in the colonial era was ‘Queen’s government’.

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Chapter Six I remember that we were in a farm sometime around April or June 1957. News came that certain people were building a house on our land. Initially my parents thought that was a joke from my senior [elder] sister who saw Shell workers with their optics [survey or seismic equipment]. My father believed the story when my uncle, his younger brother, ran to us to report that they were clearing the young cassava plants and mounting the stand for their optics...The irony is that when my father got there with all his fury, he could not do anything. The sight of the Whiteman leading the party [Shell’s exploration workers] terrified him. He came back without uttering a word. They held a family meeting that night and my uncle who was literate enough to write was asked to write a petition to the D.O. It was widely believed that those people were sent by the Queen’s government in Britain.

Remarkably, the researchers found, the history of the oil industry in Egbema was easily recounted by the youth in the community. However, while the elderly respondents recounted the beginnings of the oil industry in terms of “unjustness”, the youth, who live through the adverse socioecological effects of oil activities, appeared largely indifferent to the issue of compensation. In a focus group discussion, discussants expressed sentiments such as: I have been hearing of compensation from Shell since I was born. We do not need their compensation; we want them out of Egbema. How much will they pay us for our land? They promised our grandfathers the same compensation in 1958 when Well 1 was drilled. How much of the damage to our land will they compensate for?

The researchers read such sentiments as indicative of a growing lethargy towards the subject of compensation, but, more importantly, as one way in which collective memory served as a weapon of local resistance against the state and corporate interests. One FGD participant, a youth activist and lawyer from Egbema, summed up these sentiments in the following words: One may ask, how much compensation is adequate for a fish pond that provides food and nourishment for thousands of people for decades; how does one measure losses suffered in the form of biodiversity damage, and how many millions of microbiological lives are destroyed in one instance

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of burst pipe, fire outbreak or spillage? Take note, this has been our story since the 1950s.

Collective memory of oil production in Egbema influenced the narratives of resistance and compensation in other ways, as gleaned from the remarks of one respondent, who made a living by selling adulterated petroleum products, commonly known as “Asari fuel” in the Niger Delta (see Ghazvinian 2005, 12): My father told me how our land was stolen [expropriated] by Shell in 1959...Since I was born I have always seen these pipes [petroleum pipelines] as the greatest nuisance anyone can live with. In some areas, the pipes are only two metres or less from our houses and fences...You get up in the morning hungry and no hope of finding food for the day. The farms are already littered and polluted with oil installations and there are millions of dollars moving all about you in pipes and you are aware of the value of the substance inside of them. What do you do? So our struggle is not really because of roads and electricity [compensation], it is a fight for survival. It has continued since 1958.

While this respondent rationalised the trade in “stolen fuel” from the network of pipelines in the Niger Delta as a protest against intrusive oil production, he touched on what other respondents regarded as “central” to the agitation in the community; namely, the ubiquity and intrusiveness of oil-related facilities in the community and the attendant inconveniences. One official of the community’s Development Union, a communitybased non-governmental association with the responsibility of promoting community development, disclosed to the researchers that: We need the good things of life here as an oil-producing community, but these good things must not come to Egbema at all cost. The inconveniences are just too much to bear. When you see the youth fighting them, they are not just asking for electricity and pipe-borne water, they are also asking for the return of their fathers’ lands which were taken unjustly when Shell began production here.

To emphasise the “major issues” behind the agitation in Egbema, this respondent brought out a file jacket containing documents pertaining to the community’s dealings with Shell. One letter, with the subject line: “ReRemoval of non-functional SPDC pipes at flow station—line/flow station” and dated 7th March 2007, noted that: Our pregnant women, [palm] wine tappers and children whom their farm lands are across the [pipe] lines cannot cross over because at times it

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After reading out this paragraph and brandishing other letters written by his association to Shell, the official asked rhetorically: “Are we not under Shell’s occupation in 1958? This is why the boys are fighting them”. The feeling of “siege” in the community appeared compounded by the presence of a mini-army barrack inside the sprawling Shell base—Egbema Production Centre (EPC). One interviewee, a local trader whose shop was situated right opposite the EPC, pointed to the barrack and said: “See that barrack, it is a symbol of intimidation by the Federal Government [of Nigeria], but we will not bow to them. This land is ours...our fathers were here before 1958 and one day we shall push them [Shell] out”.

Discussion and conclusion The data presented above show that in Enugu-Ngwo, a relatively wellcompensated community, local agitation appeared to issue from a memory of historical engagements between the state and the community. Agitation in this community was focused on preventing the privatisation of the colliery, which respondents felt breached the spirit of the Deed of Cession of 1915. Agitation prevailed despite the “benefits” the community had received from the colliery and other “benefits” which might still accrue to it from a revitalised, privatised colliery. This attitude toward compensation is not exclusive to the Enugu-Ngwo community. In the Tiomin-rich Kwale community in South-eastern Kenya, Abuya (2013, 1) noted that the Kenyan government offered a compensation package (to be paid by the extractive company, which included monetary payments for land, crops, and physical structures lost, plus compensatory land, among others) to the local Kwale community. The compensation offered little to appease the community, who resisted the displacement through a series of court cases from 2001 until 2008.

In Egbema, the ubiquitous presence of oil facilities and the attendant inconveniences, evoked in local residents a sense of rape and were emblematic of state/corporate occupation and domination. These stirred memories of colonial era acquisition and dispossessions facilitated by the “Queens’s Government”. While respondents desired “good compensation” for their land, resistance against oil-related activities—and even a thriving milieu of small and micro businesses denoted by “stolen” petroleum

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products, or “Asari fuel”—were, for local residents, a way of seeking redress from historical exploitation. Clearly, agitation for “good compensation” may not comprehensively explain all instances of state-community or corporate-community conflict. The dearth of good social infrastructure in much of Nigeria’s oilproducing communities has led to a dominant discourse that suggests that local people are fighting to appropriate “a fair share” (Jike 2004, 699) or “to obtain a lion share of the revenue derived from mineral resources within their area” (Nwokedi 2003, 26). Empirical data from Enugu-Ngwo and Egbema suggest, on the contrary, that the reasons for the agitation are much more nuanced. While corporate and state provisioning may respond to local infrastructure deficits and other socio-economic needs, local agitation has a basis that stretches from economics to sociology and history. In the study communities, the interplay of contemporary miningrelated socio-economic and ecological challenges and historical memories of “unjust” land acquisitions and “dubious” agreements feed community resentment and ultimately trigger conflict.

References Abuya, W.O. 2013. What is in a coconut? An ethnoecological analysis of mining, social displacement, vulnerability, and development in rural Kenya. African Studies Quarterly, 14:1-21. Adams, J. & Thompson M. 2002. Taking account of societal concerns about risk: framing the problem. Health and Safety Executive 35. London: HSE Books. Agu, J.O. 1990. Ngwo: Its people and culture. Enugu: Ohio Nigeria Enterprises. Akpan, W. 2005. Putting oil first? Some ethnographic aspects of petroleum-related land use controversies in Nigeria. African Sociological Review 9(2): 134-152. —. 2009. “When corporate citizens “second-class” ordinary citizens: The antinomies of social provisioning in Nigeria’s oil and gas province.” Journal of Contemporary African Studies 27: 105-118. Azaiki, S. 2003. Inequalities in Nigerian politics. Yenagoa: Treasure Books. Deed of Cession, 1915. An Agreement ceding communal land of EnuguNgwo to the Crown in 1915 for coal mining and sundry uses. Enugu: National Museum and Monument. Ebeku, K.S.A. 2001. Oil and the Niger Delta people: the injustice of the land use act. CEPMLP Online Journal, 201-231.

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www.dundee.ac.uk/cepmlp/journal/html/vol9article9-14.html. Accessed 9 June 2007. —. 2004. Appraising Nigeria’s Niger Delta Development Commission Act 2000. Statute Law Review, 1: 85-89. Eze, D., Mbah, S. & Ezea, O. 1999. The Wawa Struggle: A Historical Factional Dissension in Iboland. Enugu: Delta Publications (Nigeria) Ltd. FHC/EN/CS/216/2004. Federal high court Enugu suit: In the Matter of Privatisation and Commercialisation of the Nigerian Coal Corporation’s Landed Properties, Plots/structures by the Bureau for Public Enterprises. Foote, K.E. 1997. Shadowed Ground: America’s Landscapes of Violence and Tragedy. Austin: University of Texas Press. Frynas, J.G. 2000. Shell in Nigeria: A further contribution. Third World Quarterly, 1: 157-164. Ghazvinian, J. 2005. The curse of oil. The Virginia Quarterly Review Winter 2007. Glassberg, D. 1996. Public History and the Study of Memory. The Public Historian, 18: 7-23. GlobalSecurity, 2010. Cabinda. http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/war/cabinda.htm. Accessed 21 March 2000. Hair, P.E.H. 1954. “A Study on Enugu.” Unpublished manuscript, National Archives Enugu. Halbwachs, M. 1980. The Collective Memory. New York: Harper & Row. Jike, V.T. 2004. Environmental Degradation, Social Disequilibrium, and the Dilemma of Sustainable Development in the Niger-Delta of Nigeria. Journal of Black Studies, 5: 686-701. Kaiama Declaration. 1998. http://www.ndwj.kabissa.org/Declarations/declarations.html Accessed 22 September 2008. Mnwana, S. 2014. Mineral wealth ‘in the name of Morafe’? Community control in South Africa’s ‘Platinum Valley’. Development Southern Africa, 31: 826-842. MOSOP. 1990. Ogoni Bill of Rights. Port Harcourt: Saros International Publishers. NAE: OP 24/1929. The minerals ordinance: Applications for exclusive prospecting licences under Cap. 93. National Archives Enugu. Nwokedi, CR. 2003. Revenue allocation and resource control in Nigerian Federation. Enugu: Snaap Press Ltd.

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Ogedengbe, P.S. 2007. Compulsory acquisition of oil fields in Delta State, Nigeria: the compensation problem. Journal of Property Investment & Finance, 1: 62-76. Onoh, C.C. 1997. Whose Coal City? Enugu: Frontline Publishers. Orji, E.A.C. 1999. Owerre in the twentieth century 1901—1999. Owerri: Casers Limited. Porto, J.G. 2003. Cabinda: Notes on a soon-to-be-forgotten war. Institute for Security Studies. http://www.unpo.org/content/view/444/99/. Accessed March 21 2008. Ukiwo, U. 2009. “Causes and cures of oil-related Niger Delta conflicts. The Nordic Africa Institute.” Policy Notes 1: 1—4. Umejesi, I. 2014. Amnesty, Patriarchy and Women: The ‘Missing Gender’ Voice in Post-Conflict Niger Delta Region of Nigeria. Gender & Behaviour, 12: 6223-6237.

CHAPTER SEVEN CONTENDING “SECURITIES” IN NIGERIA’S “GLOBALISED” NIGER DELTA: THE COMPLEX INTERSECTIONS AND DIMENSIONS OF THE OIL NEXUS CYRIL OBI

Introduction This chapter explores the contending perspectives to natural resource conflict-related insecurity (in the light of recent developments in international and local security discourses) and applies these to the case of the Niger Delta conflict. It interrogates the various conceptions of security in the oil-rich region in relation to both the impact of oil-related violence, and the active roles of state and non-state actors in a globalised locality. While there is a consensus that the notion of security has been broadened since the end of the cold war, partly in response to changes in the international system and developments linked to the most recent phase of globalisation, the emerging picture of contending securities in the Niger Delta calls for further reflection, both to untangle the complex web, and to break new conceptual grounds in the quest for sustainable security in Africa’s most prolific oil region. Although most recent analyses of the Niger Delta have focused largely on the post-amnesty phase of the 2009 peace deal reached between the Nigerian federal government and Niger Delta militias ostensibly fighting for self-determination and resource control for the ethnic minorities of the region (Agbiboa 2013; Obi 2014; Osumah 2013), conceptual thinking on the security dimensions of the crisis in the oil-rich region remains relatively underdeveloped. Most focuses on the rather fragile post-amnesty “peace dividend” based on a rather narrow reading of peacebuilding as the restoration of pre-conflict levels of oil production and levels of violence.

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While it is important to focus on post-amnesty peace in the oil-producing Niger Delta, the real challenge lies in interrogating the sustainability of the “state-sponsored peace and security” (Obi 2014) against the background of the complex insecurities in the region. Analyses of contending securities in the Niger Delta reflect a binary view of state versus human security (Ibeanu 2000, 2006; Owolabi and Okwechime 2007; Uzodike and Isike 2009). This binary focus has largely defined the conceptual scope of existing security discourse in relation to the Niger Delta. This point is clearly spelled out by Ibeanu (2000, 20), who observed that: For oil-bearing communities, security means the maintenance of the carrying capacity of the fragile Niger Delta environment…State officials and petro-business, on the other hand, see security in terms of uninterrupted production of petroleum irrespective of environmental and social impacts.

This point resonates with a similar one by Uzodike and Isike (2009, 104) about the “clash of two divergent, but mutually reinforcing conceptions of security” in relation to the Niger Delta. They adopt an eclectic approach that seeks to resolve the “clash of securities,” by “reconciling” the ways in which threats to human security impact on statesociety relations. They focus on “how environmental despoliation of the Niger Delta resulting from oil exploitation activities compromises the human security of the people, and how these affect their relationship with the Nigerian state.” This view explores the ways alienation; oil exploitation and pollution contribute to the conflict between the people of the region and the Nigerian state in canvassing a humanistic perspective to state security. The approach appears to be problematic for several reasons. It remains embedded in a state-centric and territory-bounded notion of security, which also suggests that the problem lies within the purview of adjusting or correcting the imbalance or conflict between the state—as the repository of the legitimate use of force, and its citizens. Such views also tend to cohere with the position that once the ethnic minorities of the Niger Delta win resource control of oil (currently the exclusive preserve of the federal government) from the state, peace and security will return to the Niger Delta. The reduction of the Niger Delta to a territorial space as opposed to a social and ecological “bundle” encompassing diverse classes, cultures, interests and political ecologies points to one of the limitations of this reading of “human” security. Apart from the fact that oil is a commodity with local, national and global ramifications, and should not be viewed strictly through a state-

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centric lens, Ibeanu (2002, 165) rightly points to its “paradoxical” or “Janus-faced” nature. As he notes, “even as greater amounts of money are sunk into the Niger Delta as a means of pacifying the region, even greater conflicts have resulted. The best that has been achieved is a matrix of concentric circles of payoffs and rewards built on blackmail and violence.” This implies that even within the national context, the social relations around oil tend to be inherently conflictive and spawn insecurity. Most discussions have focused more on the “nation-state” rather than the “international” dimension of security challenges posed by the oil-rich Niger Delta, even as some security analysts have increasingly drawn attention to the threats that the Niger Delta crisis poses to Western national energy, as well as maritime security interests (Pham 2008, Obi 2010, Katsouris and Sayne 2013). This shows that securitisation of the Niger Delta transcends Nigeria’s borders, connecting local and transnational interests and actors. It also transcends “statist” notions of security drawing in non-state, environmental, human, and energy dimensions. Framing the Niger Delta within the territorial expression of Nigeria as a basis for its securitisation will be of limited analytical value given the ways in which “its” oil is of immense global strategic and economic importance and draws in transnational actors. From the foregoing, merely posing the problem as one of “state” versus “human” security simplifies a more complex phenomenon. It is important to pay attention to the spatial dimensions and global-local interconnections (Brenner 1999), including how class and power relations find expression at various levels and forms within complex politics of the Niger Delta. Also of note is how ambivalence, expediency, and competing interests underpin the behaviour of the state, international actors and the people of the oil region. In such a context, the real meaning of “whose security” is layered, contingent, and often obscured behind the complex struggles for access to, and power over oil. The region is a trans-territorial space with contending levels of security: local, national, transnational and global. These levels straddle and transcend the binary view of the state and the human dimensions of security, showing the limits of each, while pointing the need for deeper reflections on its multiple meanings and dimensions. This chapter reflects on three questions: How does the Niger Delta’s oil-related violence fit existing security discourses? What factors explain the contending “securities” in the Niger Delta? What should constitute the basic elements of sustainable security in the region? The chapter is organised into four sections. First is an exploration of the broad ramifications of the Niger Delta’s security landscape. This is followed by a conceptual overview of

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contending security discourses that seek to explain the nature of threats emanating from the political economy of oil in the Niger Delta. The third section analyses the ways in which the contrasting perspectives to security find expression in the various attempts to manage or resolve the Niger Delta crisis. In the final section, the chapter sums up the arguments and proffers an alternative approach towards sustainable security in the Niger Delta.

Some conceptual challenges Growing struggles for access to resource-rich locales in an emerging postcold war world have direct implications for security. Indeed, they lend themselves to critical interrogation and new thinking about the multiple meanings of security in a globalising world. The shift in security thinking has contributed to the expansion of the concept to include non-state, environmental and human-centred considerations. The move towards an integrated and holistic understanding of security has not, however, excluded previous conceptual baggage as can be gleaned from the recent turn in global politics towards state-defined forms of security. Yet the issue of the salience of a paradigmatic shift in security thinking cannot be wished away (Clover 2005, 106). Clover underscores this point by raising three important questions: Whose security? Security from what? Security, how?

Whose security? The notion of security from a “realist” perspective refers to the protection of (power/authority) the state—its core values, institutions and territory. However, this position has been challenged by, and has had to respond to, new domestic, external and transnational actors: state and non-state, as well as the accelerated flows of capital, people and information across boundaries because of globalisation. While mainstream international relations and security studies have sought to respond to emerging challenges in the wake of a post-cold war order, some scholars have sought ways of overcoming the limitations of the state-centric security paradigm. In the last decade or so other security paradigms have sought to leverage threats to the environment and people in the (re)construction of security. Rather than focusing on threats to the state as the basis of security thinking, they have not only placed human beings at the core of the discourse—and the object to be secured—but also point to the growing

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salience of regional, non-state and transnational actors in national and global security. Critics of security as “protection of the state” have pointed to the limitations of such an approach, which tends to militarise all solutions, often at the expense of people and the environment. In their view, more emphasis must be placed on securing people, as well as the environmental, socio-economic and political bases of their well-being. While the human dimension of security could be said to be embedded in most cultures around the world, over the centuries, the shift towards a human-centred paradigm at the global level took place firstly within the context of development thinking in the 1960s, resurging and blossoming into a fully-fledged concept in the early 1990s. It is believed that “human security was developed as a supplement to human development” in the 1993 Human Development Report, by a development thinker, Mahbub ul Haq (Gasper 2005, 223). This approach “highlights a distinction between the security of states and the security of persons, and envisions the latter as not merely the physical safety of individuals but their ability to secure and hold basic goods” (Gasper 2005, 222). This thinking is further simplified in a paper by Gasper and Gomez (2014, 1-3), which presents “human security analysis as an essential part, or partner, of human development thinking”, by framing human security in relation to “freedom from, and the intersection of, deprivation and vulnerability”, including the “equity” and “connectivity” dimensions. In a related manner, environmental security focuses on the ways global environmental change and pollution/environmental degradation pose threats to people (Eckersley 2009, 90; Cudworth and Hobden 2011, 44). Thus, threats from the environment can impose risks on human well-being, just as human activities can contribute to environmental insecurities. However, the ways in which such environmental threats relate to or affect human and transnational security have been questioned by various scholars, including Mason and Zeitoun (2013, 294). To Mason and Zeitoun (2013, 294) “environmental security straddles uneasily across a territorial/post-territorial axis, where tensions are immediately apparent between spatial performances of security”. They note, however, that the securitisation of the environment can be influenced by “geo-political logics” that transcend “flattened territorial modes of state power”, and that the emerging scholarly challenge is to “create analytical and political policy space for addressing the core needs and rights of people vulnerable to serious socio-ecological threats”. Yet Cudworth and Hobden’s (2011, 55) advocacy for the application of complexity theory partly draws attention

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to the ways “multiple and complex inequalities shape the securities of different populations”. The foregoing establishes a basis for a radical and holistic approach to security that transcends the territorial state, paying attention to protecting and safeguarding vulnerable and oppressed populations in contexts characterised by unequal power relations and inequitable access to resources necessary to guarantee freedom from fear and want. However, security perspectives that tend to focus on individuals, people and communities, without engaging with the horizontal inequalities or class identities that permeate such groups and mediate power relations, and differentiate individuals, groups and levels of insecurity may lead to wrongheaded conclusions. Although the basic assumption is that human and environmental security focuses on the most vulnerable populations, whose rights, welfare and freedoms are under threat, it tends to gloss over the nature of relationships, and subtle differences in how people experience, interpret and respond to diverse insecurities. While one cannot wish away the neo-realist hegemony that still characterises the securitisation of mineral or resource-rich African locales within a global market seeking new sources and greater amounts of energy and raw materials, the question of “whose security?” will for some time be dependent on historical and structural factors. In this regard, state cannot be simply wished away, as it will, for the future, continue to play a key managerial and, depending on its capacity, coercive role. To answer the question, “whose security?” requires an interrogation of the state, its social and class character, and its place in the global system of extraction, production and accumulation. Even then, the question of “whose security?”, and who has the power to respond to threats or securitise an issue, remains a contested one, with the state, international oil companies (IOCs), Western powers, transnational non-state actors, and local people as the critical players. The state as a social organ of power is being reconfigured in terms of emerging forms of global governance, defying, but also confirming, certain logics of power as it responds differently to diverse actors, audiences and clients. In some instances, certain functions of the state are being ceded to supranational or transnational agencies. It can also be argued that while the state may remain paramount, it no longer has the sole monopoly of the power of definition over the question, whose security?

