The Revelator

A joint publication of The Revelator and Crucial Comix.

Sources:

• • 50 office spaces https://www.epa.gov/newsreleases/energy-star-expands-efforts-improve-energy-efficiency-us-data-centers
  • 3-5 million gallons of water per day for cooling https://vcnva.org/bill-of-the-day-data-center-growth/
  • Heat nearby neighborhoods by as much as 4 degrees F https://news.asu.edu/20260518-environment-and-sustainability-turning-down-heat-data-centers
  • Constant, low-frequency noise https://www.sierraclub.org/ohio/blog/2026/02/data-centers-noise-pollution-ohio-communities-are-organizing-accountability
  • Size of 150 Walmart Supercenters https://www.pecva.org/work/energy-work/mitigating-data-center-developments-impacts/
  • $2.4 billion per month https://ourworldindata.org/how-much-is-the-us-spending-on-building-data-centers
  • do not bring many permanent jobs https://thenevadaindependent.com/article/do-data-centers-create-few-permanent-jobs
  • County administrator is tearing up https://virginiabusiness.com/google-botetourt-data-center-purchase/
  • 8th largest data center complex in the world https://cardinalnews.org/2026/07/09/by-water-use-googles-botetourt-site-would-be-its-8th-largest-data-center-complex-in-the-world/
  • 12 Olympic-sized swimming pools https://scienceline.org/2010/02/what-would-you-do-with-eight-million-gallons-of-water-every-day/
  • Government and companies have an insatiable need https://wtop.com/virginia/2026/07/how-virginia-became-the-worlds-data-center-capital-and-how-its-going/
  • 72% of Virginia voters oppose the state-wide tax exemption for data centers https://wjla.com/news/local/virginia-spanberger-popularity-vcu-poll-election-commonwealth-university-abigail-democrats-economy-data-centers-grocery-store-costs-of-living-impacts-business
  • 73% of Virginia voters blame data centers for rising energy bills https://ccanactionfund.org/media/New-Polling-on-Virginians-Views-of-Data-Centers-and-Rising-Energy-Costs.pdf
  • A map of the United States with data centers https://cleanview.co/data-centers/us

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

The Land Is an Ancestor We Refuse to Abandon: In the Shadows of the Hermosa Mine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The post Virginia Is for Lovers … of Data Centers? appeared first on The Revelator.

Every evening , like clockwork, Arnen Sula wraps up work at his office, collects his drums, and heads to Skanderbeg Square in the Albanian capital of Tirana.

“Eskobari i Ballkanit
O hajduti i buxhetit
Ne nuk ikim pa doreheqje
HEY RAMA, SHPORRU TI TANI!”
 
(The Escobar of the Balkans!
You budget thief!
We won’t leave until you resign!
HEY RAMA, GET OUT NOW!)

These are lyrics to one of dozens of songs and poems that Sula and fellow demonstrators have chanted every day since June as they march while carrying cutouts of large flamingos.

“It is our take on Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall,’ and we have changed the first few stanzas to make it make sense in the Albanian context,” Sula explains.

The context he’s referring to is a months-long protest against the construction of a luxury resort funded by U.S. President Donald Trump’s daughter Ivanka and son-in-law Jared Kushner that will potentially raze 42 square kilometers (16 square miles) of wetland around the Vjosa Narta river, as well as a proposed development on the 567 hectares (1.8 square miles) of Sazan Island close by.

Skanderbeg Square has been the heart of a movement that has grown steadily and consistently. Every day peaceful demonstrators fill the streets of Tirana with chants and folk songs and march toward the prime minister’s office.

There they are joined by artists who use a projector to broadcast their messages on the facade of the building.

 

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“Initially, we started with a two-part animated video showing the machines and bulldozers working in Vjosa Narta, and the visuals of the flamingos,” says Besjana Guri, environmental activist, Goldman Environmental Prize winner, and founder of a nongovernmental organization called LUMI, which in Albanian means “river.”

 

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The flamingos represent one of hundreds of species of wildlife at risk from the Trump-Kushner development and inspired the name of the movement: the Flamingo Revolution.

Their voices, in unison, echo a collective demand: Save the last wild river of Europe.

“The protest is about opposing one of the huge touristic resorts with a severe ecological footprint that is planned to take place in the middle of one of the most important protected areas for Albania and for Europe,” explains Olsi Nika, environmental biologist and executive director of Eco Albania, an environmental protection organization.

What’s at Risk at Vjosa Narta

“Well, everything basically,” Nika tells The Revelator.

“We are not talking about just one building here, or one hotel there — although even that is not acceptable. But we are talking about the construction of a new city from scratch that will take place in the middle of a natural, pristine area,” he says.

 

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Few details are available about the project, but according to some of the project renderings briefly published by Affinity Partners, the Kusher-linked investment firm, the Zvërnec Peninsula, which sits right beside the Narta Lagoon, will be home to a 445-hectare (1.7 square miles) luxury resort.

Meanwhile Kusher told The Guardian last year that he planned to “create the ideal resort…a very high-end luxury product” on Sazan Island, an abandoned communist outpost still littered with unexploded ordnance.

Environmentalists familiar with the developments say this involves construction of at least 10,000 units.

“When you imagine this … it involves construction that could take 10-15 years, trucks, bulldozers, with thousands of people working here, excavators digging in protected land, putting concrete,” says Zydjon Vorpsi, project manager at Protection and Preservation of Natural Environment in Albania.

“And once it’s operational, it will be a city of thousands of people that will need energy infrastructure, water, asphalt, pavements, lights, waste management — all of which comes at the expense of the wildlife here. We are talking about wiping out nature; we are talking about transforming this very special area completely,” Vorpsi says.

Nearly everyone interviewed for this article echoed the sentiment and called Vjosa Narta — the last free-flowing river in Europe — “very special.”

“The uniqueness of that river is its free-flowingness,” explains Nika. “It flows to the Adriatic, shaping the features of the delta along the way, which is also the only ecologically pristine delta in the entire Mediterranean Basin.”

The delicate ecosystem created where the Vjosa meets the Adriatic Sea on the southern coast of Albania is home to 2,300 species of flora and fauna, including 200 bird species, at least 70 of which are endangered, such as Dalmatian pelicans and stone curlews.

The rare sand dune formation on the coastline, which serves as a nesting spot for sea turtles, has already faced some damage from gravel dumped by excavators, a Birdlife International report noted earlier this year.

“Construction has also blocked one of the two openings connecting the Narta Lagoon to the sea, cutting off tidal exchange with immediate, cascading consequences for fish, birds, and the entire food chain,” the report stated. “Every day the blockage continues, the damage deepens.”

Additionally, the local Indigenous communities living for generations in the region are facing land disputes in part of the project.

“The village nearby does not have drinking water in taps,” Vorpsi says. “But meanwhile, we’re about to build 10,000 more units there, which, of course, will need fresh water that will be sourced from other areas, through pipelines that will add to the damage and destroy another river to feed this area with fresh water.”

But most importantly, Nika says, “This treasure simply does not belong to us alone, but also to Europe, to the world. It’s not only protected by Albanian law, but also has recognition from international treaties and conventions,” he says. “It is recognized as a Ramsar site under the Ramsar Convention and is a candidate for an Emerald Site in accordance with the Bern Convention.” The river also has the potential to be included in Natura 2000, the European Union’s protected sites, if Albania gets membership in the EU.

Albania applied for EU membership in 2009 and was granted candidate status in 2014. However, as protests expand, the EU Commission has indicated that the environmental violations linked to the Trump-Kushner project could risk Albania’s path to join the union.

Race to Save Vjosa Narta

The history of eco-resistance in Albania is long and complex. With abundant natural resources and an economy that relies heavily on tourism, the debate over protection versus development remains a constant battle.

The race to protect the Vjosa Narta actually started more than a decade ago, Nika says. “The current government, which came to power in 2013, already announced in 2014 its vision to develop the protected areas.” Since then the government has worked to rewrite legal and administrative frameworks to accommodate development.

In 2019 the government announced a full revision of the protected areas in Albania. But this process was rushed, according to Nika.

“Their assessment reduced the areas of protected territories, and one of them was the Vjosa,” he says, adding that in some areas appeared with permissible enclaves “like holes within the protected regimes” such as the Vlora Airport being constructed in the Vjosa region.

“If you exclude a part of a protected region, it still impacts the ecological integrity of the entire area. You cannot build a factory or an airport in the middle of a protected region,” he says.