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What are the stakes? The Niger Delta case illustrates how oil produced from a relatively small locale fuels threats associated with conflicting security perspectives. At stake are hegemonic global energy interests, power over oil extraction by the state-oil business alliance, and the survival of local communities. Also relevant is the history and nature of the extractive enclave primarily designed to service external and transnational demands, through oil production and exports, spawning inequalities and varying levels of inclusion and exclusion in terms of access to resources and power (Obi 2009). While oil exploitation in the Niger Delta commenced in 1956 and is largely achieved through capital-intensive extractive methods and sophisticated technologies, it is nonetheless backed by the power of the Nigerian state, which plays the triple role of partner, regulator and mediator of competing demands made on it by its partners and its own citizens. The reality of the Nigerian state’s dependence on IOCs for over 90% of oil production, and over 80% of national revenues, gives international oil interests substantial leverage over the state policies and actions in the oil sector (Obi and Rustad 2011). Thus, when the Nigerian petro-state steps in to protect conditions for maximising oil extraction and profits (often against the protests of excluded, marginalised and dispossessed inhabitants of the Niger Delta), this is often framed as protecting strategic national interests, making the state conterminous with national security. It is a version of security that prioritises the extraction and flow of oil—the lifeblood of the state, over the rights and livelihoods of inhabitants of oil-bearing lands and waters, who suffer from serious deprivations and high levels of impoverishment (Ibeanu 2006). State security means protecting the state’s control and ownership of oil in the region by all means necessary. However, state security does not exist in a vacuum, it also coheres with energy security of transnational interests, IOCs, elites and oil-importing established and emerging powers The primacy of dominant economic and elite interests over those of ordinary citizens also implies that the state is challenged by local social forces that feel aggrieved on the basis of their exclusion of the benefits of oil and threats posed to their livelihoods as a result of oil pollution and environmental degradation. Such forces of local resistance, often organised along communal or ethnic minority identity lines, challenge the state-oil partnership, initially through petitions and non-violent protest which then escalate to insurgent resistance, sometimes laced with criminality (Ukiwo 2007; Obi 2010). Such protests that target the fiscal

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basis of the Nigerian state, oil, as well as access to uninterrupted supplies of oil to the global market, are clearly labelled as a security threat to the Nigerian state as well as a threat to the national and energy interests of oildependent global powers. Examples of such local resistance/protest movements/groups include the Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People (MOSOP), which successfully waged an international campaign against Shell and the Nigerian state in the 1980s and 1990s, and the insurgent Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) which waged a violent campaign targeting state security forces and oil installations, kidnapping expatriate oil company personnel, and forcing the disruption of oil production to draw local and international attention to their cause. This was a strategy of pitching a popular form of security from “below” against the one from “above” (Obi 2009). However, some care has to be taken in treading the thin line between resistance, opportunism and criminality in the oil region. Given the long history of ethnic minority agitation in the region, grievances related to the perceived exclusion of minorities from receiving a fair share of the oil produced from their region by a federal government believed to be dominated by majority ethnic groups, has also fuelled tensions within the country. The campaign for resource control by aggrieved oil minorities has raised concerns within the federal state that grievance-fuelled conflict could threaten the corporate existence of a united Nigeria. Nigerian state “securocrats” view local protests and demands for resource control by the ethnic minorities of the Niger Delta through the lens of national security and a threat to Nigeria’s stability. This explains the resort to the use of the military to repress violent protests in the region and the use of state resources to rein in, or co-opt, militants. Even then, there is ample evidence that the military receive some support from the oil companies and work with Private Security Contractors (PSCs) in security cooperation and policing around oil installations and assets. The international community, particularly Western oil-dependent powers, have been concerned about their energy security interests in the face of a “critically weak Nigerian state” (Rice and Patrick 2008, 11), large-scale oil theft and attacks on oil assets by insurgent militias, particularly MEND. Although a recent USIP report notes, “the region has enjoyed four years of relative calm (following a signing of a 2009 Amnesty for local militants), there is a significant chance that since the root causes of the conflict remains unaddressed violence could erupt in the future” (Sayne 2013).

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Also of note is the centrality of the Niger Delta to the post-9/11 US national interest calculations within the overall context of its post-cold war global security and the war on terror against extremist/fundamentalist groups attacking Western interests on the continent. In this regard, the US has entered into and expanded its strategic and military cooperation programmes with the Nigerian and other African states. At the same time, a US Command for Africa (AFRICOM) has expanded its joint training and surveillance activities in pursuit of US strategic and security interests on the continent, while some support has been provided for a Gulf of Guinea Guard Force. US engagement with the Nigerian state exists side by side with continued investments by western and US IOCs in the Niger Delta and operations by western and US-based PSCs hired by the IOCs to provide security for their personnel and physical assets. The presence and activities of these national and transnational state and non-state actors keen on securing uninterrupted oil supplies from the Niger Delta has had far-reaching implications for Nigeria’s sovereignty and claims to projecting national security over the oil producing space(s) in the Niger Delta. While on the one hand the “territorial” Nigerian state has served as the “container” of, and actor in, the struggles over the oil in the region, its legitimacy, power and sovereignty buoyed by support from hegemonic global actors has not gone uncontested. Indeed, resistance through ethnic identity/social movements and ambiguous insurgent militias (Obi 2009) have partly targeted a global audience by engaging transnational media, international rights advocacy discourses and networks in empowering local claims. The “weakness” of the Nigerian state (corruption of political elite and “malleability’s” of public institutions) that has been unable to effectively put down challenges to its legitimacy and sovereignty or address the grievances of the people of the Niger Delta (Morris 2006, 229-232), is seen as a threat that is capable of disrupting global oil commerce. Apart from oil investments, the theft and sale of crude oil by transnational criminal networks (oil bunkering) and the safety of oil workers, the entry of oil companies from China, India, Brazil, Malaysia and Korea into the region are perceived as serious transnational security threats to the Gulf of Guinea that is home to some of the world’s most strategic sea lanes. The situation is one where the national interests of Nigeria and the world’s most powerful states, as well as powerful non-state actors such as IOCs, and criminal gangs, as well as transnational elite, jostle for space within the context of the layered, disconnected and interconnected interests that both include and transcend local and national boundaries.

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Oil is therefore writ large in the securitisation of the region as a source of energy for the global market. The Nigerian state is viewed both within the context of a region defined as being of critical global strategic importance in a period of growing oil demand, and shrinking oil supplies, and through the lenses of its (in)ability to maintain security in the highly valued globalised space on the oil-rich Niger Delta. For the global actors keen on ensuring uninterrupted supplies of oil from the Niger Delta, supporting and strengthening the Nigerian state and its (security) institutions to better assert control over the source(s) of oil supply becomes a basic tenet of their energy security interests. This suggests that the perceived (in)capacity of the Nigerian state to secure its territory becomes a context for international interventions, with implications for its own sovereignty. On the other hand, for the local communities and social movements seeking to organise resistance against the transnational oil alliance—seen as extractors, expropriators and polluters—their claims of sovereignty over oil in their local communities becomes an organising principle for challenging the sovereignty of the Nigerian state and its claims to the “legitimate” ownership of oil in the region. While direct corporate-community conflicts remain episodic, the strategies of local resistance have ranged from passivity to connecting with global minority and environmental rights movements and deploying global discourses in putting pressure on the Nigerian state and IOCs in their home countries. Several studies have focused on the history of oil-related conflict in the Niger Delta, particularly as it relates to the “glocalisation” of the Niger Delta resistance, and will not be repeated here. Two things are important: the confluence of interests of the Nigerian state and IOCs in securing the conditions for oil production and supplies from the Niger Delta, and the ways in which local resistance groups elicit the support of international rights NGOs and sympathisers to globalise their protests and claims aimed at securing their rights and survival. The intersection of the various local, national and transnational “levels” in the oil-rich Niger Delta make it the eye of a storm of contested securities—a site from which to glean the ways local social forces challenge the authority of the Nigerian nation-state and oil companies. It also lays bare the ways transnational forces penetrate, operate below, above and beyond the Nigerian state. At stake in the contest of sovereignties in this globalised locality is the struggle over natural resources—particularly land and oil. Oil is a source of power and an object of struggle. The ethnic minority resistance movements frame their struggle as one for self-determination and resource control, hence the quest either to pressurise the federal government to recognise their claims and re-

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negotiate the ownership of oil, or to block federal access to oil as a strategy of asserting local sovereignty and control over the resources (oil) in the Niger Delta. It is in this regard that local movements confront the state and IOCs in the Niger Delta, and seek to “by-pass” the state to connect with global media and transnational networks to empower their claims and struggles against the Nigerian state-IOCs alliance. The Nigerian state has adopted a security approach towards containing or neutralising what it considers threats to its political and economic interests in the Niger Delta. The carrots have included strategies such as states and local governments’ creation in the region. From the two states created just before the outbreak of the Nigerian civil war: South-eastern and Rivers states (in addition to the already existing Midwest state), the number of states in the Niger Delta has increased to a total of nine— providing local elites with access to power, resources and patronage. In addition, the establishment of federal agencies for the development of the Niger Delta such as the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC) and the Ministry of Niger Delta Affairs has also provided avenues for access to public office and resources for local elites who then have a high stake in maintaining the status quo. Another carrot, this time targeted at leaders of militia groups, has been through the distribution of state largesse to them, their sponsors and allies, through monthly stipends, private security contracts and official protection, demobilising them out of militant resistance and remobilising them to defend the status quo though co-optation. On the other hand, the federal government has consistently militarised the entire region with various security forces operating across the Niger Delta and the adjoining waters. Apart from the regular Mobile Police Force units, a Special Joint Military Task Force (JTF), made up of the three arms of the armed forces, patrols the region in an effort to protect oil installations and oil company personnel, and curb the activities of militias and criminal gangs, but also to crush protests seen as being capable of causing unrest or disrupting oil operations. Several reports on the activities of such “security forces” have accused them of human rights violations, high-handedness, and even complicity with criminal networks involved in oil theft and the illegal export of stolen crude. Between the carrot and stick policies of the state, the activities of PSCs working for IOCs and the presence of operatives working through international military and security cooperation agreements, the oil region is being increasingly securitised in ways that tend to reinforce structural inequalities and marginalisation of the majority of the inhabitants of the region. The logic of the power to access and control oil money continues to define those who can acquire

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certain levels of security and others who lack the power to do so, but the lines remain blurred and exigent upon the outcome of constant struggles, compromises, ambiguities and maneuvers on the slippery terrain of local and transnational politics. For those who are excluded, the options vary from organising to forcing their way into the prevailing logic of power, straddling between co-optation and resistance, and episodic outbursts of protest targeting oil companies, or an international audience that has over time had its attention diverted to other local and global hotspots. In real terms, security for the excluded will mean emancipation from the dominant and exploitative relations of power that reproduces inequalities and inequities in the region, and impoverishes them and their ecology. Yet the structural inequalities also imply that while several layers exist in the security sphere, these are complicated by competing and contradictory interests that continue to drive up the stakes in controlling oil, and end up fuelling a security complex that thrives on nurturing further securitisation and reliance on structural violence to enforce compliance in a volatile oil-rich, but impoverished globalised oil locale.

Conclusion The foregoing analysis underscores the nature as well as the limitations of a narrow statist approach to security in the Niger Delta, which remains a globalised trans-territorialised space as well as a site for local struggles that connect both local and global politics. Territorial securitisation as a modality for keeping the space safe for global oil commerce throws up complex challenges. In addition, a narrow humanistic approach to security in an oil-rich locale without paying close attention to the political economy and the social relations of power represented by the state that is both present and absent in various spaces of authority will lead to faulty analysis and prognosis. The challenge of seeing security through the eyes of the state continues to be confronted by the contradictory appearances of the state as it jostles between local, national and transnational forces. Such forces are capable of simultaneously empowering and undermining the state, propping up its coercive capacity or even assuming some of its powers in micro-spaces, or bypassing it when it is exigent to do so. In the process, the boundaries between state, national and international security become blurred by the quest to control the oil-rich space, while “diverse interests” which are believed to be “competing” find common cause in transnational interests driven by energy-based globalisation and extraction.

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The foregoing scenario poses serious challenges for the state-humanenvironmental security nexus. For while each may focus on the ideal conditions for protecting core human values and freedoms, ecological and environmental integrity, they hardly fit into territorialised frames, but rather raise conceptual problems as to the ways in which locality is shaped by “globality” and vice versa. It appears that the solution does not lie in creating a long list of categories or typologies of various “types” of security: national, global, economic, social, state, energy, food, environmental or ecological, but to rethink and adopt a holistic approach to security. It is also not a question of state or global security trumping other “securities”. Rather it may be a question of interrogating the nature of the state to see if it is an organic expression of the will of the people, or a predatory organism that mortgages its collective security for narrow ends. What is more, runaway securitisation continues to wreak havoc across the world, with maximum use of force seen as the most pragmatic way to contain threats, which then leads to violent resistance and the emergence of unanticipated threats. In the end, security takes away freedoms, and robs societies of the resources that would have gone into expanding freedoms and saving lives. Sustainable security is fundamentally about integrating human, state and environmental security. It is about transforming the state along people-centred egalitarian lines, and pursuing the goal of “collective humanity” and establishing conditions that will upturn the exploitative nature of power relations over the environment. The Niger Delta illustrates the fact that the struggle for sustainable security may yet become a defining social moment linking the quest for justice, freedom and equality to the search for a safer and more peaceful world. It is a social project that will have to be locally rooted, but transnationally connected to a collective vision of a new equitable social contract based on the notion of security as equal freedom, dignity and well-being.

References Agbiboa, D. 2013. Have we heard the last? Oil, environmental insecurity, and the impact of the amnesty programme on Niger Delta resistance. Review of African Political Economy, 40(137): 447-465. Brenner, N. 1999. Beyond state-centrism? Space, territoriality and geographical scale in globalization studies. Theory and Society, 28(2): 39-78. Clover, J. 2005. Human-centred environmental security in Africa. African Security Review, 14(2): 103-106.

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Cudworth, E. & Hobden, S. 2011. Beyond environmental security: complex systems, multiple inequalities and environmental risks. Environmental Politics, 20(1): 42-59. Eckersley, R. 2009. Environmental security, climate change and globalizing terrorism. In: Rethinking Insecurity, War and Violence, ed. D. Grenfell and P. James, 85-97. London: Routledge. Gasper, D. 2005. Securing humanity: Situating ‘human security’ as concept and discourse. Journal of Human Development, 6(2): 221-224. Gasper, D. & Gomez, O. 2014. Evolution of thinking and research on human and personal security 1994-2013. Occasional Paper, UNDP Human Development Report Office. Ibeanu, O. 2000. Oiling the friction: Environmental conflict management in the Niger Delta, Nigeria. In: Environment Change and Security Project Report, Issue No. 6, The Woodrow Wilson Center. —. 2002. Janus Unbound: petrobusiness and petropolitics in the Niger Delta. Review of African Political Economy, 29(91): 163-167. —. 2006. Civil society and conflict management in the Niger Delta. Monograph Series No. 2. Lagos: CLEEN Foundation. Katsouris, C. & Sayne, A. 2013. Nigeria’s criminal code: International options to combat the export of stolen oil. London: Chatham House. Mason, M. & Zeitoun, M. 2013. Questioning environmental security. The Geographical Journal, 179(4): 294-297. Morris, D. 2006. The chance to go deep: US energy interests in West Africa. American Foreign Policy Interests, 28(3): 225-238. Obi, C. 2009. Structuring transnational spaces of identity, rights and power in the Niger Delta of Nigeria. Globalizations 6(4): 467-481. —. 2010. Oil extraction, dispossession, resistance and conflict in Nigeria’s oil-rich Niger Delta. Canadian Journal of Development Studies 30: 12. —. 2014. Oil and the post-amnesty programme (PAP): What prospects for sustainable development and peace in the Niger Delta? Review of African Political Economy, 41(140): 249-263. Obi, C. & Rustad, S.A. (Eds). 2011. Oil and insurgency in the Niger Delta: Managing the complex politics and petro-violence. London: Zed Books. Osumah, O. 2013. No war, no peace: The example of peacebuilding in the post-amnesty Niger Delta region of Nigeria. African Security Review, 22(4): 244-263. Owolabi, O. & Okwechime, I. 2007. Oil and security in Nigeria: The Niger Delta crisis. Africa Development, 32(1): 1-40.

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Patrick, S. 2006. Weak states and global threats: Fact or fiction? The Washington Quarterly, 29(2): 27-53. Rice, S. & Patrick, S. 2008. Index of State Weakness in the Developing World. Washington DC: The Brookings Institution. Pham, P. 2008. Global ripples from the Niger Delta. World Defense Review. http://worlddefensereview.com/pham071008.shtml Accessed 23 June 2014. Sayne, A. 2013. What’s next for security in the Niger Delta? Special Report. Washington DC: United States Institute for Peace. Ukiwo, U. 2007. From “pirates” to “militants”: A historical perspective on anti-state and anti-oil company mobilization among the Ijaw of Warri, Western Niger Delta. African Affairs, 106: 425. Uzodike, U. & Isike, C. 2009. Whose security? Understanding the Niger Delta crisis as a clash of two security conceptions. African Security Review, 18(3): 103-116.

CHAPTER EIGHT CLIMATE CHANGE AND THE OIL INDUSTRY IN NIGERIA: POLICY AND ACTION IMPERATIVES FOR SUSTAINABILITY ENGOBO EMESEH

Introduction Climate change is arguably the single most important global environmental challenge today, with far-reaching implications for all aspects of human existence. With the race against time for coordinated international action to reduce the emission of greenhouse gasses and thereby prevent global temperatures reaching the predicted dangerous peak of 2 degrees Celsius, much attention is also paid to the impacts that are already faced by countries particularly vulnerable to climate change. In 2014, the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) dedicated its annual World Environment Day celebrations to one of these vulnerable groups—Small Island Developing States (SIDS)—who are particularly susceptible to rising sea levels occasioned by climate change. However, the challenges of SIDs are invariably relevant to all states with low-lying coastlines such as Nigeria. Nigeria has the further challenge of heavy reliance on the oil industry, a major contributor to global climate change. Mitigation strategies for climate change globally therefore also have direct implications for the country’s economy. In light of these, what are the policy imperatives for Nigeria in the face of climate change? The next section gives a brief background on climate change—its meanings, causes and impacts, followed by a discussion on the particular relevance of Small Island States within the context of climate change discourse, and how Africa, and indeed Nigeria, fit into this narrative. The policy responses to climate change at a global level, and specifically the

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frameworks, strategies, and mechanisms available for addressing the causes and impacts of climate change, are then explored. This is followed by a discussion on how Nigeria has thus far responded to climate change. Here, the specific questions addressed are: How robust is the law and policy framework? How central is the national oil company—Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC)—to Nigeria’s climate change response? What role can individuals play? How effectively has the country utilised the support mechanisms and opportunities available at a global level for addressing climate change? The chapter concludes with some reflections on and suggestions about priority areas for action.

Climate change, small island developing states and the Nigerian context Climate change As noted above, climate change is ubiquitous in nature, with implications for practically all facets of human society, not just the environment. This was captured eloquently by the then UN Deputy High Commissioner for Human Rights, Kyung-wha Kang, thus: Global warming and extreme weather conditions may have calamitous consequences for the human rights of millions of people...ultimately climate change may affect the very right to life of various individuals... [countries] have an obligation to prevent and address some of the direst consequences that climate change may reap on human rights (Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission 2008, 1).

It could be tempting to dismiss this kind of bold assertion as alarmist. Indeed the reality of climate change, its causes and impacts remained for decades the subject of great controversy and debate. This was premised, in part, on the fact that changes in climatic patterns can occur purely as a natural phenomenon, which, in the past, resulted in such periods as the Ice Age, where extreme climatic conditions were experienced. However, while there may still be a few outliers, the consensus of the international scientific community is clear and unequivocal: climate change is occurring, it is anthropogenic—that is, human induced—and if not addressed, could wreak severe havoc on the earth (IPPC 2007c, 2013). Strictly, climate change simply means “a change in the state of the climate that can be identified (for example, using statistical tests) by changes in the mean and/or the variability of its properties, and that persists for an extended period, typically decades or longer” (IPCC 2007a,

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667). It is rapid changes in these observable variables that first led to global concerns about climate change. These observable variables include about a 0.75 degrees Celsius rise in average temperature in the atmosphere near the earth’s surface over a period of about 100 years. This resulted in changes in a range of other variables such as global mean surface temperatures, concentrations of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gasses, changes in sea level, precipitation patterns, and the frequency and intensity of extreme weather events. Importantly, the nature and speed of these changes are not due to naturally occurring factors alone, but mainly to human activity and impacts—in particular, emission of greenhouse gasses (GHGs). Although GHGs occur naturally, and are essential for the conditions that keep the earth at temperatures warm enough for survival, unregulated human activities since the industrial revolution have significantly increased concentrations of GHGs in the earth’s atmosphere. These increased levels of GHGs in the atmosphere trap a lot more heat from the infrared radiation of the earth, resulting in what is called the greenhouse effect and consequent rises in global temperature. The main GHGs are carbon dioxide (CO2), methane (CH4), nitrous oxide (N2O), hydrofluorocarbons (HFCs), perfluorocarbons (PFCs), and sulphur hexafluoride (SF). The IPCC Fourth Assessment Synthesis Report (2007c: 5 gives an indication of the rapid rate of increase of these gasses. For instance: x Global GHG emissions due to human activities…since preindustrial times, [increased] by 70% between 1970 and 2004; x Carbon dioxide (CO2)…annual emissions grew by about 80% between 1970 and 2004; and x Global atmospheric concentrations of CO2, methane (CH4) and nitrous oxide (N2O) have increased markedly as a result of human activities since 1750 and now far exceed pre-industrial values determined from ice cores spanning many thousands of years. Thus, from a policy perspective, climate change has been defined in Article 1(2) of the United Nation’s Framework Convention on Climate Change as a “change of climate which is attributed directly or indirectly to human activity that alters the composition of the global atmosphere and which is in addition to natural climate variability observed over comparable time periods” (UNFCCC 1992). Greenhouse gases are emitted from various sectors of the economy including agriculture, manufacturing, deforestation, transport, tourism, buildings and waste. However, the main source of carbon dioxide emission, the main GHG, is the energy sector,

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through the burning of fossil fuels. The current situation is essentially a result of over a century and a half of industrialisation. As populations, economies and standards of living grow, so have the cumulative levels of GHG emissions. The challenge, of course, becomes how to respond to climate change without compromising our society’s desire for continued economic growth and improved standards of living. The ability of the human race to deal effectively with climate change potentially determines humanity’s future on planet earth. This is because, as noted earlier, the average temperature of the earth’s surface has risen by about 0.75 degrees Celsius since the late 1800s and if nothing is done about GHGs, it is expected to go up another 1.8 degrees Celsius to 4 degrees Celsius by the year 2100. The consequences, if this happens, are predicted to be cataclysmic. Even if temperatures rise by “only” another 1.8 degrees Celsius, it would be a larger increase in temperature than any century-long trend in the last 10,000 years. According to the United States’ National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) in 2010, nine of the previous ten years were the hottest years on record. Nearly all climate scientists agree that global temperatures will rise even further. By how much, depends on future emissions of greenhouse gases, and other human activities. Put simply, the earth is becoming too hot. If nothing is done about the causes, it will become even hotter. And if there is a high future rise in temperature the impact is likely to be extreme with potentially catastrophic consequences. These consequences include extreme weather events (such as heat waves, floods and tropical storms), rising sea levels, changes to the start and length of the seasons, droughts, etc. These will result in wider challenges such as food scarcity, migrations, diseases, conflicts, etc. In fact, the impacts of climate change are already being felt across the globe. For instance, over the course of the 20th century, sea levels rose by an average of 10 to 20 cm, and are expected to increase by a further 18-59cm by 2100.

Small island developing states and climate change The special connection between Small Island Developing States (SIDS) and climate is to be found in the foregoing indices. These groups of nations scattered across various continents, but mostly in the wider Caribbean and South Pacific regions, are low-lying coastal states, mainly in tropical regions, and often coping with extreme weather events such as cyclones and hurricanes. They are therefore extremely vulnerable to variable weather patterns and other impacts of climate change, in

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particular sea level rise and flooding. Already, in a number of these countries, sea level rises have made their countries uninhabitable. For instance, in the island nation of Tuvalu, about half of the population have migrated from rural populations in outer islands affected by climate change and sea level rises to the capital, Funafuti, with the attendant economic, environment and social challenges this raises. Similarly, in Papua New Guinea, there has been migration from the outer Cartaret Island to the main island of Bougainville. The paradox is that these states have contributed the least to GHGs and human-induced climate change. Most SIDS are poor developing economies, least able to muster the technological and financial capability required for adapting to and mitigating climate change. The special position of these countries has therefore always been recognised within the international climate change framework and all subsequent climate change negotiations. The preamble to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change recognises “the possible adverse effects of sea-level rise on islands and coastal areas, particularly low-lying coastal areas”; while Article 8(a) specifically mentions SIDS as a separate group within the context of “funding, insurance and the transfer of technology, to meet the specific needs and concerns of developing country Parties”. Nevertheless, while the position of SIDS may be unique, climate change is a common concern of all nations of the world and its effects are collectively felt across the globe.

Climate change in the African and Nigerian context Africa as a continent is set to suffer considerably from climate change. According to the IPCC (2007b, 435), “Africa is one of the most vulnerable continents to climate change and climate variability, a situation aggravated by the interaction of ‘multiple stresses’, occurring at various levels, and low adaptive capacity”. All its regions—from the flood-prone coastal regions to the more drought susceptible semi-arid and arid Sahel and Saharan regions—are fragile and sensitive to the impacts of climate change. This is exacerbated by underlying socio-economic factors such as poverty, overdependence on climate sensitive agricultural practices, and limited adaptive capacity to climate shocks and longer term trends. Some facts about Africa and climate change include the following: x By 2020, 75—250 million people are projected to be exposed to increased water stress.

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x Yields from rain-fed agriculture could be reduced by up to 50%, with implications for food security and malnutrition. x Towards the end of the 21st century, projected sea level rise will affect low-lying coastal areas with large populations. x By 2080, an increase of 5 to 8% of arid and semi-arid land in Africa is projected to be impacted under a range of climate scenarios. x The cost of adaptation could amount to at least 5 to 10% of Gross Domestic Product (GDP) (AMCEN 2010). All across Africa, the impacts of climate change are already evident: unprecedented floods in Mozambique and across West Africa, desertification across the Sahel and Sahara region, drought and famine in countries on the horn of Africa, expansion of endemic vector-borne diseases such as malaria to previously risk-free countries such as Kenya and Ethiopia, climate change-induced conflicts, migration and internally displaced peoples, to mention but a few. All of these are a serious threat to the development agenda of the continent, including attainment of key Millennium Development Goals such as poverty eradication and sustainable development (AMCEN 2010, Besada and Sewankambo 2009). The Nigerian situation is typical of that of the continent. Geographical factors in all of its regions makes the country susceptible to adverse climate effects, and this is aggravated by the “multiple stresses” earlier outlined, including “existing environmental problems like desertification, erosion, flooding, and ecological devastation” (FME/FGN 2009, 17). Large parts of the country, along its major rivers (Niger and Benue), and in the southern part of the country, especially the Niger Delta, are lowlying coastal regions vulnerable to sea level rise, flooding and erosion. The northern part of the country is exposed to desertification and drought while an estimated 89,297 and 133,944 square kilometres of arable land would be at risk in the Sudan-Sahel area of Nigeria, with two-thirds of Nigeria vulnerable to drought and desertification (Okon 2008, Abdulhamid 2011). These all have wider human, health, social, political, security and economic ramifications. For instance, on the economic front, the African Development Bank identifies “vulnerability to external shocks, including climate change” as being one of the four potential risks to the current positive growth being experienced in the country. This includes both the direct impacts of climate change on various economic sectors, as well as the wider global ramifications of climate change mitigation which may affect global oil demand, the cornerstone of the Nigerian economy. According to a report by the Federal Government, the capital value at risk

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stands at about US$6.4 billion for the current level of development (FME/FGN 2009, 17). Climate change threatens various economic sectors, including agriculture and fisheries, both of which still account for about 70% of employment, especially in rural areas. It is projected that a mere 0.2m rise in sea-level would result in flooding of about 3,400 km2 of Nigeria’s coastland, while the figure for a 1.0m rise will be an estimated 18,400km2. This is not far-fetched, as the devastating floods of 2012, which lasted from July—November, affecting 7.7 million, displacing over 2.1 million, injuring 5,800 and killing 363 people (UN OCHA 2012), are still fresh in people’s minds. To put the risk of climate change induced sea level rise to Nigeria in even more stark terms, a 2007 OECD study found that if nothing is done, about a third of Nigeria’s land mass could be lost to sea level rise. Specifically, the whole of Lagos, Rivers and Bayelsa States could be completely submerged (OECD 2007). The consequences of all of these climate change effects—displacement of people, food insecurity, collapse of infrastructure and poverty can only lead to more social ills, including an increase in the potential for insecurity and conflicts. One can therefore understand former US Vice-President Al Gore’s sentiment when he said in December 1997 in Kyoto, Japan, that “[T]he human consequences—and the economic costs—of failing to act [on climate change] are unthinkable”. What steps have been taken at the international level to address climate change and what are the mechanisms and strategies adopted? This is considered next.

International policy response to climate change In light of the serious potential consequences of climate change, the international community started implementing a law and policy framework for addressing climate change, even before the scientific evidence on climate change was at present near-incontrovertible levels. The thinking was that, were the international community to wait, the effects from climate change may be irreversible by the time such evidence was to become available (Bodansky 1993). Progress was therefore made on the basis of the precautionary principle enshrined in Principle 15 of the Rio Declaration (1992). The principle essentially provides that “[W]here there are threats of serious or irreversible damage, lack of full scientific certainty shall not be used as a reason for postponing cost-effective measures to prevent environmental degradation.” The international legal framework for climate change essentially comprises the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) 1992 and its Kyoto Protocol 1997. The 1992 Convention was

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signed at the World Conference on Environment and Development in Rio (1992), and it was entered into force on 21 March 1994. The 1992 Convention laid down the broad policy framework for climate action, setting out the underlying principles, objectives and goals, but stopped short of creating binding obligations, or establishing specific mechanisms for realising the set goals. This was however achieved under the subsequent 1997 Kyoto Protocol (Breidenich et al 1998). The two main policy responses to climate change are mitigation and adaptation. Mitigation involves addressing the root causes of climate change—achieving “stabilization of greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere at a level that would prevent dangerous anthropogenic interference with the climate system” (Article 2, UNFCCC, 1992), with a target of keeping global temperature rise at 2 degrees Celsius above the pre-industrial global average temperature. Adaptation, on the other hand, is a pragmatic recognition of the fact that regardless of what is done, mankind cannot totally avoid some of the adverse effects or consequences of climate change. Adaptation therefore involves putting in place measures to prevent or minimise those consequences. This may involve building sea defences in the hope of preventing or minimising the effects of flooding and sea level rise. Both climate change mitigation and adaptation can however also provide new opportunities. For instance, mitigation measures can provide unique opportunities for technology development and cleaner production. Similarly, adaptation measures can lead to growth of whole new economic sectors in countries, such as increased tourism in temperate regions made warmer by global warming. At the time, both of these policy responses posed (and continue to pose) huge challenges for the international community. As earlier noted, the energy sector which drives industrialisation and economic growth is one of the main culprits of GHG emissions. Mitigation measures would require countries to reduce their energy consumption with the potential attendant consequences for national economies. Adaptation measures also require huge financial investment and technological know-how. For instance, the costs of supporting African countries to adapt to climate change have been estimated at around US$100 billion to $200 billion (UNECA 2009). Moreover, developing countries felt that having contributed the least to GHG emissions (Africa’s emissions are only about 3—4% of the global total), they should not have to commit to mitigation measures, and should be supported in adaptation measures by the developed countries that had contributed the most to GHG emissions, had benefitted therefrom, and were also therefore more able to undertake these responsibilities. In resolution of these issues, the UNFCCC adopted the

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principle of common but differentiated responsibilities in recognition of the inequalities of historical contributions to climate change, capability of countries to contribute towards mitigation, and economic development and adaptation needs (UNFCCC, Article 3). Consequently, only developing country parties (Annex 1 countries) have obligations for climate change mitigation under the Kyoto Protocol, with a target at the time of reducing their GHG emissions by 5.2% relative to 1990 levels within the commitment period 2008—2012 (now extended until 2020). Although developing country parties have no obligations, they are encouraged to contribute towards mitigation and adaptation, albeit with the financial and technological support of the developed country parties (UNFCCC 1992, 5 (Article 4)). On this basis, various multilateral and bilateral funding initiatives have been established. These include the various funding streams of the Global Environment Facility such as the Special Climate Change Fund, the Least Developed Countries Fund and the Strategic Priority for Adaptation. Others include the World Bank Climate Investment Funds, and the Global Climate Change Alliance of the European Commission. Developing countries including African countries have however often criticised developed country parties for not honouring their financing commitments. Further, the way in which some of these funds are structured and the processes involved have not always favoured the least developing countries with weak institutional capacity. To aid developed country parties to meet their binding obligations, the Kyoto Protocol provided for three flexible market mechanisms to achieve compliance and lower costs. These are Joint Implementation (Article 6), the Clean Development Mechanism (Article 12) and Emissions Trading (Article 17). Of these, only the Clean Development Mechanism (CDM) is relevant within developing country contexts. Both the Joint Implementation and Emissions Trading relate to arrangements within and between Annex 1 countries. Briefly, Joint Implementation allows Annex 1 countries to meet their emissions reduction targets jointly with other Annex 1 parties, while Emissions Trading allows Annex 1 countries to buy and sell emissions permits amongst themselves, where those who have exceeded their targets can sell the excess in the market to countries that did not meet theirs. On the other hand, the CDM allows Annex 1 countries to collaborate with developing country parties towards meeting their emissions targets by investing in projects which will reduce GHG emissions in those countries. There are currently ongoing negotiations towards a post-Kyoto climate change framework, with increased calls from developed country parties for developing countries, especially the newly emergent BRICS states, to also

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have obligations within a new regime. The existing measures have however been extended until 2020. While not perfect, the international framework provides clear policy guidance for responding to climate change, as well as mechanisms to assist developing countries such as Nigeria adapt to these serious consequences. To what extent has Nigeria made use of these opportunities? The next section will address this issue. Particular attention will be paid to the CDM.

Climate change: policy and action imperatives for Nigeria Nigeria is a signatory to both the UNFCCC and the Kyoto Protocol. This means the country is required to meet its obligations under the international framework and can access the mechanisms and financial opportunities within that framework for the purpose of addressing its national priorities with regard to climate change. As we can surmise from the discussion in the previous section, Nigeria as a developing country does not have any binding obligations under the current framework to reduce its GHG emissions, although it has a voluntary target of 25% reduction. This is hardly surprising. On a global level, Nigeria’s GHG emissions is negligible, considering that the entire African continent contributes less than 4% of global emissions. However, this does not mean that the country can be complacent. Within Africa, Nigeria is the second highest emitter, after South Africa. As the most populous country in Africa, with an emerging economy that is currently classed as the largest on the continent, the country’s emissions can only get higher unless strategies are put in place to grow in a more sustainable manner. Moreover, as highlighted earlier, Nigeria is particularly vulnerable to the effects of climate change, while the oil industry, the single most important economic sector, is particularly vulnerable to global responses to climate change. All of these have serious implications for human development and economic growth. Taking steps towards climate change mitigation is therefore in the interests of the country. However, none of Nigeria’s action can unilaterally mitigate climate change, therefore it is important to focus on what Nigeria’s immediate needs are, and therefore what its priority areas for effective responses should be. These are: x Adaptation to the consequences or effects of climate change; x Effective utilisation of the opportunities within the climate regime for cleaner and more sustainable economic development; and

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x Preparedness for the potential impacts of climate change mitigation strategies for the oil industry. In each of these areas, the NNPC as the regulator of the powerhouse of the economic sector of the country has a key role to play.

Adaptation to the effects of climate change The serious physical vulnerabilities of various regions of the country to climate change and the wider implications, including for the economy, have already been outlined in this chapter. The oil industry is not exempt from these potential impacts, as heavy storms, sea level rise and flooding will potentially place at risk oil industry infrastructure and investment (Cookson 2013). A key priority, therefore, is effective adaptation strategies to prevent or minimise the adverse impacts from climate change. This means putting in place preventive or protective measures against the effects of climate change, such as flooding and sea level rises; preparedness to respond to disasters occasioned by extreme climatic events; and improving the long-term resilience of agriculture and other sectors of the economy, as well as infrastructure, to climate shocks and variable weather patterns. Examples of such actions include the building of sea defences and development of drought-resilient crops. However, these are not actions to be taken on an ad hoc basis. Ultimately, adapting to climate change will require both a short- and a long-term view of policy options and development priorities founded on sound scientific evidence. It may mean making difficult choices early on. For instance, one of the choices that most coastal low-lying states, including Nigeria, will have to make, is deciding where it is effective to build sea defences as prevention or protection against flooding and sea level rises, and which areas it would have to let go. From Bangladesh, to Tuvalu, to the United Kingdom, these are the difficult choices that countries are going to have to make. To help Nigeria make these choices and ensure effective adaptation response, the following are crucial: x Have a clear plan of action premised on scientific study and an evidential basis. Although a draft national adaptation plan now exists, the Federal Ministry of Environment itself acknowledges in its own Needs Assessment that fuller scientific understanding and concrete strategies based on scientific evidence, are needed (FME 2010).

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x Conscious investment in climate change adaptation and mitigation is needed. This can be done in part by accessing the various funds that are available to support developing countries in this regard. Part of the problem, though, is that the process, in a number of instances, is quite complex; however, it is not an insurmountable problem, especially if some focus is given to building the capacities required and devising appropriate frameworks to maximise success. x As climate-related disasters are likely to be on the increase, there is a need for effective disaster response and management framework that is well-resourced and coherent. Currently there are several institutions and agencies, including the Federal Ministry of Environment, NEMA, various state agencies, the police and armed forces all having various roles with regard to disaster management. While it is understandable to have such multiple agency involvement, it is essential that there is a clear delineation of roles and functions, with clear lines of authority. This will guard against overlaps and conflicts. x All the major reports on climate change indicate that there is very low level of awareness about climate change and its impact in the country. This is far from ideal. Individuals play a key role in climate change mitigation and adaptation, in terms of their consumption choices and developmental priorities. There is also a lot of local knowledge which can be drawn upon for understanding climatic patterns, climate change impacts, and developing adaptation measures. x Finally, the importance of research cannot be overemphasised. Only through effective research can the country develop the drought and flood resilient crops, the engineering technologies, energy options and other strategies that are needed to adapt to climate change. Overreliance on the West must be avoided. Climate change presents every country with a unique opportunity to chart development patterns suited to local environments and priorities. In the West, climate change research done in Nigeria is largely driven by their universities and research centres.

Climate change as opportunity? Developing countries can potentially use the Kyoto Protocol CDM mechanism and financial support available under the international climate regime to help drive more sustainable means of development and cleaner methods of production and energy use. In Nigeria, the opportunities for

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this abound. According to Soneye (2012) about 70% of Nigerian households use firewood as the main source of energy for cooking. This is an unsustainable means of energy generation, leading to deforestation, and is a significant source of GHG emissions. Another main challenge in the country is effective waste management. With a large population and growing middle class, a lot of waste streams, including non-biodegradable waste, are generated in the country. This waste could be managed effectively by including it as a source for energy recovery. Rather they are mostly simply dumped in a landfill site, potentially causing land and water pollution as well as the emission of GHG (methane). Finally, there is gas flaring from the oil industry, a huge source of GHG emissions, but an economic resource that could be harnessed for energy use. Associated Gas in Nigeria is flared both vertically (huge flame at the top of a high stake) and horizontally (at ground level) facing communities, with over 100 gas flaring sites in the Niger Delta and this is likely to increase (ERA 2008). In 2008, of the average 168 billion cubic metres (BCM) of natural gas that was flared, Nigeria alone accounted for about 15.1 BCM, making the country the second largest gas emitter in the world, with Russia topping the list with about 40.6 BCM of flared gas (Elvidge et al 2009). This is a huge source of environmental pollution, which adversely affects the lives of local people and is a major source of GHG emissions. Sadly, it is also the equivalent of literally setting money on fire. No doubt, this massive volume of gas that is flared could be used for the socio-economic development of Nigeria in a lot of ways. However, one must give credit where it is due. Although far from adequate, in recent times there has been a slight reduction in the volume of flared gas, with satellite data in 2011 estimating the volume flared at only 14.6 BCM. Nevertheless, more can and indeed needs to be done. The CDM therefore held huge promise for Nigeria. Indeed, the then GMD of the NNPC, Alhaji M.S. Barkindo stated this much in 2008 when he said: Nigeria is the future market of CDM globally. I don’t think that there are countries in the developing world that have the potentials that we have because of our vast fossil fuel reserves, oil, gas, coal, solid minerals. These are all sources of huge carbon emissions that can be transformed into credits or certified emission reduction (CER) certificates that will go towards meeting the reduction targets of the developed countries (Chigbo, 2008, 56).