But through persistent advocacy, environmental activists were able to achieve some success. “We managed to push back on that at least, and all these holes disappeared, with the exception of the airport,” he says.

Then in 2024 the government passed its new Law on Protected Area, “but ironically, it undermined all principles of conservation,” Nika says. “All its content is about how to develop the protected areas, not how to conserve protected areas.”

The new law “said that five-star resorts are allowed even in the national parks and in all protected areas, paving the way for this project, and other ‘tourism of excellence,’ as they call it,” says Vorpsi.

“In the beginning, when this project was announced, Jared Kushner always referred to it as Sazan Island, and never attached Vjosa Narta,” he adds.

Fast forward to April 2026, when environmentalists documented unannounced excavation taking place in the protected areas. Gradually, it became clear that the ongoing construction was linked to the Trump-Kushner project.

“We began protesting the presence of bulldozers and other heavy machinery in the region, which was supposed to be protected land. However, protesters were met with private security guards who used violence to remove them,” Vorpsi says.

A video from May 31 showing a protester being beaten until he fainted and was dragged out went viral across Albanian social media, attracting strong criticism and anger from the public.

“These constructions started without a public hearing, without a permit; they were illegal and criminal,” Vorpsi says. The Albanian anti-corruption prosecutor’s office in Vlora has since opened an investigation into the legality of the project.

Within days, thousands of Albanians took to the streets to demand the end of the Trump-Kusher project. Soon, however, the demonstrations expanded into a call for larger social change, particularly on systemic corruption that allowed billionaires to take advantage of Albania’s resources.

“It started as a protest for the environment and against this project, but it has changed it into something bigger,” Sula says. “It’s about the Narta, but it is also about corruption, the political situation, the theft by the government, the education system, the health care system, and everything else.”

‘Rhythms of Resistance’

As the movement remains resilient, it’s the music and art that have provided the protesters with the expression to communicate their message to the government and those in power.

In the months since the start of the protest, Guri has brought her projector to the town square nearly every day and used it to broadcast an array of messages onto the government building, sometimes accompanied by an impromptu choir.

“Every day we prepare a combination of elements: memes, messages, graphics, sometimes funny ones, sometimes strong — it’s a daily protest, and this is one way to keep it vivid,” she explains.

Not all songs and poetry recited by the protesters are Western-inspired. Some are derived from the region’s long history of folk music.

“We have collected some 10 old Albanian songs. These are songs all about nature, so they sing about the flowers, the birds, and so on. And we created a band and organized public concerts [at the protest site] of these songs,” Sula says.

Sula works with an organization called Tek Bunkeri that collaborates with rural communities and artists to create campaigns on shared social issues.

Their songs and chants have become something of an anthem for the protests. “We use art to make activism. And in these protests, we are creating the rhythm of the resistance,” he explains.

“Ki kujdes ki kujdes nga flamingot.
Revolucion ne kete shesh dhe ti rreshket.
Nje ze flet Rama ra nga flamingot.
Lumturia e pushtoi kete vend.”

(Watch out, watch out for the flamingos.
Revolution in this square — and you’re slipping.
A voice cries out: Rama fell from the flamingos.
Happiness has taken over this land)

 

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Tek Bunkeri has created an entire playlist of songs, Çel Ensemble, that “explores exploring memory, nature and tradition through sound” to raise awareness on ecological conservation. Using diverse forms of music, from jazz to chambers, the themes run between the topics of rivers, flowers, landscapes, and collective memory.

Music has always been at the heart of Albanian conservation efforts, environmentalists shared. In 2016 a similar movement to protect the Valbona River against hydropower projects that threatened damage to surrounding regions culminated in a protest concert in Valbona valley by Albanian and Kosovan musicians.

Later in 2018 Albanian artists collaborated to produce “Lum Lumi i Lirë!” (Blessed be the free rivers), a song to raise awareness of the need for protection of the Valbona and Vjosa rivers.

One thing that Albanians unanimously told The Revelator is that they feel a strong sense of responsibility for the land they inhabit.