Report of action on this front was echoed by Mrs Diezani AlisonMadueke, at an international conference in Houston, Texas, where she, as

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Nigeria’s Petroleum Minister at the time, stated that “Nigeria is leveraging the Clean Development Mechanism (CDM) to access funds for major projects” (NNPC News & Update, 2010). However, to date, the number of CDM projects in Nigeria is very modest. Nigeria currently has only five registered CDM projects. Overall, registered CDM projects in Africa are particularly low, accounting for only 2.4% of 7490 as of 30 April, 2014 (UNFCCC/CDM 2014). This has been attributed in part to the general problems associated with doing business such as “lack of infrastructure and skilled labour, high poverty rates, limited financial resources, a shortage of the management and technical skills needed to meet CDM standards, weak institutions, corruption and political instability” (Fleshman 2008, 3). While this is true to some extent, there are structural issues within the CDM itself which has made it challenging for African countries to effectively utilise the mechanism. However, Nigeria’s figures are particularly poor even when compared with other African countries such as Uganda (10), South Africa (20) and Senegal (4). As the leading economy on the continent, with vast opportunities for emissions reduction projects, and long developmental partners such as the UK investing greatly in CDM projects across the developing world, we ought to have more success. It is therefore important to understand why Nigeria has so far not been able to make the inroads and be as successful as envisaged. This includes assessing whether the current framework with the Special Climate Change Unit within the Federal Ministry of Environment, as the DNA, is robust enough to cope with the complexities of the CDM process. The NNPC needs to be actively involved in this process. There are various initiatives aimed at supporting countries, especially those in Sub-Saharan Africa (such as the Nairobi Framework, CDM Bazaar, and the DNA Forum). Nigeria must explore ways of utilising them more effectively. Wider issues about creating a positive investment climate with less bureaucracy, adequate infrastructure and better governance also need to be addressed.

Climate change impact mitigation and the oil industry The oil industry is the mainstay of the Nigerian economy. Even with the current efforts at diversification of the economy, oil still accounts for about 70% of total export revenue. However, while oil sales have in recent years been boosted by increased demands from the BRICS states and conflicts in other major oil-producing countries, the long-term prospects of the industry are not quite so rosy. There is a huge international effort to move away from dependency on fossil fuels, the main source of GHGs.

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All across the developed world, there are enormous investments in renewable sources of energy such as wind, solar, hydro and even nuclear energy. Technology is also being developed to improve the energy efficiency of electrical appliances, and utilise alternative fuel or energy sources for cars and other forms of transportation. While there is as yet no viable alternative to fossil fuels, the huge leaps being made in research and development in this area indicates that it is perhaps only a matter of time before a significant breakthrough is made. Perhaps indicative of the seriousness of countries in this regard, the EU long-term climate strategy (Vision 20:20:20) is heavily linked to increased reliance on renewable sources of energy and improved energy efficiency. However, it is not only the large economies that are moving to renewable energy: a number of SIDS are adopting renewable energy sources as part of their contribution to climate change mitigation. Perhaps even more telling is the amount of investment being made by global oil companies, incentivised by their governments, in renewable energy— companies who in the not distant past were quite vocal against and resistant to the science on human-induced climate change. Moreover, sustainability has become big business indeed. Quite apart from the environmental interest, these companies stand to benefit greatly if they were to “discover” the fuel for the next generation. Once that breakthrough is made, there will be no more demand for oil, dealing a potential death blow to the Nigerian economy as currently configured. This situation is exacerbated by the fact that improved technology means that through a process known as Induced Hydraulic Fracking (fracking) a number of industrialised countries, including the US and UK, now have access to gas, thus further reducing their dependency on outside countries. Opportunities are currently being wasted. African countries, including Nigeria, are once more positioning themselves simply as producers of primary commodities by planting bio-crops which are then sold to foreign countries for bio-fuel production. Land is being sold on a massive scale to foreign companies for planting these crops without appropriate safeguards, compensation, or consideration of the long-term implications. Consequently, NNPC needs to lead the way in preparing Nigeria for a potential post-oil world. As the national oil company, NNPC should begin to invest in renewable energy, especially energy most suited to the context of Africa and Nigeria. This includes solar energy, which may not be economically viable in most countries in the West but can be developed relatively cheaply locally; bio-fuels, hydro, and energy recovery from wastes. NNPC appears to have already taken the initiative by establishing the Renewable Energy Division (RED) in 2005. However, it is unclear what RED has so

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far achieved. What is the strategy of the RED in both the short and longer term? Questions must be asked about what projects RED has embarked on. However, NNPC cannot succeed in this task on its own. Partnership with universities and research centres is paramount. In making this recommendation, one is not unaware of the inherent challenges in the Nigerian higher education system, including the lack of adequate facilities. However, establishing such partnerships could ultimately prove to be a symbiotic relationship, with funds for these sorts of projects revitalising ailing laboratories, and the research outputs helping the NNPC achieve its own goals. There also needs to be sustained and targeted financial support from the government and private sector.

Conclusion From the discussions above, climate change has potential implications for Nigeria directly on an environmental front, but also for its economy. These twin impacts can seriously undermine the economic growth the country has enjoyed in the recent past. Indeed, the effects are already evident in the country. Climate change is happening. The effects are already glaring: action on mitigation of impacts cannot be delayed. Investing in climate is an investment not just for today but for the future. As the old indigenous saying goes, “we do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children”.

References Abdulhamid, Y. 2011. The impact of climate change in Nigeria. Computer Engineering and Intelligent Systems, 2(4): 18-25. African Development Bank. 2013. Federal Republic of Nigeria country Strategy Paper—2013—2017. http://www.afdb.org/fileadmin/uploads/afdb/Documents/Project-andOperations/Nigeria%20-%202013-2017%20%20Country%20Strategy%20Paper.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. AMCEN. 2010. Comprehensive Framework of African Climate Change Programmes. http://www.unep.org/roa/amcen/docs/AMCEN_Events/climatechange/2ndExtra_15Dec/FACT_SHEET_CC_Africa.pdf Besada, H. & Sewankambo, N.K. 2009. CIGI Special Report: Climate change in Africa: Adaptation,mitigation and governance challenges. Ontario: The Centre for International Governance Innovation.

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Bodansky, D. 1993. The United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change: A commentary. Yale Journal of International Law, 18: 451. Breidenich, C., Magraw, D., Rowley, A. & Rubin, J. 1998. The Kyoto Protocol to the UNFCCC. American Journal of International Law, 92: 315. Chigbo, M. 2008. Why the war is starting late in Nigeria. Newswatch, Nov 3, 56. Cookson, I. 2013. Nigeria’s crucial oil industry is vulnerable to the effects of climate change, risk consultancy warns. This is Africa News. http://www.thisisafricaonline.com/News/Nigeria-oil-industryvulnerable-to-climate-change-reportclaims?ct=true Accessed 24 March 2015. Elvidge, C., Elvidge, C.D., Ziskin, D., Baugh, K.E., Tuttle, B.T., Ghosh, T., Pack, D.W., Erwin, E.H. & Zhizhin, M. 2009. A fifteen year record of global natural gas flaring derived from Satellite Data. Energies, 2(3): 595-622. Environmental Rights Action (ERA). 2008. Fact sheet: Harmful gas flaring in Nigeria. Nigeria, Benin City: Friends of the Earth. http://www.foe.org/pdf/GasFlaringNigeria_FS.pdf Accessed 3 May 2014. Federal Ministry of Environment/Federal Government of Nigeria. 2009. Nigeria and climate change: Road to COP 15—Achieving the Best Outcome for Nigeria. http://www.mrl.uk.com/casestudies/sites/nigeriaatcopenhagen/pdf/Nig eria%20Cop%2015%20Dec%2009.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. Federal Ministry of Environment/Federal Government of Nigeria. 2010. National environmental, economic and development study (needs) for climate change in Nigeria. https://unfccc.int/files/adaptation/application/pdf/nigerianeeds.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. Fleshman, M. Africa seeks share of ‘green’ cash. Africa Renewal, 22(2) July 2008. http://www.un.org/en/africarenewal/vol22no2/222-green-cash.html (Accessed 24 March 2015) Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC). 2008. Climate Change and Human Rights. http://www.ohchr.org/Documents/Issues/ClimateChange/Submissions/ Australia_HR_Equal_Opportunity_Commission_HR_ClimateChange_ 4.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015.

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IPCC. 2007a. Contribution of Working Group I to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, 2007. Cambridge, UK and New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. https://www.ipcc.ch/publications_and_data/ar4/wg1/en/contents.html Accessed 24 March 2015. —. 2007b. Contribution of Working Group II to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, 2007. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, United Kingdom and New York, NY, USA. —. 2007c. Fourth Assessment Synthesis Report. Geneva Switzerland: IPPC. https://www.ipcc.ch/publications_and_data/ar4/syr/en/contents.html Accessed 24 March 2015 NNPC News & Update. Nigeria unveils new global climate policy. http://www.nnpcgroup.com/PublicRelations/NNPCinthenews/tabid/92/ articleType/ArticleView/articleId/303/Nigeria-Unveils-New-GlobalClimate-Policy.aspx Accessed 24 March 2015. —. NNPC restates resolve to address climate change. http://www.nnpcgroup.com/PublicRelations/NNPCinthenews/tabid/92/ articleType/ArticleView/articleId/148/NNPC-restates-resolve-toaddress-climate-change.aspx Accessed 24 March 2015. OECD. 2007. Ranking of the world’s cities most exposed to coastal flooding today and in the future. OECD Environment Working Papers No. 1, Paris: OECD Okon, I.P. 2008. “Can Nigeria attract international investors seeking carbon credits to invest in Certified Emissions Reduction (CER) projects that would aid sustainable development?” 12 CEPMLP Annual Review. http://www.dundee.ac.uk/cepmlp/gateway/?news=29823 Accessed 24 March 2015. Soneye, A. 2012. Population and climate change: Nigeria case study. Paper prepared for the Pan African Session for LEAD Africa, Malawi, November, 2012. https://leadpanafricansession.files.wordpress.com/2012/11/nigeriacase-study.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. UNECA. 2009. Financing climate change adaptation and mitigation in Africa: Key issues and options for policy-makers and negotiators. Poliy Brief Paper prepared for The Third Financing for Development Conference on Climate Change, Kigali, Rwanda, 21-22 May 2009 and The African Ministerial Conference on the Environment (AMCEN) Special Session on Climate Change, Nairobi, Kenya.

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http://www.odi.org.uk/sites/odi.org.uk/files/odi-assets/publicationsopinion-files/4585.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. UN Framework Convention on Climate Change, 1992. http://unfccc.int/resource/docs/convkp/conveng.pdf Accessed 24 March 2015. UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA). 2012. Floods Situation Report No. 2 (as of 15 November 2012). http://reliefweb.int/report/nigeria/floods-situation-report-no-2-15november-2012 Accessed 24 March 2015.

CHAPTER NINE TITANIUM MINING, GRAVES, AND SPIRITS IN KENYA’S COASTAL PROVINCE: REVISITING THE COMPENSATION PROBLEM WILLICE ABUYA AND WILSON AKPAN

Introduction The trouble with minerals is that, amongst other things, their discovery often leads to social displacement and irreversible damage to the environment (Hilson 2007; Živkoviü 2012). This has been the case in Indonesia, Ghana, and Brazil, to name just a few countries (see Downing 2002, Mensah and Okyere 2014). Kenya can now be formally added to the map of Mining Induced Development Resettlement (MIDR): in 2007, in the rural community of Kwale (in Kenya’s Coastal Province), over 2,000 families were displaced to make way for titanium mining operations. It has been argued that “when communities are forced to leave the land that they have lived on for generations, they not only lose farming land but are deprived of the forests, waters in ponds, streams and springs, and grazing lands on which their lives were dependent” (Ahmad and LahiriDutt 2006, 315) as these spaces bear certain meanings to them (Lanza et al. 2013). This concern becomes more acute in light of the present rush for natural resource exploitation, especially on land occupied by rural communities. Eminent domain (the power of states to forcefully take over private land, with or without compensation) often ignores the meanings attached to these spaces (Lanza et al. 2013, Heller and Hills 2008). Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) is also often overlooked, despite the fact that tangibles, intangibles, and economic resources together constitute the impacted landscape (King and Eoin 2014). In addition to economic hardships that could result from social displacement, a community can also suffer socio-ecological trauma or shocks (Syagga and Olima 1996).

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Such problems can be compounded by non-adherence to World Bank guidelines for implementing resettlement programmes arising from development projects (de Wet 2002). The question that arises, however, is: Would the impact of social displacement be considerably lessened if these guidelines were followed? Studies have shown that it all depends on how communities perceive land and “nature” (see Buta, Holland and Kaplanidou 2014; Shipton 2009 and De Beer 2006, for instance). Communities have been shown to revere land, “nature” and cultural artefacts, perceiving them through a screen of meanings and the use to which they are put. Sense of place facilitates what Guthey, Whiteman and Elmes (2014) call “ecological citizenship”, and often “places are constructed and experienced as material ecological artefacts and intricate networks of social relations” (Casey, 1997 as cited by Guthey, Whiteman and Elmes 2014). Tomaney (2013) cites Tuan (1977, 154) who states that place/(nature/land) is “mother, and it nourishes; place is an archive of fond memories and splendid achievements that inspire the present; place is permanent and hence reassuring to man, who sees frailty in himself and chance and flux everywhere”. Places in the natural environment can be perceived as settings rich in meanings which support attitudes and behaviours towards protecting the resource (Buta, Holland and Kaplanidou 2014). Lin and Lockwood (2014, 77) quote a respondent as saying “I get very sentimental when I talk about the area. I feel like my heart is tied to it, where good family memories are, very connected. It’s not just anonymous territory anywhere. It’s just this place, special place”, thus demonstrating that locals are intimately attached to their landscapes. Such attachment stokes conflict in instances of social displacement. This chapter explores the various ethno-ecological uses of graves in the Kwale community and the ethnographic meanings that make graves in this community “cultural artefacts” and “nature”. Above all, the chapter examines the impact of social displacement on such meanings, and why compensation paid for the loss of these assets have failed to appease the community and stem the tide of conflict, and thus stalled the anticipated titanium mining operations. This examination is relevant to Kenya’s mining sector in its effort to overhaul its mining laws (inherited from the colonial authorities in 1963), especially following the discovery of gold deposits in Trans Mara (reserves estimated to be between 40,000—60,000 ounces), oil discovery in the northern parts of Kenya, and coal in its eastern region. On the theoretical front, the chapter makes a case for a more robust theory of vulnerability, one that shifts the focus from the “natural systems” view on

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vulnerability (most of the research on vulnerability has concentrated on climate change), and underline the possibility that state-driven socioeconomic and developmental interventions can exacerbate social-ecological vulnerability in communities.

Debating compensation With its origin traced to feudal England (Benson 2008, 423-432; Altynbekkzy and Kalmbek 2013, 2), compensation has been defined as something that is meant to serve as a full and perfect equivalent for what one has lost (Goodin 1989). It is meant to “counterbalance”, “neutralise” or “offset” the loss suffered. Goodin (1989) speaks of two kinds of compensation: means-replacing compensation (or “compensation1”), and ends-displacing compensation (“compensation2”). Compensation1 provides people with equivalent means for pursuing the same ends, while compensation2 makes it possible for people to pursue other ends, but should leave them subjectively well-off overall (Goodin 1989). Policy makers and lawyers typically distinguish between compensating for pecuniary harms (such as lost property and impaired earning capacity) and non-pecuniary harms (such as bodily harm, emotional distress, humiliation, and distress caused by mistreatment of a corpse). Social displacement can result in both pecuniary and non-pecuniary harms, both of which attract, or should attract, compensation. While compensation1 is normally pursued to satisfy pecuniary harms, non-pecuniary harms fall under compensation2. From a strictly economic point of view, the decision as to which of the two types of compensation is pursued boils down to cost. Monetary compensation has remained the most dominant mode of compensation, yet it appears only suited for monetary losses—which is why most compensational practices, especially in the mining industry, are fraught with problems and prone to conflict. Compensation2 is usually offered as the remedy for non-pecuniary losses, although admittedly, this too has its own inadequacies. Although “just” compensation has been settled in law as implying equal fair market value (Lanza et al. 2013), there is still vigorous debate about how to make compensation more acceptable and less prone to conflict. However, much of this debate is steeped in consumer economics, as can be gleaned from the positions reviewed in the next few paragraphs. For instance, “Pareto improvement” (or “Pareto efficiency”—see Kanbur 2002) is often invoked, which states that if at least one individual is made better off and no individual is made worse off as a result of these projects,

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then the compensation would be considered a success. Achieving this optimum is, however, very problematic. Economists therefore developed a method of aggregation which aims at allocating weights to losses and gains arising from a project, but specifically giving greater weight to the gains and losses of the poor than those of the rich. In other words, if the gains outweigh the losses, and if the poor stand to benefit more than the rich, then the intended project is good and the compensation is right. Not persuaded by the argument of “large numbers”, Kanbur (2002) makes a case for the use of a cost-benefit analysis using weighted sums of gains and losses according to an egalitarian scale of weights. For Kanbur (2002), cost-benefit analysis should not use the cost-benefit methodology which justifies project investment by determining the aggregate of a project’s benefits and outweighs the sum of a project’s costs by an acceptable margin. Rather, it should use the “social” cost-benefit analysis approach, where principles of social pricing, using distributional weights, are applied. This view is later supported by Pearce and Swanson (2008) and Daly (2008), who argue that in evaluating resettlement projects, the cost-benefit analysis should be considered in favour of the principle of “willingness to accept” (WTA) compensation, in lieu of property rights, rather than an individual’s “willingness to pay” (WTP) for the change in question. The authors argue that WTA offers a better threshold of acceptability of a project than WTP, which goes against the “Pareto principle”. Kanbur (2002) also advocates for development of elaborate compensation mechanisms for specific projects, which undoubtedly leads one closer to the Pareto improvement, but one which, he asserts, is a daunting task and may be practically impossible to implement. Cernea (2002, 28) however critiques Kanbur’s thesis and maintains that “compensation is structurally unable to resolve the task of restoring incomes and livelihoods to where they would be in the absence of forced displacement”. Even with additional safety net measures, the author maintains, compensation would hardly serve the purpose of restoring and improving pre-project livelihoods. Drawing from previous studies (the majority of which demonstrate the negative effect of resettlement)1, Cernea (2002) concludes that compensation is unable to genuinely compensate and secure the livelihood of those displaced. Keeping in mind the Pareto Efficiency referred to earlier, McLeod (2000) had earlier argued that compensation can be adequate if one uses the principle of Compensation Surplus (CS), which is predicated on the 1

Although Cernea (2000a:35) acknowledges that researchers have been more concerned with describing and deploring displacement pathologies, and suggests that focus should also turn to positive experiences in reconstruction of livelihoods.

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willingness of the displaced to accept compensation. This argument obviously presents a problem of its own—the problem of justness, as pointed out by Brätland (2006). According to Brätland (2006, 2), if compensation is predicated on the willingness of the farmer to accept compensation, it is inconceivable that “just” compensation can be achieved: “since assent is never present in the context of takings [and as such] no compensation can be considered just”. Brätland (2006, 9) also faults the notion of compensating at “market value”, arguing that since market value is the price arrived at by two willing and informed parties, it then follows that takings accompanied by compensation cannot be “just”, as one partner is unwilling. However, others have also argued that “market value” can be achieved if the land to be expropriated is compensated at the average market value of all land within the locality, whether expropriated or not (Nosal 2001, 438). It has also been suggested that market value is achievable if two components of eminent domain—taking and just compensation—are somehow separated, such that “condemnees” are offered a choice between either receiving traditional “fair market value” compensation or pro rata (“earn as you go”) shares/securities in a special-purpose development corporation that would require unified ownership of the land and the development project (Lehavi and Licht 2007). Ghatak and Ghosh (2011, 66), however, in an apparent support of the stand taken by Brätland (2006), maintain that the use of market price for voluntary transactions as a proxy for owners’ value in forced acquisitions is fundamentally flawed. They further argue that the value of a piece of land to its owner is not some tangible attribute that can be objectively measured by experts but rather a subjective quantity—it is whatever the owner deems it to be. Kopnina (2013, 55) also argues that market-based valuation techniques are inadequate as they do not tangibly capture the expanse, nuances and intricacies (including ecological identity and emotional attachment to nature) of the ecosystem services targeted for compensation. The value of many of these ecosystem services is not readily understood by economists. Is “just” compensation achievable? For Brätland (2006), it can be achieved using the concept of “value to the owner”. By this is meant the pegging of compensation to the price at which a person would willingly relinquish his/her property in a transfer free of coercion—which obviously makes the concept and exercise of eminent domain superfluous. As Kelly (2006) argues, eminent domain is based on the assumption that although emotional attachment may be important to a property owner, it cannot be objectively quantified. Others, such as Fernandes (2008), argue that for compensation to be both just and at market value, it has to be offered at

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“replacement value”. This is equivalent to rebuilding livelihoods and providing for mental distress, although attaching monetary value to the latter can prove challenging. Akpan (2009, 114) encountered the compensation conundrum in the poverty-riddled, oil-rich Niger Delta region of Nigeria. He found that compensating for non-pecuniary harms can be quite troublesome, for “once constructed, a tombstone has no clear market-related price and cannot be demolished, substituted or ‘paid for’ at will. It cannot be valued in terms of the amount of cement and steel rods used in its construction”. Ghatak and Ghosh (2011) provide a three tier platform on how just/fair compensation can be arrived at. They propose that (a) the transfer price of the seized land be determined by a land auction and not left to the State’s discretion, (b) displaced farmers should have the option to choose between compensation in cash or compensation in land, and (c) the area of intervention be extended beyond the project area to surrounding farmland. Clearly, compensating for certain losses is a daunting task. As will be shortly observed in the coming sections, in rural Kenya, compensation policy and practice appear to be in direct conflict with cultural beliefs and the meanings that the local population attach to non-pecuniary assets.

Titanium mining in Kenya: The compensation framework Compensating for graves could be problematic due to the attachments that communities place on such cultural artefacts. Several ethno-ecological studies have highlighted these attachments (see Kilson 1955; Shipton 1992, 1994; Lastarria-Cornhiel 1997; Mannan 2001; Barrera-Bassols and Toledo 2005; Kingsley and Townsend 2005; De Beer 2006; Rogers and Wang 2006; Bovensiepen 2009; Ochoa and Ladio 2014; Eissa et al. 2014). Emphasising cultural sentimental, spiritual and mystical importance of cultural artefacts, ethno-ecologists have showed that such landscape management practices, mostly performed by indigenous and rural groups, are very much embedded in particular beliefs and knowledge systems of their local environment (Oteroa, Boadaa and Tàbaraa 2014). Shipton (1995) earlier asserted that to the Luo of Kenya, a grave is the ultimate indicator of land ownership, the equivalent of a title deed. This highlights the sensitivities that surround mining-induced social displacement (see also Shipton 1994, 367; Cernea 2000a, 2000b; Downing 2002; Bovensiepen 2009, 328).

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Titanium in Kenya The discovery of titanium heralded a new beginning in Kenya’s mining industry. A highly valuable mineral, titanium is used in the aeronautic, paint and micro-chip engineering industries. It has been estimated that the Kwale project would produce over 330,000 tonnes of ilmenite, about 37,000 tonnes of zircon and over 77,000 tonnes of high quality rutile annually during the first six years of production, accounting for 6%, 3% and 18% of the world’s total production, respectively (Coastal and Environmental Services 2005). The Kwale operations alone (mining at Vipingo, Sokoke, Sabaki, Mambrui and Ras Ngomeni, for which Tiomin had also been awarded mining rights, which will commence later) has been estimated to be worth about 3% of Kenya’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP)—or the equivalent of the total combined value of the country’s entire mining industry, as of 2006. Full exploitation of the entire titanium resource is bound to place Kenya among the highest producers of titanium in the world, given that Kenya holds 40% of the world’s reserves (see Abuodha and Hayombe 2006 and Brown et al. 2010). Several Acts regulate compulsory land acquisition and compensation in Kenya. However, the Acts that most directly relate to social displacement, and exhumation and compensation for disturbance and reburial of remains, are the Mining Act, The Land Acquisition Act and the Public Health Act. Section 4 of the Mining Act (Cap 3062) abrogates all subterranean minerals to the government. This law has been in existence since colonial times. It is unclear why successive governments, even in the postcolonial period, have opted to retain this law. It was only in 2011, more than four decades after independence, that the government began the process of reviewing this Act. Section 7(3) provides that the Minister can take steps to compulsorily acquire the land, acquisition of which is then pursued under the Land Acquisition Act (Cap 295). Section 6(1) (a) and (b) of the Land Acquisition Act (Cap 295) give the Minister of Lands the power to compulsorily acquire land for public good (and commercial mining of minerals is deemed a public good). Sections 8 and 9 of the same Act provide for full and prompt compensation to all persons who hold interest on the land. Section 146 of the Public Health Act (Cap 242) permits exhumation and reburial of remains, while Section 147 legalises exhumation of remains for purposes of public works 2

The various Acts mentioned here are available at http://www.kenyalaws.org/klr/index.php?id=7.

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development. In terms of the Act, government bears the cost of the interment. Other important Acts that relate to displacement and compensation include: The Agriculture Act (Cap 318), The Forest Act (Cap 7), The Survey Act (Cap 299), the Land Adjudication Act (Cap 284), the Chiefs Authority Act (Cap 128), the Registration of Titles Act (Cap 281), the Land Titles Act (Cap 282), the Registered Land Act (Cap 300, the Land Control Act (Cap 302),the Local Government Act (Cap 265), the Land Planning Act (Cap 303), the Government Lands Act (Cap 280), the Trust Lands Act (Cap 288) and the Land (Group Representatives) Act, (Cap 287). The following section explores the ways in which compensation was paid out in Kwale.

Compensating for graves in Kwale In relation to the titanium mining project, graves were to be compensated for at the rate of Kshs 10,000 (approximately US$127) per grave to cover traditional reburial rites. Tiomin (Kenya, Ltd) also agreed to bear the cost of exhumation, coffin (or white cloth in the case of Muslims), transportation, and associated works such as replacement tombstones, and where none existed, provide an inscribed wooden tablet of a shape in keeping with religious beliefs (Compensation and Resettlement Committee 2004). The company also agreed to set aside some land for use as a cemetery at Mrima-Bwiti, the resettlement site, and erect a shrine at the Kwale Municipality Cemetery for remains that would be interred there. In the meantime, a burial moratorium was placed among those in Mivumoni and Kinondo locations who were yet to be relocated. For re-settlers who would pass away during the process of displacement (that is, after 30 June 2005), the company agreed to provide transport services (a hearse), a coffin or cloth liner (for Muslims), a vehicle for 5 hours to transport the funeral party to and fro, assistance with completion of any paperwork to complete the burial, and all other works associated with burial expenses (Compensation and Resettlement Committee 2004). Generous as the compensation offer appeared to be, and despite the fact that farmers were represented in the Compensation and Resettlement Committee which formulated these recommendations, some farmers were still dissatisfied with the offer. They consequently filed a case in court arguing against the “unfair” compensation offer. They again questioned the legality of the acquisition of “their” land. However, the court ruled against them on 19 December 2006, citing the powers of the state under

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the doctrine of eminent domain (BIC 2006). The farmers immediately lodged an appeal in the same year, which led to the halting of mining activities at the mining site through the issuance of a court injunction. Subsequently, in 2008, the case was dismissed, the consequence of which was that farmers lost their hold on the land. As demonstrated later in this chapter, the farmers’ dissatisfaction (among other reasons) was mainly because the compensation offered was not commensurate with the ethnoecological importance of graves.

Methodology The study on which this chapter is based was carried out among the displaced residents of the Maumba and Nguluku villages, in Kwale District, Coast Province3, who are now scattered in the District’s five administrative Divisions (Matuga, Kubo, Msambweni, Kinango, Samburu, Mrima-Bwiti—see GoK 2002). Kwale is the main site where titanium mining was scheduled to take place. Mambrui, Sokoke and Vipingo were excluded, as Tiomin had suspended activities in these sites. In-depth interviews were used to elicit narratives about “nature” (graves), and to assess the meanings that the community attached to this cultural artefact. A total of 73 in-depth interviews were conducted. Snowball and convenience sampling were the main sampling methods adopted, as most of the residents were found to still be in a state of transition between their condemned land and their new areas of resettlement. With regard to compensational practices, 49 in-depth interviews (among household heads who had received compensation) were conducted. To examine the dominant community-targeted compensational practices in Kenya’s titanium mining industry, four key informants at Tiomin (Kenya Ltd) and three at Kenya’s Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources were interviewed. Eight Focus Group Discussions (FGDs) comprising between 9—12 participants were conducted: two each in Mwaluvanga, Kikoneni and Ukunda Locations, one in Mrima-Bwiti of Msambweni Division and another in Mvumoni Location. These methods were utilised within an ethnographic and ethno-ecological framework whereby the first author spent a total of five months in the communities in

3 Following the promulgation of a new constitution in August 2010, Provinces were done away with and Districts were converted to Counties. However, because these were the administrative units that existed during the time the field studies were conducted, for the sake of clarity, the chapter site is referred to as Coast Province, and Kwale District, as the case may be.

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order to gain insider perspectives on the meanings residents attached to graves, as well as the natural environment.

Findings In this section, the authors sketch a picture of what graves mean to local residents; in other words, the place of graves in the local cosmology. Following this are findings pertaining to how titanium mining “interfered” with that relationship. These findings are then followed by respondents’ sentiments towards the compensation they were paid for “lost” graves. Thereafter, a discussion of findings is presented followed by concluding remarks.

People and graves The researchers found that local residents revered graves, treating them with utmost caution. Graves were considered as sacred places, “gateways” to the spiritual world, and important markers of history. Graves enabled people to trace their lineage and establish important kinship patterns. Graves were a source of personal identity, as one could trace one’s lineage through the graves dotting the homestead. A 47-year-old male elaborated thus: We do not joke with graves because that is where you have buried your person, and that is where you too will eventually be buried. You would therefore want to do good unto others as you would want others to do unto you. A grave is the place where future generations are shown where their ancestors are buried. Take me for example; I moved from the mainland (Kamba land) to settle here at the Coast. But each time I visit my rural area, my great grandparents’ and other graves of importance are always pointed out to me. I am told this is who and who and this is where they are buried. And when I finally pass away, my descendants will also be shown that “this is your grandparent who migrated from the mainland and settled at the Coast and this is where he is buried.”

Graves are a signifier of one’s lineage and are the “pages” of one’s history. They help local people to record, maintain and narrate the history of the clan—a finding similar to Donge and Pherani’s (1999) earlier finding. In Kwale, graves were also found to provide solace, peace and closure to the living: it is the definite evidence that a dead relative is resting in peace. One respondent remarked that graves were a “form of blessing”: a person was “sure” to receive blessings from dead relatives.

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For the local residents, death was not a literal phenomenon. Even though they regarded graves as a “final” resting place for the dead, they believed that the dead were still “around”—a belief defined by Giddens (1995, 459) as “animism”. Another displaced resident illustrated the importance of graves as follows: A grave is very important. You must look after the person you buried there otherwise, he will haunt you! When you put your father in the grave, you must maintain the grave. If you don’t, then your endeavours on this earth will never work out. This is because you have neglected ‘your’ grave. Even [President Barack] Obama [of the USA] had to come to Africa to pay respects on his father’s grave: didn’t he succeed and become the President of America? Graves are important vessels to us. They are a source of blessing. If you pray by the graveside, as I usually do by my father’s graveside whenever I am disturbed, you come out refreshed and with your problems a lot lighter.

The above echoes Russell’s (2014, 32-33) sentiments when he argues that “social relationships are not terminated by death. Rather, death provides an opportunity for the reconfiguration of relationships among the living, among the dead, and between the living and the dead”. It is thus understandable why locals would be hard pressed to let go of their graves. The grave/tomb is thus one locus for the practice of ancestor veneration. In Kwale, graves were akin to shrines, where people gather for blessings. Graves were also equivalent to land titles: A grave signifies land ownership. Can one bury his dead on land that is not his? Can you place flowers on land that is not yours? Can you hold remembrance ceremonies as you please on land that is not your own? No! (Interview response from a 43-year-old displaced farmer).

Shipton (2009) had earlier found similar sentiments among the Luo of western Kenya, where a grave was considered to be a more significant marker of land ownership than title deeds. Indeed, among the Luo, selling off or offering land as security for a loan was akin to “mortgaging the ancestors”. A striking finding with regard to these beliefs was that several youthful respondents in the community dismissed them as “unrealistic”, an indication, perhaps, that time changes beliefs.

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Titanium mining, social displacement and the “meaning” of graves The study found that social displacement had adversely affected the meanings attached to graves in Kwale. Physical relocation meant that people were now physically, spiritually and emotionally separated from their graves. A 42-year-old man described his situation as follows: I left my father’s and my wife’s graves in Maumba. I also ‘lost’ several graves belonging to my nephews and nieces over there. We Kambas place graves where we can see them, and that is why we have graves within our homesteads. Whenever we emerge from our houses, we want to see these graves—for although they are dead, looking at the graves is like seeing them alive over and over again. So we ‘see’ them, we ‘feel’ them, and we feel contented and connected with them. But here I am now, without my graves. I have nothing to remind me of my people. This ‘remembrance’ is missing. What kind of a life is this?

The displaced residents were also unable to hold commemorative ceremonies as they were not allowed on the condemned land, similar to what Rogers and Wang (2006) observed among the displaced community of Wang Sheng, Mongolia. In Kwale, respondents believed that “abandoned” graves had become a source of anguish and stress, with the grave “owners” now living “very uneasy” lives. Said one respondent: Traditionally, when one migrated, one did so with his graves. However, in this case, we left our graves behind. Now we cannot go back to our graves for commemorative purposes, nor can we do the same here as that would be meaningless and incomplete without a visit to the grave. We can no longer slaughter goats by the graveside and lay wreaths on the grave as that is no longer our land. What this means is that we are now unable to live peacefully in our new places of residence.

When asked how displacement had interfered with the meanings attached to graves, one 60-year-old woman respondent intoned that with graves, one was able to observe tambiko (seeking assistance of the dead by praying beside the grave). Because graves were a “pathway” to the spiritual world, without them, this pathway was therefore lost. In Kwale, graves were also treated more or less like living things: I left three graves on ‘my’ land, all belonging to my three children. Now I feel very bad because I cannot see my graves. My graves are now in the

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bush. So if the bush burns, my graves will also burn (response of a 55year-old man).

A 37-year-old Kwale respondent remarked that “her” graves had become “angry abandoned sites”. Respondents were in agreement that the thought of abandoning their graves was one of the major reasons why they “fought” so hard to keep their land.

“Lost” graves and the compensation problem In its resettlement action plan, the mining company (Tiomin) recognised the fact that graves were a “potentially emotive issue” around which opposition to a project could be mobilised (Coastal and Environmental Services 2005, 28). It was in light of this that the company and the government agreed to compensate for disturbed graves. Field interviews revealed that most of the displaced (except for those in Mivumoni and Kinondo who were awaiting land compensation and displacement) were yet to be compensated for their graves. They were awaiting the promised payment that would facilitate the reburial of the remains of their relatives. Interviews with company representatives revealed that the government was yet to issue the requisite grave excavation and reburial permits owing to bureaucratic delays. One elderly displaced resident explained that moving a grave was not a simple matter; it involves observance of certain rituals, which involved a substantial sum of money. According to this respondent, the displaced did not have the required funds as they were poor peasants, and furthermore, this was something they had not anticipated or planned for. Contrary to tradition, the living had migrated, leaving their graves behind with no certainty as to when funds would be available to facilitate the reburial of the remains of their relatives. This delay was a source of much anxiety: Some of us cannot sleep. We are ‘beaten’ everyday by our dead, asking us why we have abandoned them. But what can we do? If we wake them up from their sleep, they will haunt us. The Ksh10,000 offered (as compensation) is not sufficient to observe all the reburial rites that are traditionally required (interview with one displaced resident).

The inefficiency of the compensation was further attributed to the potential cultural catastrophe involved in moving a grave. Brown (1980) and Udvardy, Giles and Mitsanza (2003) observed that the Mijikenda erected grave posts (kigango) which bear significant importance to the community. An installed kigango was revered and interpreted as the

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incarnation of the deceased, is spoken to directly, and propitiated with palm wine and libations. According to Udvardy, Giles and Mitsanza (2003, 567), to uproot a kigango (and for that matter, to exhume a body) for the purpose of profit is a clear affront on the ancestral spirits and could attract serious supernatural sanctions, such as the infliction of insanity or death to the offender and/or to other family members. Under normal circumstances, stringent reburial ceremonies must be observed during exhumation. The present research found that it is for these reasons that the initial group to be displaced (and compensated) had abandoned the whole issue of exhumation, transport and reburial to Tiomin: no one wanted to incur the wrath of the ancestors. Besides, the circumstances warranting exhumation and reburial were entirely unheralded and the compensation inadequate. Since most of the displaced had moved out without their graves, many believed that bad luck was bound to follow: What am I doing right now instead of farming? I’m here at this workshop trying to fix this power-saw (chain saw) that I purchased with the compensation money paid to me. Ever since I bought it I have not had a moment’s peace! Every other day, it keeps breaking down. It takes me a long time before these hands of mine touch money. And this is because of bad luck occasioned by my having abandoned my mother’s grave. I will not prosper until my mother’s grave is with me. But how can I move my mother’s grave when I don’t have money and when Tiomin has, to date, not fulfilled its promise of relocating her remains? I am now just here, bewitched! (Response from a 37-year-old man now living in Mrima-Bwiti)

This grief was shared by many interviewees, who believed that the non-observance of culture was irritating the dead, who were certain to strike back. The researcher encountered tales of such attacks: I know of a family that is constantly harassed by their dead. The dead keep visiting them at night asking them why they have been abandoned. You know, reburial is not a simple matter—it is not just a matter of shifting bones from one place to another. You know, even the ground around that grave is sacred and has to be reburied as well, but I don’t know how this can be successfully achieved. Then there are those rites that have to be performed. But because the family hasn’t been compensated, they are unable to exhume and rebury their dead. You know that the dead are not actually dead and if abandoned, they get angry and end up haunting the living (FGD participant).

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Another 60-year-old respondent made the following comments: Hata mimi silali pale nyumbani! Wananisumbua kabisa! Waliotuwacha wananiuliza kila siku kwanini niliwawacha. Hi mambo inavaa itatuliwa haraka kabla mkasaa inipate (I am unable to sleep in my house. I’m haunted by the dead. My dead keep asking me why I have abandoned them. This matter should be resolved soonest before misfortune strikes me!)

The above echoes Schmidt-Soltau’s (1999) findings, that indigenes view abandonment of graves as inviting the wrath of the ancestors. On the delayed compensation for graves, the researchers found deep displeasure among local residents, for the reason that the delay prevented many from carrying out certain important socio-cultural functions: I feel very bad about the delayed compensation. In fact my brother keeps asking me why the payment has delayed because he wants to be re-united with his dead wife and kid. Without them, it is as if he was never once married. Without them near him, he cannot remarry, as certain rites have to be performed by the graveside so as to enable him to remarry. Right now he is living like a bachelor; cooking his own food and washing his own clothes, which at his age is culturally unacceptable. I am also personally affected—I left my child’s grave in that land. Now it is as if I never had a child in this life and yet he is my child. We Africans have a relationship with our dead, and so the relationship I had with my dead is now severed. I feel as if I have lost my child. Ever since we moved my wife has been unable to conceive because the other (the dead child) has tied her womb because we have abandoned him over there. We feel quite helpless about this (response from an interviewee).

The interviewee was categorical that the delay must be dealt with as a matter of urgency before further calamities befell them. The offer by the mining company to create a special cemetery to inter unidentified remains was equally loathed by local residents. Residents disclosed to the researchers that they were not a people who “throw the dead in the bush”, given that the cemetery was located several kilometres away from their homes. Indeed, one displaced resident who particularly despised the idea equated such a cemetery to a “museum”, where tourists would in the future be paraded and informed that “this is where relatives of those displaced in the Tiomin project were buried”. The situation with residents of Mivumoni and Kinondo (who were awaiting compensation and displacement) appeared even worse, given that a burial moratorium had been in effect since July 2008. The options left to

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them was to either bury their dead in the municipal cemetery, or in the burial site set aside for them at Mrima Bwiti (both of which they rejected), or in an unaffected neighbour’s farm. One resident (an adult male who recently lost his child) remarked that the “displacement has turned me into an animal: what kind of a human being am I when I cannot bury my own child on the land that I occupy?” The non-compensation for graves clearly affected community-company relations. Most respondents asserted that unless the promised payment was made, unless their dead were reburied and all cultural rites observed, and unless the company met all the expenses related to this, the relationship was irreparably broken. Abandonment of graves obviously contributed to the witnessed conflict. As previously mentioned, a few of the displaced residents had already been compensated. These were residents who had previously occupied the core mining site (where the company had established its experimental office). The researchers learnt that on the scheduled date of exhumation, this group declined to move their graves, citing the fact that the Ksh10,000 paid was insufficient to finance the necessary rites to appease the dead: Reburying the dead brings about much disturbance, as you are waking up what had almost been forgotten. One has to re-live the pain all over again and this is emotionally draining. Again, one will be waking up the dead from their sleep. This has the potential of bringing about disastrous consequences especially when proper cultural rites are not observed. Some dead people may even refuse to go back to sleep and will haunt their relatives forever. Let whoever disturbs their sleep be responsible for the consequences (remarked a 57-year-old displaced respondent).