“We do have plenty of protected areas in Albania because simply Albania has a lot to host when it comes to biodiversity and nature. And this is our duty to protect them,” Nika says, embodying the sentiment on the streets of Tirana.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

The Two Words Giving Me Hope — Even As the Trump Administration Dismantles More Climate Regulations

The post The Flamingo Revolution and the Rhythm of Resistance: The Race to Save Europe’s Last Wild River appeared first on The Revelator.

I am not a climate scientist, and I want to say that plainly. What follows is the account of a metabolism researcher who kept finding something she wasn’t looking for, until the pattern became too consistent to file under coincidence.

My colleagues and I run randomized clinical trials to answer a narrow question: What happens to a person’s health when they change how they eat? We recruit volunteers, assign diets, and measure what clinicians care about — insulin sensitivity, weight, cholesterol, blood sugar. The work is aimed at the body, not the atmosphere. The atmosphere intruded almost by accident. We had run a trial in adults with type 1 diabetes, the autoimmune form no diet can cure. Half our participants adopted a low-fat diet built around vegetables, fruit, whole grains, and legumes; the rest ate a conventional diet with meat and dairy. The clinical results were what we’d hoped: better insulin sensitivity, less insulin needed.

Image by Joanna Wielgosz from Pixabay

But we also had detailed food records from 12 weeks of real eating, so someone on the team asked a question that had nothing to do with medicine: What was the environmental footprint of all that food?

When we looked into it, we found that the greenhouse gas emissions embedded in participants’ diets had fallen by more than half. The energy required to produce that food dropped nearly as much. Nobody had set out to produce that effect — these were people managing a brutal, lifelong disease. The climate benefit came along for the ride. I might have filed that under coincidence. Then it happened again, in a larger trial of 244 overweight adults randomized to a low-fat vegan diet or no change, followed for 16 weeks. Once more the emissions embedded in participants’ food fell by about half, driven mostly by less meat, with dairy and eggs close behind — roughly what you’d save each day by leaving a gasoline car parked instead of driving it four miles. The third time, we sharpened the comparison, still for health reasons: a low-fat vegan diet against the Mediterranean diet, the pattern nutritionists and environmentalists alike celebrate as the responsible choice for both body and planet. If anything was going to match the vegan diet’s footprint, surely it was this one. It didn’t. The Mediterranean diet cut diet-related emissions by about 20%, a real improvement, its green reputation earned. The

vegan diet cut them by 57% and slashed the energy demand of the food system by 55%. The Mediterranean diet barely moved food-related energy demand at all; its signature olive oil even nudged the footprint upward. The gap wasn’t the vegetables — both diets had those. It was the animal foods that persisted in one diet and vanished from the other.

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

Three trials, three populations, three designs, each run for a medical reason that had nothing to do with climate. The same finding surfaced every time.

Here’s why I think this matters past nutrition. Almost everything we ask of people for the climate is a sacrifice: a cost paid now, by you, for a benefit collected later, by someone else, somewhere else. Insulate the house. Pay the carbon tax. Trust a ledger you’ll never personally see balance. Economists call this intertemporal discounting — weighing a certain cost today far more heavily than an uncertain, diffuse benefit decades out. Climate communicators have spent decades trying to talk people out of that instinct through duty, fear, or guilt, and global emissions keep rising anyway.

My trials kept showing me that food is one of the rare places where the ledger balances immediately, in the same body, in the same season. The changes that lowered participants’ carbon footprint also lowered their insulin needs, their weight, and their cardiovascular risk. There was no gap between actor and beneficiary to bridge. The benefit to the planet and the benefit to the body weren’t competing for the same scarce willpower — they were the same act, seen from two angles, landing on the same afternoon.

That convergence is rarer than it sounds, and our institutions are poorly built to notice it. Climate policy has organized itself, sensibly, around problems with a genuine collective-action structure — emissions trading, grid decarbonization, treaties — built for diffuse, delayed, free-rider-prone harms. That architecture is necessary; energy and transportation remain the largest levers, and no dietary shift substitutes for decarbonizing them.

But that toolkit is poorly suited to an intervention whose discount rate is close to zero, because the payoff shows up in a person’s own bloodwork within weeks. Food systems account for roughly a third of global emissions, on par with energy, yet they’re still treated as a footnote about cattle methane rather than a demand-side lever with an unusually favorable incentive structure. Health systems have been just as slow: Dietary counseling remains a peripheral, underfunded sliver of chronic-disease care, even though a doctor’s conversation about insulin resistance is, in effect, also a conversation about emissions.