For this respondent, exhumation and reburial of the remains was now Tiomin’s headache. This finding echoed Akpan’s (2009) findings that compensating for graves is not a straightforward matter among rural mining communities: once constructed, a tombstone has no clear marketrelated price and cannot be “paid for” at will. Why the displaced persons accepted the reburial compensation in the first place can only be attributed to the economistic attitude that both parties initially attached to the mining-related compensation exercise. While the company was of the view that, like other assets, graves could be compensated for, the affected persons possibly thought it was an opportunity to earn a windfall. However, as the day of exhumation approached, it became clear to the displaced that culture made no provision for payment for reburial of ancestral remains under these commercial, utilitarian circumstances. These findings point to an

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interesting ethnographic contradiction: whereas man is a cultural animal (one who attaches meanings to various aspects of nature, and thus becomes culturally attached to nature, or even cultural artefacts), he is also an economic being (who will seize upon any opportunity to make monetary gains).

Discussion Compensating for graves in Kwale appears to have fallen short of Goodin’s (1989) compensation1 (as the Ksh10,000 was viewed by the displaced as not adequate to finance the purpose for which it was intended) as it did not take into account the ethno-ecological value of the graves. This inadequacy can also be attributed to what Mohamed (2013) calls the “endowment effect”. The endowment effect—also known as the statusquo bias—is the tendency to hold on to property and rights that one already has, implicitly valuing them more than if one never possessed them. Mohamed points out that numerous studies have shown that people are willing to accept more for property they own than they are willing to pay for the same property if they had never owned it. Hence, the “condemenees” expected more payment than they would have otherwise accepted, had they not owned the graves. Compensation based on Radin’s (1993) idea of “commodification” (whereby items are subjected to market value, which Russell (2014), as discussed earlier, labels as inadequate) and on Brätland’s (2006) compensation2 was equally not achieved, as residents could not attach a market value to their graves, given that these were non-pecuniary assets. This appears to confirm Goodin’s (1989, 62) assertion that “the vast majority of compensation programmes doling out pecuniary awards do not even try to compensate for non-pecuniary losses at all.” Such consideration would ensure that communities are not left vulnerable to shocks. Vulnerability is the ability or inability of individuals and social groupings to respond to, cope with, recover from or adapt to, any external stress placed on their livelihoods and well-being (Kelly and Adger 2006, 32). In this case, the external stress was the loss of graves, which were cultural artefacts that bore strong ethno-ecological uses/meanings. Therefore, social displacement, accompanied by compensation that does not take cognisance of the ethno-ecological value of the assets being compensated, will largely fail, as it will not appease those displaced, as they will be left feeling vulnerable following the loss of their revered assets. Marginalisation and destitution leads to high vulnerability—such that “when faced with natural and other hazards,

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people who lack access to resources, lack means of protection are hence…vulnerable” (Walters and Gaillard 2014, 212). Whereas sense of place facilitates what Guthey, Whiteman and Elmes (2014) call “ecological citizenship”, and bearing in mind that “places are constructed and experienced as material ecological artefacts and intricate networks of social relations” (Casey, 1997 as cited by Guthey, Whiteman and Elmes 2014) and are therefore embodied, alienation from such artefacts (in this instance graves) is bound to bring about states of vulnerability, and this realisation would most likely spur resistance against acts of eminent domain. Going by the narratives emanating from the displaced residents, it appears that compensation and commensurability are incompatible, hence, rectification (restoring one’s status quo ante) is nearly impossible. This supports Radin’s (1993) idea of “non-commodification compensation”. Such incompatibility is also supported by Hilson’s (2002) later assertion that loss of land (and its embodiment that includes graves) cannot ever be justly compensated, given that compensation criteria hardly take into cognisance the intergenerational, economic and cultural importance of the socio-ecological resources for which compensation is being considered. Thus “just” compensation (as demanded by Brätland (2006)) or “full” compensation (as demanded by section 8 of Kenya’s Land Acquisition Act (Cap 295)) may be difficult to achieve when compensating for the loss of ancestral graves, especially when their ethno-ecological uses are not considered. But given that “just compensation” is defined as paying for the taken property at “fair market value”, which in turn is defined as the price that would have been agreed to by a willing seller and a willing buyer, just compensation may therefore be difficult to achieve given that consent is normally absent in acts of eminent domain (Lee 2013)—this echoes de Wet’s (2002) earlier doubts as to whether everyone can win in instances of displacement. In any case, markets are understood as agglomerations of vast numbers of exchanges between consenting adults, each exercising their entitlements according to their preference functions in the service of their respective conceptions of the good life (Steiner 2013, 336). This implies that consenting adults engage in market exchange to better their lives. Therefore exchanges which result in one’s vulnerability (in this case, arising from non-consideration of the ethno-ecological value of what is being compensated) are bound to be resisted. It is further argued that in Economics, changes in the distribution of endowments produce changes in equilibrium prices. Hence, forcibly imposing restrictions on individuals’ powers and liberties to dispose of their endowments is tantamount to modifying those endowments (Steiner 2013). More often than not, the

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compensation does not favour the “condemnee”. This therefore calls for constant review of existing laws and policies to ensure that acts of eminent domain do not leave “condemnees” the poorer. This chapter also highlights one important observation: the point that contradictions that can arise when people who uphold or proclaim certain cultural values and attachments are faced with specific economic choices under peculiar circumstances. As discussed, the displaced residents initially accepted the compensation offered, before realising later that tradition does not allow for exhumation of graves under those circumstances. As a result, many opted not to participate in the exhumation exercise, lest they incur the wrath of their ancestors. This observation may lend credence to He and Asami’s (2013) observation that at times the high compensation required by property owners in expropriation exercises are largely derived from the opportunistic pricing behaviour of the property owners, rather than sentimental attachment to the dwellings that is unobservable in the market price. It is evident from this that the debate on “fair” or “just” compensation still has a long way to go.

Conclusion In consideration of the fact that acts of eminent domain are bound to continue as more mining programmes are rolled out in developing nations, it is essential that when determining compensation for pecuniary losses (which should be carried out with the effective participation of the affected persons), close attention should also be paid to non-pecuniary losses. This will to some extent ensure that communities are not left the worse off in cases of social displacement, and such consideration will ensure that communities are not left vulnerable to shocks. In Africa, and particularly in Kenya, there is a need to develop policies and laws that consider compensating for non-pecuniary losses if communities are to be spared the pain of never recovering their former lives following dislocation. In this way, then perhaps the dictum of “Pareto efficiency” may be met.

References Abuodha, J.Z. & Hayombe, P.O. 2006. Protracted environmental issues and a proposed titanium minerals development in Kenya’s South Coast. Marine Georesources and Geotechnology, 24(2): 63-75. Ahmad, N. & Lahiri-Dutt, K. 2006. Engendering mining communities. Examining the missing gender concerns in coal mining displacement

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and rehabilitation in India. Gender Technology and Development, 10 (3): 313-339. Akpan, W. 2009. When corporate citizens ‘second-class’ national citizens: The antinomies of corporate mediated social provisioning in Nigeria’s oil province. Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 27(1): 105118. Altynbekkyzy, A. & Kalmbek, B. 2013. Legislation on seizure of land for public needs: Problems of improving. Middle-East Journal of Scientific Research, 13: 1-5. Bank Information Centre (BIC) 2006. Government to evict Kenyan farmers from mineral-rich lands. Available: http://www.bicusa.org/en/Paper.3059.aspx Accessed 22 October 2008. Barrera-Bassols, N. & Toledo, V.M. 2005. Ethnoecology of the Yucatec Maya: Symbolism, knowledge and management of natural resources. Journal of Latin American Geography, 4(1): 9-41. Benson, B. 2008. The evolution of eminent domain. The Independent Review 12(3): 423-432. Bovensiepen, J. 2009. Spiritual landscapes of life and death in the Central Highlands of East Timor. Anthropological Forum, 3: 323-338. Brätland, J. 2006. On the impossibility of ‘just compensation’ when property is taken. An ethical and epistemic inquiry. Washington DC: U.S. Department of Interior. Brown, J.L. 1980. Miji Kenda grave and memorial sculptures. African Arts, 13(4): 36-39 and 88. Brown, J.T., Hannis, S.D., Ioine, N.E., Hetherington, L.E., Shaw, R.A., Walters, A.S., Lusty, P.A.J. & Kendall, R. 2010. World Mineral Production 2004-2008. Nottingham, UK: British Geological Survey. Buta, N., Holland, S.M. & Kaplanidou, K. 2014. Local communities and protected areas: The mediating role of place attachment for proenvironmental civic engagement. Journal of Outdoor Recreation and Tourism, 5-6: 1-10. Cernea, M.M. 2000(a). Risks, safeguards and reconstruction: a model for population displacement and resettlement. Economic and Political Weekly 35(41): 3659-3678. —. 2000(b). Impoverishment risk and reconstruction: A model for population displacement and resettlement. In: Risk and Reconstruction: Experiences of Resettlers and Refugees, ed. M.M. Cernea and C. McDowell. Washington, DC: World Bank. —. 2002. For a new economics of resettlement: A sociological critique of the compensation principle. In: An exchange on the compensation principle in resettlement.

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http://dyson.cornell.edu/research/researchpdf/wp/2002/Cornell_Dyson _wp0233.pdf Accessed on 14 June 2013. Coastal and Environmental Services. 2005. Tiomin-Kwale Resettlement Action Plan. Grahamstown: Coastal and Environmental Services. Compensation and Resettlement Committee. 2004. The compensation and resettlement issues of the titanium mining project in Kwale District. A report submitted to the Cabinet Committee of the titanium mining project in Kwale District. Daly, H.E. 2008. Forced displacement: Allocative externally or unjust redistribution? In: Can compensation prevent impoverishment? Reforming resettlement through investments and benefit-sharing, edited by M.M. Cernea and H.M. Mathur. Cape Town: Oxford University Press. De Beer, F.C. 2006. The roots and complexity of the land issue and land claims in South Africa. Anthropology Southern Africa, 29(1&2): 2434. De Wet, C.J. 2002. Economic development and population displacement: can everybody win? Anthropology Southern Africa, 36(50): 46374646. Donge, J.K.V. & Pherani, L. 1999. Law and order as a development issue: Land conflicts and the creation of social order in Malawi. Journal of Development Studies, 36(2): 48-70. Downing, T.E. 2002. Avoiding new poverty: mining-induced displacement and resetttlement. United Kingdom: International Institute for Environment and Development. Eissa, T.A.F., Palomino, O.M., Carretero, M.E. & Gómez-Serranillos, M.P. 2014. Ethnopharmacological study of medicinal plants used in the treatment of CNS disorders in Sinai Peninsula, Egypt. Journal of Ethnopharmacology, 151: 317-332. Fernandes, W. 2008. India’s forced displacement policy and practice. Is compensation up to its function? In: Can compensation prevent impoverishment? Reforming resettlement through investments and benefit-sharing, ed. M.M. Cernea and H.M. Mathur. Cape Town: Oxford University Press. Ghatak, M. & Ghosh, P. 2011. The Land Acquisition Bill: a critique and proposal. Economic and Political Weekly, 46(41): 65-72. Giddens, A. 1995. Sociology (2nd edition). Cambridge: Polity Press. Goodin, R.E. 1989. Theories of compensation. Oxford Journal of Legal Studies, 9(1): 56-75. Government of Kenya (GoK). 2002. Kwale District Development Plan 2002—2008. Government of Kenya.

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CHAPTER TEN KENYA: A SOCIO-HISTORICAL ANALYSIS OF THE ROLE OF POLICY IN MINING CONFLICT MITIGATION WILLICE ABUYA

Introduction Despite the developmental potential of the mining industry in many countries, mining can have serious adverse social impacts. Its impacts on the social structure, human health, demographic shifts, production systems, cultural traditions, physical displacement, and economic dependency have been documented (Holden 2005, 431). Not surprisingly, mineral extraction has long been accompanied by social protest (Bebbington et al. 2008), some of which have led to violent conflict as witnessed in Nigeria (see Bob 2002 and Akpan 2007), Japan (MartinezAlier 2001), Colombia (Richani 2004), Angola (Frynas and Wood 2001), Guatemala (Eccarius-Kelly 2006) and Peru (Haarstad and Floysand 2007). Studies (such as Akpan 2005; Hilson 2002; Turner and Brownhill 2004; Eccarius-Kelly 2006; Muradian, Martinez-Alier and Correa 2003 for instance) have shown that such conflict revolves around four main issues: a) land ownership—the question of who is the rightful owner of the land on which the minerals are (to be) extracted; b) “unfair” compensational practices—that is, contestations over the issue of “fair” market value vis-àvis lost subjective value and aspirations; c) inequitable resource distribution—in particular, feelings in mining communities about being “cheated” in the benefit- and burden-sharing process, and d) environmental degradation. The Kenyan mining industry is still in its embryonic stages (Davies and Osano 2005). Of the 70 important minerals listed by the British Geological Survey (BGS), Kenya has proven commercial deposits of only six (see Brown et al. 2010), which is why the country’s current

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contribution to the world’s mining industry is minimal. Nonetheless, the country has great potential given its geological structure (Davies and Osano 2005) and the fact that not much survey work (due to lack of adequate funding) has been carried out to determine the country’s full mineral capacity (GoK 2002, 28). In cases where minerals have been found (gypsum, for instance), the remoteness of their locations have prevented full exploitation of the resource (Bu bois and Walsh 2007; GoK 2002, 28). Mineral production accounts for only 1% of Kenya’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP) (Mining Communication 2007; KNBS 2009) and only 3% of the country’s total export earnings (KIPRA 2009). It is estimated that in 2008, only 6,600 people were employed in the mining industry (KNBS 2009), which accounted for only 0.5% of the total population in formal employment. Table 10-1: Kenya mineral production (2000–2006) MINERAL UNIT

2000

2001

2002

2003

2004

2005 c

2006

Soda ash

Mt

238,190 297,780 304,110 352,560 355,110

Fluorspar*

Mt

100,102 118,850

Mt

382,556 207,647 474,014 576,146 600,209 640,291 662,939

Crushed refined soda Salt (from Magadi) Carbon dioxide gas

84,015

360,161 374,210

80,201 117,986 97,608b

132,030

Mt

16,359

5,664

18,848

21,199

26,607

26,595

35,024

Mt

7,744

5,645

5,662

4,614

6,757

8,723

9,359

d

185

Diatomite*

Mt

448

441

1,333

353

330

Gemstones

Kg

5,916

5,887

3,063

2,313

4,758

5,420

5,044

1,543

e

e

432e

Gold*

Kg

1,243

1,545

1,477

Source: Mining Communications (2007, 9)

567

233

616

* Export figures

The Kenyan mining industry is dominated by the production of nonmetallic minerals such as soda ash, fluorspar, diatomite, gypsum, vermiculite, natural carbon dioxide, kaolin, barites, a variety of gemstones, limestone and lime products, including construction materials. In the case of metallic minerals, some quantities of gold are being produced, as well as lead and iron ore (Mining Communication 2007; Davies and Osano 2005). However, recent developments in Kenya raise much hope for the mining industry. This includes the discovery of commercial deposits of titanium (reserves estimated to be 14% of the world’s total and currently

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being mined by Base Iron of Australia), the discovery of gold deposits in 2011 in Trans Mara (reserves estimated to be between 40,000 ounces and 60,000 ounces—a mining licence has already been granted to Kilimpesa Gold, a local subsidiary of Goldplat Plc), and the discovery of coal in the Eastern province of Kenya. Of much interest has been the discovery of oil deposits in the Turkana basin in Northern Kenya, although with this discovery “Government [has been] faced with emerging issues such as environmental implications, community obligations and rights, a suitable governance framework, and effective utilisation of resources generated from the sector” (Omolo and Mwabu 2014, 2). This chapter reflects on how policy can be utilised to harness the socio-economic development of Kenya without undermining the socio-ecological and cultural sensitivities of the communities and regions where mining operations take place. The key question is: As Kenya seeks to position itself as a major mining economy, can it avoid the minerals-induced socio-political conflagrations that have been witnessed in many extractive economies in Africa and elsewhere?

A short history of mining conflict in Kenya The history of solid minerals extraction in Kenya is dominated by two mining projects: the Magadi Soda Ash project and the Kwale Titanium project. The Magadi Soda Ash mining project is the longest running mining-related conflict in the history of mining in Kenya. This conflict dates back to 1904 when a mining lease for this project was issued by Sir Donald Stewart, then the British East African Commissioner for the British colonial government (Kenya was then a British colony). Hughes (2008) argues that opposition to this mining project since 1904 hinges on the manner in which agents of the East African Syndicate (the company that was at that time granted a “research” licence to prospect for minerals in the then Maasai Reserve) “fraudulently” acquired large tracts of Maasai land for the purpose of mining the naturally occurring trona at Lake Magadi, situated some 120 km south-west of Nairobi. According to Hughes (2008) whereas the Maasai “agreement” of 8 August 1904 only allowed for European settlement (a move that physically displaced the Maasai from the wider Maasai land into northern and southern reserves created for their settlement), they were made to sign additional “agreements” on 9 and 15 August, 1904 in which they gave their “consent” for mining to take place at Lake Magadi. The 20-year lease (later revised to a 99-year lease on 12 April 1911) gave “full and uninterrupted right...to dig, get, win and carry away all soda and other

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deposits minerals or precious stones there found” (Hughes 2008, 142). Hughes argues that this concession was unfair, given that it was granted on land reserved for previously dispossessed Maasai communities, and that the Maasai were made to sign documents without knowing what they meant, as many were illiterate. It was upon the realisation that they had been tricked into giving away their land (following the 1911 agreement that saw them being pushed out of Laikipia reserve and resettled further south), that the Masaai made an effort to claim back their land. They lodged a case in the British courts in 1913, and thus became the first people in East Africa to adopt such modern political processes (for a review of Maasai protest between 1900—1960, see King 1971). Weakened by famine and rinderpest attacks (see Kilson 1955) and the sheer firepower of the British, the Maasai abandoned their 1890s armed struggle against the British and opted instead to seek redress through the courts. However, they lost the court battle, as all land in Kenya was deemed to be Crown land. Instead, in 1924 the mining company was granted a fresh 99-year mining lease. The Maasai challenged the lease extension in court in 1954 but they lost on the grounds that they had lodged their complaint outside the stipulated legal statute of six years (a government notice of 1920 had this stipulation). Now that this legal route had not worked, the Maasai were hopeful that come the expiry of the 99-year lease in 2023, their land would be returned to the community. But to their surprise, the Mwai Kibaki government (voted into power in 2002), extended the lease in 2004 for another 33 years, even before the expiry of the lease—and this was done despite open protests from the Maasai. The resultant court case was thrown out on a technicality, and demonstrations thereafter met with brutal police force. Land was not the only grievance that the Maasai bore against the Magadi mining project. Once operations on the project commenced, the community had to bear with the chemical stench from operations at the lake, resulting in humans falling sick. Lack of compensation for the annexed land, and lack of payment of royalties were the other grievances, causing one community leaders to remark in the 1960s, that: for 50 years they have drained the life blood of the Masai1, and the Masai are now as dry as twigs...The Company had stolen Masai water...So where are all the profits of the company going? Into the pockets of Europeans (Hughes 2008, 153). 1

Earlier writings spelled the name of this community as Masai. Nowadays they are referred to as Maasai, to denote the “maa” language.