Image by PIRO 4D from Pixabay

I want to be careful here, because overreach is how researchers lose people’s trust. These were secondary analyses, not the trials’ purpose, built on self-reported food records over weeks, not years, from volunteers rather than a random slice of humanity. No single study, nor all three together, can carry the weight of the global climate problem.

What they can do is point to a category of climate intervention our institutions aren’t built to reward: one where the beneficiary isn’t a future stranger but the person making the choice, this week, at their own table.

I still think of myself as a metabolism researcher. I arrived at this subject not through conviction, but by running the same kind of study three times and watching the same shadow fall across the results each time. That’s the pattern a scientist learns to trust most — not the striking one-off, which might be chance, but the finding that refuses to go away no matter how many times you look. This one has refused to go away.

Conflict of interest: The author directs clinical research at the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine, a nonprofit that advocates for plant-based nutrition, and led the trials cited in this piece.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Dangerous Drinking: Is Bottled Water Really Safer Than Tap Water?

The post Climate Policy Has a Sacrifice Problem. My Clinical Trials Kept Solving It by Accident. appeared first on The Revelator.

The Place:

Morrell Nature Sanctuary is a 110-hectare (270-acre) preserve of coastal Douglas-fir forest in British Columbia that volunteers battle to keep safe from invasive species. The sanctuary is a shelter for a biodiverse ecosystem where fir coexist with massive red cedars, Garry oaks, and twisting, hard-as-stone arbutus trees with their shocking, ever-peeling red and pistachio-green trunks. The forest’s undergrowth is dominated by salal, Oregon grape, and ferns. But those are just a few of the more than 100 species of plants that provide a home for animals, including deer and bears. Ravens and barred owls regularly oversee our work.

Why it matters:

According to the Coastal Douglas-fir Conservation Partnership, this type of forest is the most at-risk zone in British Columbia, yet it contains the highest diversity of plant species in the province. Morrell Nature Sanctuary is a volunteer-led organization trying to maintain a small piece of this forest for all.

A barred owl looks down on Morrell. Photo: Tanya Berry (used with permission) The threat:

The forest is in peril. Always creeping in from the edges or growing from bits dropped by birds are invasive Christmas-card perfect holly trees and very pretty, but toxic, daphne laurel. The open, rocky bluffs that the arbutus and Garry oaks favor are at risk of being taken over by Scotch broom. Local lore attributes the broom plague to a sentimental Scot who planted a few seeds to remind him of home. Now the broom has taken over any disturbed (literally and metaphorically) location across large swathes of southwestern British Columbia. It runs rampant up hydro lines, along trails and ditches, and in lots clearcut and then abandoned by developers. We curse the homesick Scot even as we grudgingly admire the bright yellow blooms in late spring.

It’s not just the sanctuary volunteers who engage in the Sisyphean labor of cutting blooming broom as close to the ground as possible. Many groups work to eradicate it, worrying the highly flammable, toxic bush will kill the native species and fuel a forest fire. It is dangerously everywhere.

The invasive-fighting volunteers have heard the arguments. Isn’t it natural evolution to let plants grow as they wish? That’s hard to believe if you witness the monoculture left under the canopy if you let daphne laurel grow at will. Isn’t it a waste of time? I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to liberate an arbutus from a surround of broom and know that even if you need to come back to cut baby broom next year, the arbutus is free for now. Parts of the sanctuary are close to pristine, where breathing is easier for everyone — and that can’t possibly be a waste of time or labor.

So we persist against the holly, daphne laurel, and broom while occasionally tackling other problematic plants in our neck of the woods: Periwinkle, English ivy (homesick settlers take note!) and Himalayan blackberry have also taken root.

My place in this place:

Of all the invasive plants, it’s the blackberry I find most difficult — and not just because of its vicious, rope-thick cane and brambles. There’s actually very little of it in the sanctuary, but when I occasionally come across it, I morph into a blackberry terminator, lasering in on the plant as I approach for the kill.

The author at Morrell.