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The Maasai also protested against the highhandedness with which the previous colonial and successive Kenya post-independence governments treated them whenever they attempted to hold peaceful demonstrations. It is partly on account of historical injustices, perpetrated by colonial and post-colonial governments alike (especially when dealing with influential extractive companies on the one hand and powerless indigenous communities on the other) that Dansereau (2005) has questioned whether mining (in Africa especially) is not simply a new form of imperialism. A more recent mining-inspired conflict relates to the titanium project in Kwale, in Kenya’s Coastal Province. The Kenyan titanium reserves are estimated to be about 14% of the world’s total, with the Kwale project having an estimated life span of more than 14 years at the initial site. It is estimated that the project would generate pre-tax revenues of over US$40 million in the first six years of operation, with Tiomin Resources Inc. (the parent company of the local subsidiary, Tiomin Kenya) investment averaging US$150 million in the Kwale District alone (Mining Weekly 2005). The three other deposits, containing titanium resources of 42 million tonnes of ilmenite, 3.4 million tonnes of rutile and 3.0 million tonnes of zircon2, are to be mined later. Over 3,000 residents were displaced from their ancestral land in 2007 to make way for titanium mining (Mines and Communities 2007). Conflict in this project started in 1995 when licences for titanium prospecting were issued to the then mining company, Tiomin (K) Ltd. The conflict reached its height in 2007 when residents were finally displaced to make way for the mining of the ore. This tension has persisted (see Abuya 2013). Due to the fact that social displacement can have a negative impact on communities in a number of ways, such as loss of homes, loss of livelihoods, marginalisation, food insecurity, poor health and illness, psychological trauma, and social and cultural risks, among others (Ahmad and Lahiri-Dutt 2006), the Kenyan government offered a compensational package to the local Kwale community as a way of mitigating the impact of the displacement. However, the various compensatory measures did little to assuage the disaffection of the local residents, and therefore the conflict continued. For instance, since its inception in 2001, the project has faced a number of lawsuits lodged by affected residents. The first lawsuit in 2001 led to the imposition of a court injunction against the project on 21 September 2001 (Daily Nation 2001), as farmers regarded the compensation offered for the 2

Refer to http://tiomin.com/s/NewsReleases.asp?ReportID=273958&_Type=News-Releaseaccessed 23 January 2009.

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lease of “their” land as inadequate. Abuodha and Hayombe (2006, 73-74) argued that the compensation initially offered was too low, as it did not take into account family size and structure, family assets and the cost of relocation. The authors recommended that valuation of assets should include structures, trees, and other viable land use systems or community shared resources, a recommendation which has ethno-ecological significance. But even when these considerations were later taken into account, the government provided such low payment that much of the compensation paid out was considered inadequate and ‘insulting’ (Abuya, 2013). The compensation was thus rejected by the residents. Abuodha and Hayombe (2006) have identified environmental impacts as another driver of the Kwale titanium mining conflict. Within this narrative, residents were aggrieved over the company’s “failure” to take appropriate precautions to safeguard water safety and prevent soil and water contamination, given that the titanium deposits contain radioactive uranium and thorium. Environmental remediation was lax or non-existent, with loss of land deemed to be a point of contention (Rights and Democracy 2006; Bank Information Centre 2006; Global Response 2000). For its part, the company argued that many of the environmental concerns raised by analysts and commentators had been addressed via an Environmental Impact Assessment carried out in 2000, for which approval by the National Environmental Management Authority (NEMA—the government body charged with the responsibility of assessing projects that may have an impact on the environment), was obtained and a licence issued in July, 2002 (see Schwarz 2007). According to the company, NEMA approved Tiomin’s Environmental Management Plan (EMP) in January 2003, while the host resettlement site was also subjected to an EIA process, which was approved by government in 2006. Strikingly, Schwarz (2007) argues, the EMP pointed out that only very low and “unharmful” levels of radioactivity occur naturally in the sands of the Kwale deposit, and even then, an elaborate system under the EMP had been put in place to manage this. With regard to the compensation award, Schwarz (2007) maintains that the rates used by Tiomin had had been arrived at in consultation with government and the residents (through the District Resettlement and Compensation Committee). These claims have, however, been found to be incorrect (see Abuya 2013). What the above picture reveals is that there is at present (as there has been historically) a weak policy and institutional framework for mitigating mining conflict in Kenya, and that unless the factors underpinning past and present conflict are addressed, the development prospects of the Kenyan mining industry are bound to be frustrated. To this end, an appraisal of the

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(new) 2010 Mining Policy and the proposed 2014 new mining law becomes necessary. The next section is devoted to this.

The 2010 Mining Policy: policy or politics? The 2010 Mining Policy seeks to achieve several goals. These include addressing the challenges of environmental conservation, intergenerational equity, best practices, transparency, accountability and equitable benefit sharing, among others (GoK 2010, 3). The policy has eight objectives, of which only three (Objectives 1, 5 and 8) will be appraised in this section, as these have a direct bearing on the relations between communities and the government over mining ventures. Objective 1 is to put in place a simple, stable, predictable, efficient and unified regulatory framework, which government hopes to achieve by revising the Mining Act. Needless to say, this revision is long overdue, as the existing Mining Act has been in existence since 1940 and was enacted by the colonial government to “bequeath all minerals to the Crown for ease of exploitation and repatriation to the parent country” (Ojiambo 2002). This particular provision placed the government in direct conflict with communities as it raised the question as to who owned the land upon which mining would take place. Whereas community members believe that they own the land, the government claims ownership in terms of eminent domain. As McLeod (2000) argues, for mining to successfully take place, the strong cultural and social attachment of indigenous peoples to their land has to be respected. For instance, the indigenous landowners in Fiji “believe that [land ownership] extends to everything below and above the area of land they own, including the minerals found below and the sky above” (McLeod 2000, 116). Hilson (2002, 68) extends this argument, pointing out that conflict arises between communities and mining companies “simply because both place fundamentally different socio-economic values on land”. Overriding these values is the feeling among local communities that they are the real owners of the land, and as such, the government has no right to freely take possession of the land. Akpan (2005) argues that the question of land ownership is what underpins much of the conflict associated with exploitation of strategic natural resources. He noted the disdain with which Nigerian citizens held the Land Use Act (which allowed land expropriation by the state) and the 1969 Petroleum Act (which vests all petroleum resource rights in the federal government). As Akpan elucidates, the state’s claim clashes with the traditional thinking of the locals who exercised allodial interest on

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land, as occupants and users of the land, and therefore considered themselves the real owners of the land. A simple, stable, predictable, efficient and unified regulatory framework is also necessary given that at present, one has to go through a plethora of laws to undertake mining operations in Kenya. These include the Mining Act (Cap 306), the Trading in Unwrought Precious Metals Act (Cap 309), the Diamond Industry Protection Act (Cap 310)—these are however repealed in section 198 of the new Mining Act 2014—and the Explosives Act (Cap 115) of the Laws of Kenya (MoENR 2000, 21). However, in order to actually carry out mining activities in the country, one has to fulfil the requirements of other auxiliary acts. Some of these other important acts include the Public Health Act (Cap 252), the Physical Planning Act (Cap 286), the Agriculture Act (Cap 318), the Water Act (Cap 372), the Forest Act (Cap 385), the Factories Act (Cap 385), the Factories and Other Places of Work Act (Cap 514), the Environmental and Co-ordination Act, the Land Acquisition Act (Cap 295), and the Electric Power Act No.11 of 1997 (Abuodha and Hayombe 2006). Odari (2014) adds the following to the already long list: The Constitution of Kenya 2010, the Petroleum Exploration and Production Act Cap 309, the Income Tax Act Cap 470, the Land Act No. 6 of 2012, the Environmental and Land Court Act, and the Public Finance Management Act No. 18 of 2012. Legislation that is pending at various stages includes the Mining Bill 2014, the Petroleum Exploration and Production Bill 2014, the Energy Bill 2014, the EMCA Bill, the Access to Information Bill, the Sovereign Wealth Fund Bill, and the Community Lands Bill 2013. Matters touching on land and compensation, even when they are for mining purposes, are carried out outside the purview of the Mining Department of the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources. For an investor to engage in mining in Kenya, therefore, this investor must be ready to engage with nine ministries under which the various applicable laws are operational. This makes mining a rather daunting task. A simple and predictable mining framework would thus be to the benefit of both the government and investors. The new 2010 Mining Policy aims to facilitate the enactment of laws that will ease this process. Objective 5 of the Policy aims at providing mechanisms to mitigate the adverse social and environmental impacts of mining development. In order to mitigate the social effects of mining development, governments and extractive companies put in place a compensational framework. However, in many cases, this is usually found inadequate by those displaced. Hilson (2002, 68) argues that “because of strong ties to the environment dating back thousands of years, monetary compensation rarely makes up for land

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loss”. Richani (2004) points out that apart from matters touching on land ownership, inadequate compensation or lack of compensation is the other factor that is most responsible for mining conflict around the world. Martinez-Alier (2001) however observes that compensation in itself is not enough, citing the case of Papua New Guinea, where compensation failed as the affected communities attached an equally high importance to land as the source of their material standard of life, and resented the taking of the land despite the fact that compensation and rental fees were being paid. Abuya (2013) and Abuya and Akpan (in this volume) have noted the inadequacy of compensation on matters that bear certain cultural/ethnoecological importance. Objective 5 of the Policy touches on the environment, as mining operations inevitably lead to environmental degradation. Hilson (2002) identified land/environmental degradation as one of the causative factors in mining conflict. The author asserts that mining operations in PNG has destroyed over 1,000 km2 of virgin forest and wetlands, with an estimated 250 million tonnes of waste released into the surrounding environment since mid-1980. Martinez-Alier (2001) also points out that it was such environmental concerns that resulted in conflict in Ashio, Japan, while McCulloch (2005) argued that damage arising from asbestos mining was the major focus of conflict in Prieska, South Africa. To mitigate this, the government hopes to ensure a socially acceptable balance between positive and negative effects of mining on the physical and human environment. The government also intends to ensure that extractive companies comply with existing environmental laws and promote best mining practices. Such statements are, however, fraught with loopholes. For as Veiga, Scoble and McAlister (2001, 193) and Akpan (2007) observe, although multinationals firms often claim that they apply the same environmental practices in less developed host countries as in their countries of origin, this is usually not the case. The common practice is usually to meet the standards of the host country’s environmental laws, while knowing full well that these do not meet international thresholds. This kind of practice supports Fig’s (2008) contention that extractive industries have traditionally been extremely powerful in relation to fragile state structures in Africa, and other developing countries, and as such, they will continue to ensure that such practices are not adopted. Bebbington et al. (2008, 969-970) argue that until developing states embrace good governance practices, and until they put in place efficient systems, especially good legal systems that will protect the indigenes from the overbearing multinationals that operate where weak governments are found, much of Africa will continue to experience “old mining” (defined

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as that which damages the environment, has dangerous workplaces and ignores the needs of the local communities) rather than “new mining” (defined as that which is socially and environmentally responsible, capital intensive, based on skilled labour and amenable to technologies that ensure that environmental risks are properly managed), and with this “old mining”, conflict is bound to continue. Objective 8 looks towards promoting intergenerational equity. The government recognises that mineral resources are generally non-renewable and as such, there is a need to bequeath a portion of the accruing wealth to future generations. This noble objective however ignores the fact that the present generation also needs a share of this accruing wealth. Denial of enjoying the benefits accruing from mining operations and/or inequitable resource distribution has been identified as one of the causes spurring conflict in mining activities. In particular, there is usually a strong feeling in mining communities about being unfairly denied or being “cheated” in the sharing of mining benefits and burdens (Frynas and Wood 2001; Turner and Brownhill 2004). Walton and Barnett (2008, 5) for instance argue that mining conflicts are caused not so much by environmental degradation, as literature suggests, but by the unequal distribution of outcomes arising from environmental degradation and the process that causes it or from the profits emanating from such activities (see also Adebanwi (2004) who also emphasises this as the major factor in the Niger Delta conflict). Frynas and Wood (2001, 592) also argue that the failure of the Angolan state to redistribute the oil resources, especially in the Cabinda enclave, in any just way is what prompted local unrest. The feeling of not benefiting from the mining activities hinges on some form of “ownership”, as the community feel that they are the “true” owners of the land (and the minerals) that are being mined, and as such, this therefore gives them a natural tendency to expect returns from what is “theirs” (Imbun 2007).

The 2014 Mining Bill: recipe for growth or recipe for conflict? Like other laws, the 2014 Mining Bill is quite comprehensive in nature and content; as such, this section only reviews those provisions that touch on community-state/extractive conflict. It will look at the four areas of conflict that have been identified earlier, viz. a) land ownership, (b) “unfair” compensational practices, c) inequitable resource distribution, and d) environmental degradation. Odari (2014, 17) notes that among the challenges facing the extractive sector in many developing countries is the

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existence of weak legal and institutional framework. This article therefore examines the extent to which the 2014 published Bill3 attempts to minimise conflict in Kenya’s mining industry. In a disappointing start, the new Bill follows in the tradition of the old Bill and bequeaths all minerals to the state. This provision signals that there will be no early end to the struggle over land ownership (and the resources found in it). As earlier pointed out, it was this proviso in the old Act that triggered the conflict in the titanium project. While section 36 provides for consent to mine on private land, albeit with prior permission obtained from the owner or from the community (in the case of community land), section 38 grants the government the right to forcefully acquire the land—a case of giving with the right hand and taking away with the left hand. Although the power of eminent domain by the state was affirmed in the Kelo vs Kelo case (see Lehavi and Licht 2007), private land owners and communities still consider themselves as the real owners of the land, and hence view such laws as unfair. I do not agree that all land belongs to the government. It is mine! This law they keep reminding us of is just another colonial mentality; as if we never attained independence. This law is unfair—but the government retains it because its desire is to suppress us. Do not tell me that you and I are the government because if that was the case, then I should go to the DO (District Officer) and demand that he gives me food for we are both government—you know very well how that will end up (remarks by a displaced farmer in Kwale).

Section 126 however, provides that the “landowner” may still graze and cultivate on the land provided this will not be hazardous to livestock or crop. But by its very nature, mining is a hazardous activity, and as such, this provision provides little comfort. Section 34 of the Bill affirms further that there will be no end to the complicated nature of engaging in mining operations. For instance, the Bill states that for one to engage in mining operations, one still has to seek authority from the National Land Commission (for alienation of public land), Ministry of Lands (for alienation of public land), Ministry of Health (for excavation of graves), Local Authority (for alienation of county land), Ministry of Tourism and Wildlife (for alienation of wildlife sanctuary), 3

The published Bill is currently under consideration in the two Houses of Parliament (the Legislative Assembly and the Senate). This article only examines the Mining Bill and not the Petroleum Act which equally vests ownership of hydrocarbons in the Kenyan Government.

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Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment (for purposes of environmental protection), and Ministry of Forestry (for alienation of forest land), among others. This complicated process and the attendant requisite fees that accompany such applications guarantees that the process will still be cumbersome. Indeed, company representatives from Tiomin (K) criticised the lengthy legal process (that was quite costly in terms of finance and time) that one has to endure to commence mining operations. Objective 1 of the mining policy was to put in place a simple, stable, predictable, efficient and unified regulatory framework. The Bill fails in this regard. Another provision in the Bill provides for the exhumation of graves to make way for mining activities. However, as Abuya and Akpan (in this volume) point out, compensating for graves is fraught with many problems and it may be impossible to achieve the dictums of fair compensation, given the ethno-ecological importance attached to them. Equally conflictinducing is section 127(c) of the Act, which provides that compensation (for graves, land, crops, houses etc.) will not be payable for losses that cannot be attested to in line with legal principles. Local people attach subjective values to land, crops, houses and graves, and as such, to ignore this is a sure way of courting conflict. Any law therefore that does not take cognisance of this reality is bound to fail. It is surprising that although the mining policy recognises this need, the law that came out of it totally ignores it. Section 40 provides that a licence to mine will be granted by the Cabinet Secretary in the Ministry of Mining, provided the protection of the environment and community development is guaranteed. However, the last word on environmental safety lies with bodies outside the Ministry of Mining, hence the Cabinet Secretary (CS) will have little say on this. Of note though, is that section 140(2)(a) gives the CS the power to enforce conditions to prevent wasteful mining practices and adherence to best mining practices. However, “wasteful mining” practices are not defined in the Act, and benchmarks for mining best practices are also not provided. Without such benchmarks, it would be impossible to enforce this provision. The government intention under objective 5 of the mining policy to ensure that extractive companies comply with existing environmental laws and promote best mining practices will not be realised given this scenario. The caveat on community development is also unclear, given that “community development” is not defined in the Bill. Companies may thus be tempted to define “community” and “community development” in their own narrow sense, thereby resulting in the same problems of fragmenting

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the community and bringing about disharmony among previously peaceful people (see Akpan 2009, Kepore, Goddard and Higgins 2008 and SzegedyMaszák 2008 for the dangers of fragmenting communities resulting in unequal development among member communities). Section 45 of the Bill touches on the matter of Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR), which is another area that spurs conflict. Since most mining activities are non-renewable and often lead to irreversible damage to the environment, engagement in CSR activities provide a basis for managing mining-related conflicts (Ali and O’Faircheallaigh 2007, 6). As further suggested by Jenkins (2004, 29-32) CSR can be one of the ways through which communities can benefit from mining operations and hence maintain good community-company relations. However, CSR in the mining sector is fraught with many problems, most probably because CSR is yet to be defined. Further, in most developing countries (with the exception of South Africa), such framework is yet to be developed. In the end, extractive companies use CSR as a social licence to operate (Hilson, 2007; Ali and O’Faircheallaigh 2007). Research (see for instance Szegedy-Maszák 2008) also indicates that mining companies in most cases do not provide the CSR amenities that they had promised. The new Mining Bill appears to be an attempt to address this disconnect. Sections 45(f) and (g) of the Bill provides that “where applicable and necessary, [extractive companies should] facilitate and carry out social responsibility to the local community and implement a community development agreement”. Section 95(h) also makes mention of the necessity for inclusion of community plans in mining agreements. The Bill however appears to proceed on the premise of CSR as a voluntary exercise. Since neither benchmarks nor regulations are provided, companies are thus given a free hand to decide whether or not to engage in CSR activities. Hughes (2008) points out that lack of social services, despite the many years that the Magadi Soda Ash project has been under way, is one of the reasons why the project is held in such disdain by the Maasai community. CSR can however be used as a means of “compensation”, as this would “guarantee the company peace” and ensure the life of the mine (Imbun 2007, 183). As such, the government needs to take a second look at this particular aspect of the Bill. Objective 5 of the policy, which aims at providing mechanisms to mitigate the adverse social and environmental impacts of mining development, may thus not be realised. One interesting development in the process leading to the new Bill is the withdrawal of the provision that provided for the sharing of royalties paid to communities by companies. In the initial Bill of 2013, the third schedule provided a formula for the sharing of the royalties as follows:

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75% to government, 20% to County government and 5% to communities. But in the published Bill, this suggestion is glaringly missing. Payment of royalties to communities has been suggested as one of the ways through which communities can be appeased (see Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative at http://www.eiti.org). Section 156 of the Bill provides for the payment of royalties only to the government. Equitable sharing of accruing benefits as promised in the policy document (and as decreed by section 69(1)(a) of the Kenyan Constitution) has been totally neglected. This deliberate omission is bound to spur future conflict.4

Conclusions and recommendations The 2014 Mining Bill, as comprehensive as it may appear to be in law, is short in providing relief on the various factors that spur communitygovernment/company conflict. In fact, the new Bill does not reflect the content of the mining policy on which the Bill is supposedly anchored. To begin with, the Bill continues to decree that all minerals belong to the state under the doctrine of eminent domain. Forceful acquisition of land has been a bone of contention between communities and governments. Unlike the United States of America where land owners claim ownership over the minerals found on their land, this provision is largely missing in the mining laws of many developing countries. A unique exception can be found in South Africa, where two local communities, the royal Bafokeng and the Bakgatla Ba Kgafela, have total control over the minerals on their land (see Manson and Mbenga 2003; and Mnwana 2014). Communities, especially those in Africa, revere land, and because of the symbolic nature that mining holds, conflict over land will continue whenever the government exercises its power of eminent domain; unless of course this is resolved in a structural/legal manner. As Kingsley and Townsend (2006, 527) point out, humans rely intellectually, emotionally, physically and spiritually on nature—a relationship referred to as “biophilia”, or, in the case of people’s attachment to 4

Of note, however, is that there is currently a Bill (The Natural Resources Benefit Sharing Bill) in Senate which proposes the establishment of a system of benefitsharing in resource exploitation between resource developers, the National Government, County Governments, and local communities. It applies to petroleum, natural gas, solid minerals, forest resources, water resources, wildlife resources, and fisheries resources. The argument in this article is that the mining Bill ought to have contained its own explicit stand on this. It is better for existing frameworks to fill such gaps rather than invent a different framework to address this (also see Odari 2014, 46).