My technique involves clipping back as much of the vine and cane that I can until the roots are exposed, which I pull out of the ground with specially designed “puller-bears.” These heavy contraptions are very useful for pinching around the base of a plant and then slowly levering the roots out of the ground. They’re indispensable for clearing daphne laurel and smaller holly trees, which will regrow if cut. But never use a puller-bear on broom: You’ll just disturb the soil and create the perfect nursery for thousands of dormant broom seeds to sprout. It’s better to cut blooming broom off at the base, which will likely kill it.

But back to the blackberries. In the sanctuary I gleefully eradicate them. It’s when I leave that problems arise, as I wrestle with my hypocritical lust for a perfectly ripe blackberry. As soon as I touch a plump fruit, I know whether I should immediately pull it to my mouth or drop it in a bucket to freeze for delayed gratification over the winter. The ripe ones come to you willingly, almost falling into your hand as you caress them and then offer explosions of sweetness leaving a lingering, subtle, delicious tartness on your palate. There’s a reason “hints of blackberry” is often used to describe rich red wines.

As I walk to the sanctuary on summer mornings I assess the readiness of the crop, justifying my greediness with every step. They’ll still be there, taking over fields and ditches if I don’t eat them. And it’s free food! (Monetarily, at least.)

The coastal Douglas-fir ecosystem also has native trailing blackberries. Their fruits are smaller and sweeter, and many claim more delicious, than Himalayan blackberries. The trailing blackberry vine is also more delicate, and there’s no cane. While Himalayan blackberries would make an extremely effective defense against invaders, trailing blackberries allow animals to move through and coexist with salal and Oregon grape. Nonnative blackberries grow prolifically, not allowing anything else to grow and even competing with broom in disturbed sites. I believe it’s the alpha blackberry that will win out.

Have I mentioned the thorns the size of tacks that tear at your clothes, sometimes piercing the armor you donned before heading out on the hunt? For a month or so every summer the invasive blackberries dare you to come and get ’em if you’re brave enough to try. It’s not a chore for the unprepared. No matter the weather, you have to wear thick clothing and closed-toe shoes, if not boots. Mesh-topped running shoes won’t last a minute. The wise bring hand clippers to carve out a relatively safe space to pick. My husband carries an old broomstick with a bent nail banged into one end, which he uses to snag berry-laden branches and pull them within reach. He favors cutting his way in where others dare not go and picking in one spot. I wear a thick work glove on my non-picking hand to maneuver fruit nearer as I skim along the surface of the brambles. We’ve enviously watched seasoned warriors lean ladders against three-meter-high blackberry hedges to get at the ones the rest of us can’t reach.

My love of blackberries illustrates the issue at hand. Many invasive plants were originally planted in gardens because they’re pretty or taste good. I, along with everyone else, need to tamp down our selfish need for plants that don’t belong here. Inevitably as I enter the sanctuary, my mouth stained a deep purple, I relax because it’s always cooler there when it’s hot out. On rainy days the towering canopy gives protection. I stop and breathe and know that given the choice of this or blackberries, I will choose the forest every time. That’s what we are fighting to protect.

Who’s protecting it now:

Volunteers. In addition to the Morrell nature sanctuary, volunteers with organizations such as BroomBusters are working in the region to eradicate invasive species, Scotch broom in particular.

Photo: Tanya Berry (used with permission) What this place needs:

The smallest actions, such as ripping out an invasive plant as one walks by, can quickly add up, clearing areas remarkably effectively. But local government leaders also need to step in and recognize the threat posed by invasive plants. The wildfires should terrify us all and spur action to legislate the removal of plants such as Scotch broom or fine those who don’t take action. Another step is to make the disposal of invasive plants easier. Right now, it costs us to take bags of pulled or cut plants for disposal; we need support, not barriers.

Lessons from the fight:

A small group of mostly retired people working a few hours a week can make a surprisingly big difference. But we Morrell volunteers are only working on a tiny piece of the landscape. If more people started working a bit more broadly, I believe much more of the forest could be protected. For example, I regularly walk through a Nanaimo park that’s choking on invasive plants. Holly and daphne are everywhere, and the cedars and firs are covered in ivy. Yet it’s obvious where people have stepped in to eradicate the interlopers, leaving pockets of forest in a clean state. It can be done.

Learn more:

To find out more about the Morrell Nature Sanctuary, visit their website or follow them on Facebook.

To see the work of another invasive fighting volunteer organization, with inspiring examples of small groups who made big impacts, visit the BroomBuster’s website.

To learn more about the coastal Douglas-fir ecosystem visit: https://www.cdfcp.ca/about-the-cdfcp/.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Protect This Place: The Florida Panhandle vs. Petrochemicals

The post Protect This Place: Coastal Douglas-Fir Forest of Southwestern British Columbia appeared first on The Revelator.

This year Earth Overshoot Day —  the date each year when humanity has used more from the planet than it can regenerate in 12 months — fell on July 30, six days later than last year.

That sounds like progress. It isn’t. The date moved because researchers revised their estimate of how much carbon the ocean absorbs, not because we consumed less. Strip out the accounting change and the underlying trend went the other way. By the actual measure, 2026 is the deepest ecological overshoot ever recorded.

I recognize the maneuver, because I run it on myself constantly.

My bedroom overflows with Jellycats. My organizer is bursting with beauty products, many still sealed. My closet holds clothes I have never worn. The Jellycats have mostly migrated under my bed, where they serve as expensive chew toys for my dog. And I have already moved on — I collect NeeDoh squishies now.

Every purchase came with a story about why it wasn’t really a purchase. It was on sale. It was self-care. It was the last one. I was, at every step, a person making a reasonable decision. Only in aggregate does it look like what it is.

Photo: Logan Hana Higase-Chen

The aggregate is the part nobody shows you.

The idea for this piece arrived in the form of an empty shelf. I went to a bookstore looking for a new NeeDoh and found bare pegs. My parents, humoring what I was treating as a genuine crisis, stopped at a Target on their way home. My dad sent me a photo: an entire wall, cleared out.

My first thought was that TikTokers had bought everything. All those people with the restock hauls and the unboxing videos, sweeping shelves bare, leaving nothing for the children the toys are actually made for. They have a shopping problem.

My second thought took longer to arrive. I looked at the pile of Jellycats. I looked at the growing pile of NeeDohs.

I have a shopping problem.

Instagram, Snapchat, and TikTok launched as places to talk to your friends. They have become the most efficient sales channels ever built, and the transition happened without anyone announcing it. Scroll for 90 seconds and you will pass a restock video, an unboxing, a haul. The algorithm doesn’t reward the person who explains why she doesn’t need the thing. It rewards volume — the biggest haul, the fastest turnaround, the fullest cart. Brands ship free product to influencers, influencers generate demand, demand generates the next shipment. There is no exit.

The result is that we no longer buy what we need. We buy what is trending, which means we buy something engineered to stop trending. Trend-driven consumption is excessive and obsolescent at once: quick to buy, quick to trash.

The numbers behind “quick to trash” are worse than most people assume. The EPA’s most recent full accounting found that Americans generated 292.4 million tons of municipal solid waste in a single year — 4.9 pounds per person per day, or roughly 1,800 pounds each. That figure covers everything in the bin, not just shopping. But shopping is the part we choose, purchase by purchase, and it is the part growing fastest. Apparel consumption alone is projected to rise 63% by 2030, with emissions from textile manufacturing climbing about 60% over the same period. Less than 1% of clothing gets recycled into new clothing.

None of this is a secret. That is what makes it strange. We know, and we buy anyway, because knowing happens in one part of the brain and the checkout button lives in another — one tap away, saved card, no friction, no pause.

So I want to be careful about what I’m actually asking.

The easy ending here is a pledge. I put down my credit card, I empty my cart, I say “not today” to the next micro-trend, and I invite you to join me. I am making that pledge. I mean it.

But I don’t think personal restraint is a serious answer to a system built by people whose full-time job is defeating personal restraint. I am a competitive figure skater. Discipline is, professionally speaking, my entire personality. It took a photograph of an empty Target wall to help me notice what was happening in my own bedroom. If discipline alone were enough, I wouldn’t have the piles.

What actually helps is friction, and friction can be designed. Platforms could stop merging the feed and the storefront. They could stop optimizing for haul content. Disclosure rules for gifted product could have teeth. Right now every design decision runs one direction, and we call the outcome a personal failing.

In the meantime there are smaller counterweights. De-influencers, who post about what not to buy. Project Pan, which asks you to finish a product before replacing it. “Underconsumption core,” which is just the ordinary thrift my grandmother wouldn’t have thought worth a hashtag.