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ancestral land, “geopity” (Smith 2002). This affinity is believed to be more evident among African communities. The reality, however, is that people everywhere relate to land and nature in very special ways. Mining disrupts this connection and communities are therefore bound to oppose mining operations that lead to social displacement. Unfortunately, the present Bill offers little relief on this. However, it provides for a dispute settling mechanism, either internationally or through a sole expert (section 95 of the Bill). But since disputes can only be adjudged on the basis of what exists in law, and in this case, both the local and international laws favour the dictum of eminent domain (see Lehavi and Licht 2007), there is little chance that communities would be able to overcome this challenge. This may be the basis on which Brätland (2006) reflects on the impossibility of “just compensation” given these contradictions. On the matter of compensation, the Bill offers little or no relief. Although the Bill provides for compensation, it restricts this to only those things that can be attested according to legal principles. This therefore means that the subjective values that people hold on land, graves, or cultural crops will not be considered. This is despite the fact that communities attach subjective value to these assets (see Abuya 2013 for an analysis on how the community at Kwale attached a higher value to the coconut tree because of its ethno-ecological/cultural value and hence demanded higher compensation—a demand that was not met, hence the continuing disaffection with the titanium mining project). Not acknowledging this is opening the door for further conflict. The Bill should have found a middle way on this issue. As it is, communities will continue to feel disaffected as they will feel that they have been unfairly treated. As for the sharing of benefits, the revised Act totally ignores this. Although this suggestion appears in the initial draft Bill of 2013, this provision was dropped in the published Bill of 2014. Amao (2008) suggests that the sharing of benefits is most likely to assuage community disaffection. As Umejesi (2015, 51) contends, communities expect to share in the benefits accruing from mining ventures and as such, they feel cheated when they do not receive direct royalties from government or the extractive companies. The law does not take into cognisance the recently developed Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (EITI5) whose aim is to strengthen governance by improving transparency and accountability in the extractive industry. In this initiative companies are expected to publish what they have earned and what they have paid out (in the form of 5

See http://www.eiti.org.

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taxes or CSR benefits) and for governments to disclose what they have received and the ends to which they have put the money. The initiative thus benchmarks transparency regarding payment of royalties. The initiative also ensures that a certain percentage of the royalties and profits are ploughed back to the community, thereby ensuring that all stakeholders benefit. The current Bill fails to recognise all this and hence fails to implement the spirit of the mining policy on which the Bill is supposedly anchored. The Bill makes a half-hearted attempt to address the matter of Corporate Social Responsibility. It states that where “applicable” and “necessary”, extractive companies can “facilitate” and carry out social responsibility to the local community. The Bill does not outline the “applicable” and “necessary” conditions that will dictate this provisioning. To “facilitate’ can mean many things, and could be as simple as making a token donation or writing a letter to the government employing it to mount such programmes. As such, it is very likely that extractive companies will choose to ignore this provision, reasoning that CSR is not applicable or necessary, more so given that the company pays taxes and remits royalties to the government. Without proper guidance and an enabling framework (such as that presently found in South Africa—see Cronjé and Chenga 2009) CSR activities (or lack of them) will continue to spur conflict. As Umejesi (2015, 43) argues, in matters of takings, the community understood “public purpose” on the basis that “public” implied them (the community), meaning that they are the public who are to benefit from the project and anyone else is an interloper. Since CSR can be used as a vehicle to pacify communities (Imbun 2007), government should have come up with a more robust regulatory framework, one that incorporates this thinking. Simply making a suggestion, and one that only goes to reinforce the voluntariness of the activity, is going about it the wrong way. It is evident that the four conflict areas analysed will continue to bedevil the mining industry in Kenya. To make mining work for Kenya, a more robust policy and legal framework that is more responsive to the needs and aspirations of mining communities is therefore urgently needed—in other words, a policy and law that takes cognisance of the issues raised in this article needs to be enacted. As it is debated through the two chambers of parliament, it is hoped that the Bill will be further revised to adequately address the matters that breed conflict between mining communities and governments/extractive companies as raised in this article. The Bill and the law that will come out of it should also be directly aligned to the mining policy of 2010 which recognises and addresses these sensitive areas.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Willice O Abuya Dr Willice Abuya lectures in the Department of Sociology and Psychology at Moi University, Kenya. His contributions to Green, Brown and Rainbow are derived from his doctoral thesis, undertaken while at the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. His research interests include natural resource exploitation, social displacement, community-state conflict, corporate social responsibility, ethno-ecology, vulnerability and policy. Besides Environmental Sociology, he also has research interests in demography and criminology. One of his recent publications is “Mining Conflicts and Corporate Social Responsibility: Titanium mining in Kwale, Kenya” (The Extractive Industry and Society Vol. 3(2) 2016, pp 485-493).

Wilson Akpan Wilson Akpan is a Ford Foundation Scholar and former President of the South African Sociological Association (SASA). He currently holds the position of Full Professor of Sociology and Acting Dean of Research at the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. In 2014 he served as a research mentor and facilitator in the Social Science Research Council (SSRC’s) Next Generation Social Science in Africa programme. He continues to play a similar role at the University of Fort Hare. An environmental and development sociologist, Professor Akpan consistently assists governmental and non-governmental agencies in policy research and advice. He is an active member of a number of environment, development and natural resource-oriented research groups, and is the Convener of the Environment and Natural Resources Working Group of SASA. He has an extensive body of published scholarly work on sustainability, social development, social justice, corporate social responsibility, governance, conflict, and indigenous knowledge—many of which have focused on Africa and African rural economies. Among his most influential works are: “‘Local’ Knowledge, ‘Global’ Knowledge, ‘Development’ Knowledge: Finding a New Balance in the Knowledge Power Play” (2011, South African Review of Sociology)—also available in Portuguese and has once been a

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recommended course reading at a Canadian university; “Soil erosion and dam dividends: Science facts and rural ‘fiction’ around the Ntabelanga Dam, Eastern Cape, South Africa” (with J van Tol, G Kanuka, S Ngesi and D Lange, 2014, South African Geographical Journal); “Between responsibility and rhetoric: Some consequences of CSR practice in Nigeria’s oil province” (2006, Development Southern Africa); “Between ethnic essentialism and environmental racism: Oil and the ‘glocalisation’ of environmental justice discourse in Nigeria” (2006, African Sociological Review), “Putting oil first? Some ethnographic aspects of petroleumrelated land use controversies in Nigeria” (2005, African Sociological Review). He recently guest-edited a special issue of South African Review of Sociology on the theme: “In Search of a Developmental University: Community Engagement in Theory and Practice”. A commentator on African socio-political and development issues, Professor Akpan published over 100 public commentary articles in an international magazine between 2003 and 2013, and granted a number of media interviews.

Freek Cronjé Professor Freek Cronjé was, until his sudden death on 1 April, 2016, a staff member of the Department of Sociology at the Potchefstroom Campus of the North West University, South Africa. He had chaired the Department between 2003 and 2010. He was also the Director of the Bench Marks Centre for Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) (established in 2012) in the same campus. His research expertise lay within Development Studies, with a more specific focus on migration, sustainability and Corporate Social Responsibility issues; most of his work had been done within the extractive industry. Prof. Cronjé was involved in substantial research regarding sustainability and CSR in collaboration with different national and international partner organisations/institutions, with projects in South Africa, Botswana, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Zambia, to mention a few. Professor Cronjé also acted as Supervisor/Promoter for numerous post-graduate students in the highly respected Masters and PhD programme in CSR, offered by his Centre. A past President of the South African Sociological Association (SASA), Professor Cronje has the following among his published scholarly works: “Family disorganisation and mental health in a South African mining community” (with CS Chenga, 2007, Social Work/Maatskaplike Werk); “A participatory action research approach in dealing with Mozambican migrant labourers to South Africa (with H Strydom, TILTAI), and

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“Sustainable social development in the South African mining sector” (with CS Chenga, 2009, Development Southern Africa).

Engobo Emeseh Educated at the University of Benin and Port Harcourt (Nigeria) and in Cardiff and Dundee (United Kingdom), Engobo Emeseh is a Barrister and Solicitor of the Supreme Court of Nigeria. She is currently a Senior Lecturer with the School of Law, Aberystwyth University, United Kingdom. Prior to this, she was a tutor on the Distance Learning (LLM) Programme of the Centre for Energy Petroleum and Mineral Law and Policy, University of Dundee, Scotland where she also obtained her PhD. Before then, following a two-year stint as a practising lawyer, she was a lecturer successively at the University of Benin and the Rivers State University of Science and Technology, Port Harcourt, both in Nigeria, from 1995-2001. She graduated with first class from the Nigeria Law School and Distinction from the University of Wales Cardiff. She is a former British Council Chevening Scholar, and a Ford Foundation (IFP) doctoral fellow. Her research interest is broadly in the area of environmental law and policy. She has published widely and presented papers at various international forums on these issues, particularly within the context of Africa. She has also provided services as an expert on these issues to organisations such as the Africa Capacity Building Foundation, the African Legal Support Facility; the UN Economic Commission for Africa Institute for Economic Development and Planning (IDEP); Bayelsa State Ministry of Environment, Nigeria; and Globe Consult in Collaboration with the Federal Ministry of Environment, Nigeria.

Anastasia Doyle Anastasia Roxane Doyle is a research student at Rhodes University. Her areas of interest are environmental sociology and sociology of development. Her research broadly examines the regulation of access to, and the control of, biological resources in South Africa. She has presented papers on her work at the South African Sociological Association Congress as well as at the 6th Annual Interdisciplinary Postgraduate Conference hosted by Rhodes University. She also holds an internship offered by the Department of Science and Technology in collaboration with the National Research Foundation, and is part of an interdisciplinary team of researchers at the University of Cape Town working in the area of health innovation.

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Contributors

Thulani Dube Dr Thulani Dube is the Dean of the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences and a Senior Lecturer in Development Studies at Lupane State University in Zimbabwe. He has also previously lectured at the University of Zimbabwe and Midlands State University in Zimbabwe. He obtained his Doctorate in Social Science from the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. He holds a Master’s degree in Development Studies from the University of Leeds (United Kingdom), a Postgraduate Diploma in Monitoring and Evaluation Methods from Stellenbosch University, and a BA Honours degree from the University of Zimbabwe. He has strong research interests in the areas of climate change adaptation, water and sanitation, and gender.

Melissa Malambile Melissa Luyanda Malambile holds an Honours degree in Social Work from the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. She is currently studying towards her Master’s degree in Environmental and Development Sociology and her research focuses on the ethnoecology of the Tsitsa River resources in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. She participated (as a postgraduate student) in the Mzimvubu Dam Project sponsored by the Water Research Commission of South Africa to embark on a long-term study of the sociological and ecological dynamics pertaining to the sustainability of the proposed Ntabelanga Dam in the Eastern Cape. Melissa presented findings from her research at the 2015 national Congress of the South Africa Sociological Association. She currently works as an Internalisation Officer at the International Affairs Office of the University of Fort Hare, East London, South Africa.

Philani Moyo Professor Philani Moyo is the Director of the University of Fort Hare Institute for Social and Economic Research (FHISER). He holds a PhD in Social Sciences (University of Leeds, UK), an MA in Human and Sustainable Development (University of Leeds, UK), another MA in Social Policy and Development Studies (University of Fort Hare) and a BA Honours (University of Zimbabwe). A former Head of the Department of Sociology at the University of Fort Hare, Professor Moyo is an accomplished scholar with an impeccable research record. He has published extensively on climate change, food security, rural and urban

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livelihoods. He has held research grants from the UN Global Fund, National Institute of the Humanities and Social Sciences (South Africa), Social Sciences Research Council (USA), Eastern Cape Provincial Department of Social Development and Buffalo City Metropolitan Municipality (South Africa). Prof Moyo sits on the Editorial Boards of a number of journals some of which are the Review of African Political Economy and Governance in Africa. He is also a member of the South African Young Academy of Science (SAYAS) and a former General Secretary of the South African Sociological Association.

Ntombesizwe Nqalo Sizwe Mqalo holds a BA degree from Rhodes University in Grahamstown and an Honours Degree from the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. She is currently working towards the completion of a Master’s Degree in Rural Development in the Department of Sociology, University of Fort Hare. From the year 2002 to 2007, she worked as a Junior Project Coordinator and field worker for Synergy, an NGO in Grahamstown mostly concerned with youth development. During the same time she worked as a counsellor and schools liaison for a pregnancy centre, coordinating sexual education programmes for a number of inner city and township schools. From 2004-2009, she served as a Youth and Campus Minister at a local Christian assembly. Between 2009 and 2012, she worked as an English Lecturer in Howon University in South Korea, while also serving as a Campus Minister. Upon her return from South Korea, she joined Fort Hare as a part-time English Lecturer. In 2015, she participated (as a postgraduate student) in the Mzimvubu Dam Project sponsored by the Water Research Commission to conduct research into the socioecological aspects of the proposed Ntabelanga Dam in the Eastern Cape. She is currently an internship at NEDA (Nkonkobe Economic Development Agency, Alice, South Africa) in an effort to deepen her experience in the field of development research and practice.

Cyril Obi Cyril Obi is currently a Program Director at the Social Science Research Council (SSRC), New York, and leads the African Peacebuilding Network (APN) programme, bringing his extensive research, networking and publishing experience on African peace, security, and development to the Council. From January 2005-2011 he was a Senior Researcher at the Nordic Africa Institute (NAI) in Uppsala, Sweden. He has been on leave

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since 2005 from the Nigerian Institute of International Affairs (NIIA) where he is an Associate Research Professor. In 2004 he was awarded the Claude Ake Visiting Chair at the Department of Peace and Conflict Research at the University of Uppsala. Dr Obi is also a Research Associate of the Department of Political Sciences, University of Pretoria, South Africa, and a Visiting Scholar to the Institute of African Studies (IAS), Columbia University, New York.

Babalwa Sishuta Babalwa is a Lecturer in the Department of Sociology, Rhodes University, South Africa. Her research interests include Sociology of Development, Environmental Sociology and Violence and Crime. She is a member of the South African Sociological Association (SASA), of which she is also a former Council Member and Vice-President.

Ikechukwu Umejesi Dr. Ikechukwu Umejesi is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Sociology, University of Fort Hare, East London Campus, South Africa. His research interest is in natural resource exploitation, state-community conflict, environmental risk, vulnerability and policy. He is a 2009 Young Scientists Programme (YSP) Fellow of the International Institute for Applied Systems Analysis (IIASA), Laxenburg, Austria. He was a supervisor in the South African Young Scientists Summer Programme (SA-YSSP). SA-YSSP is a capacity-building collaboration between IIASA and the National Research Foundation (NRF) of South Africa.

Johan van Tol Dr Johan van Tol is a senior lecturer in Soil Science at the University of the Free State and an associate researcher at the University of Fort Hare. He completed his PhD at the University of the Free State, South Africa, as a Prestige PhD scholar. He is a NRF-Y1 rated researcher and he focuses on environmental soil science, hydropedology and rural development on which he has published widely. He has presented numerous national and international papers at scientific gatherings and has received several awards/accolades for his research outputs. Johan is also involved in a number of research projects and is a director of Digital Soils Africa, an environmental soil science consulting company. He is a member of the Soil Science Society of South Africa, South African Soil Surveyors

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Association, South African Council of Natural Scientific Professionals, Soil Classification Working Group and International Association of Impact Assessment.

David van Wyk Born in the mining town of Welkom, South Africa, David van Wyk studied Sociology, Anthropology and African Politics at the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa, where he obtained his BA. He spent nine years in exile in Zimbabwe between 1983 and 1992, where he taught in a high school, and organised safe houses for Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK—the armed wing of the African National Congress) as part of his contribution to the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa. He obtained his Honours degree in Economic History, specialising in West Africa, Central and Southern Africa and the Communist Bloc at the University of Zimbabwe. On his return to South Africa, he taught for a short while and later was deployed into the North West Provincial Government acting as an Advisor for the MEC for Education (1994— 1997), Spokesperson for the Premier and Director in support of the Executive Council, and Director for Project Planning in the Department of Economic Development and Tourism. He resigned from government in 2004 and has worked as Lead Researcher for the Bench Marks Foundation since then. He obtained a Master’s degree in African Literature and Language Studies at the University of Durban Westville, South Africa, in 1998.

INDEX A Adaptation 147, See Climate change Air pollution ................................ 38 Air quality ................................... 43 Alice (Eastern Cape) ................... 66 Anglo American Corporation ....... 25 Anonymity (research ethics) ....... 28 Asset-based adaptation ................ 80 B BHP Billiton ................................ 25 Biodiversity ................................. 57 Biopiracy ..................................... 57 Bioprospecting ............................ 59 C Carbon dioxide ...........................182 Care dependency grant .... See Social grant Child labour................................. 45 Climate change ............... 75, 93, 137 Coal ......................................25, 108 Coal mining ................................. 28 Coastal Province (Kenya)...........157 Collective memory .....................103 Commodification......................... 60 Community engagement ............. 18 Community participation............... 3 Compensation.....................103, 157 Compensation framework (Kenya)..................................162 Compensational justice ..............104 Consultation .................................. 3 Corporation ................................. 25

D Dam community ............................ 2 Deed of Cession......................... 108 Department of Environmental Affairs, South Africa .............. 39 Department of Water Affairs, South Africa .... 1, 22, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 50, 51, 53 Diatomite ................................... 182 Disability grant ....... See Social grant E Ebenezer ...................................... 66 Eensaamdal.................................. 66 Egbema ...................................... 108 Egbema Production Centre ........ 116 Elundini ......................................... 5 eMalahleni ................................... 25 Enugu-Ngwo ............................. 108 Environmental governance .......... 65 Ethnoscience...................... 1, 16, 20 F Farming ....................................... 13 Field observation ........................... 7 Financial capital .......................... 78 Fluorspar ................................... 182 Forecasting .................................. 94 Fort Beaufort ............................... 66 Fossil fuel .................................... 25 Foster care grant ..... See Social grant

212 G Gemstones ..................................182 Globalisation ..............................121 Gold ...........................................182 Grassroots mobilisation ..............104 Graves ........................................157 Greenhouse gasses .....................139 Groundwater................................ 34 H Human capital ............................. 79 I Imingcangathelo Community Development Trust ................. 69 Impact Dam .......................................... 2 Inadequacy .................................103 Indigenous knowledge ............58, 83 Informal settlement ..................... 44 J Joe Gqabi ...................................... 5 K Kaiama Declaration ....................107 Kenya ................................. 157, 181 Klipfontein .................................. 66 Knowledge (politics of) ............... 57 Kwale .........................................164 Kyoto Protocol ...........................145 L Ladder of participation .................. 3 Laleni Dam .................................... 1 Land question .............................108 Land subsidence .......................... 44

Index Livelihood ............................... 9, 78 Lower Sinxaku .............................. 5 Luo ............................................ 162 M Maasai ....................................... 184 Magadi....................................... 184 Manipulation ................................. 4 Masakhane................................... 66 Matobo (Zimbabwe) .............. 81, 93 Meteorology ................................ 93 Mhlontlo ........................................ 5 Middelburg .................................. 25 Militias ...................................... 121 Mining conflict .......................... 181 Mzimvubu Water Project ............... 1 N National Environmental Management Act .................... 65 Natural capital ............................. 78 Ndibanisweni AA .......................... 5 Ndzebe........................................... 5 Ngqongweni .................................. 5 Ngxoto (Emqokolweni) ................. 5 Niger Delta ........................ 106, 121 Niger Delta Development Commission .......................... 131 Nigeria ....................................... 138 Nigeria Coal Corporation .......... 108 Nkangala District Municipality ... 25 Ntabelanga Dam ............................ 1 Nyandeni ....................................... 5 O Ogoni ......................................... 128 Old age pension ...... See Social grant Olifants River .............................. 35 OR Tambo ..................................... 5

Revisiting Environmental and Natural Resource Questions in Sub-Saharan Africa P Paradox of engagement ................. 2 Pareto efficiency.........................159 Partnership .................................... 3 Pelargonium Sidoides ................. 57 Penryn ......................................... 66 Petroleum development ..............108 Physical capital ........................... 79 Portfolio ...................................... 82 Postcolonial mining context .......103 Privatisation ................................ 60 Public participation ....................... 2 R Remittance income ...................... 11 Resettlement ...............................164 Rural Official definition (in South Africa) ................................. 7 S Salt .............................................182 Sangoma ........................................ 8 Science .......................................... 1 Security ......................................121 Self-determination ......................121 Shell D’Arcy ..............................113 Small Island States .....................137 Social capital ............................... 79 Social grants ................................ 10 Soda ash .....................................182 South Africa .............................1, 75 Spatial framework ......................106 Spaza shop................................... 14 Special Joint Military Task Force ...............................................131 Spirits .........................................157 State-community conflict ...........104

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Steve Tshwete Local Municipality ........................... 25 Surface water ............................... 36 Sustainability ......................... 4, 137 T Tiomin ....................................... 185 Titanium mining ........................ 157 Tokenism ....................................... 4 Town hall focus group ................... 7 Traditional healing ..... See Sangoma Traditional medicine.................... 67 Trans-territoriality ..................... 123 Tsitsa River ................................... 6 Typology ....................................... 4 U United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity .................. 3 United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change .................................. 143 V Victoria Post ................................ 66 Voluntary participation................ 28 Vulnerability........................ 85, 173 Vulnerability-Assets Nexus ......... 75 W War veteran’s grant See Social grant Water Research Commission.. 1, 23, 206, 207 Witbank ....................................... 25 World Environment Day ........... 137

214 X Xstrata ......................................... 25

Index Z Zimbabwe .................................... 75 Zuma, Jacob ............................ 1, 18