Earth Overshoot Day exists to make an abstraction legible: Here’s the day the budget ran out. My version is less rigorous. It’s a pile of stuffed animals under a bed, being slowly destroyed by a dog.

Both are ways of finally seeing the total.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Dangerous Drinking: Is Bottled Water Really Safer Than Tap Water?

The post The Calendar Says We’re Doing Better With the Environment. My Bedroom Says Differently. appeared first on The Revelator.

Dr. Green,

I hear a lot that “doing something, no matter how small” to fight environmental destruction will help you feel better, but I have doubts. Does psychology back this up? (I’ve been doing environmental activism for 20 years, so I don’t need this incentive, myself. I’m just wondering about encouraging new people.)

Yes, many studies have proven the efficacy of “doing something, no matter how small.” The science of how “every little thing helps” spans several key areas such as mental well-being, physical health, sociological change, and habit formation — tiny, consistent changes to your routine that build momentum, eventually turning into powerful and automatic behaviors that help you achieve larger goals.

Small acts are important to your health because you’re taking a bit of control back from global forces beyond your control. In 2018 research by Topor, Bøe, & Larsen in the Community Mental Health Journal found that engaging in daily micro-affirmations and micro-acts lowers cortisol, reduces anxiety, and rewires your brain through neuroplasticity.

And daily decisions shape the systems around us. If enough individuals can make better choices, markets and policies can make changes at scale.

For example, one person using a reusable water bottle may seem too small to matter, but according to the United Nations Act Now campaign, if millions of people adopt sustainable lifestyle choices, the cumulative effect scales up and signals to industries and governments that consumer demand is shifting toward sustainability. This is the power of collective action.

These small acts create a ripple effect when observed by the people around you. You don’t have to brag about your actions or criticize people who don’t immediately see their value. Friends, neighbors, and coworkers will observe your choices, see that they work for you, and try them too. It’s in the better angels of our nature to want to do the right thing; maybe they just didn’t know how to start, or what to do, or want to be the first. The individuals lead by example and community members notice. When they see you doing something, it may go viral.

Science is clear: Small environmental acts by one individual absolutely make a difference — on both the personal and community level.

So, readers: What small sustainability steps will you take?

Go for it!

Dr. Green

Dear Dr. Green, I can relate very much to the recent title “What If Your Job Doesn’t Align with Your Eco-Values?” but my situation is quite different. I love my job, and I am not looking for a new one; I get along extremely well with my team, and the job is very low stress, leaving me plenty of time and energy to pursue my passions (like conservation) on the side. However, I am a cog in the wheel of a sprawling bureaucracy, and I too see so much waste. I am personally complicit in activities such as booking flights for meetings that could be conducted online and ordering non-organic, non-plant-based food with disposable serving ware. When I have mentioned concerns about sustainability to coworkers, I always get the sense that everyone is in a similar position: just a cog forced to comply with the dictates of policy, budget constraints, monopolistic contracts, professional customs, etc. For me, it has become all too easy to mentally dissociate from my day job, tell myself that I’m powerless to change the system, that it’s only a means to a paycheck, and that I can support conservation in my free time… but of course there are significant moral problems in such dissociation. I am sure that there are many, many workplaces like my own. What can us “cogs” do to fight institutional inertia that is harming the planet?

Before we get to your question, let’s examine your use of the psychological term “dissociation.” Perhaps you meant you were becoming disengaged, complacent, or apathetic — all situations that carry their own psychological implications. Dissociation is a severe, crippling condition that results from trauma, as in PTSD. The family of dissociative disorders includes a range of extremely serious, debilitating mental conditions that in extreme cases can result in catatonic depression.

I bring this up not to criticize your word choice, but because trauma, PTSD, and related symptoms remain underdiscussed, underdiagnosed, and undertreated in environmental and conservation communities. This is hard work that can carry a burden, whether you do it full-time or as side projects. If you — or any of our readers — feel you are dissociating but have not been diagnosed yet, please seek clinical help immediately. People suffering from dissociative disorders often cannot work or function effectively and need continuous therapeutic care throughout their lives. The leading cause of death for people suffering from post-trauma dissociative disorders is suicide. You can find out more about this heartbreaking condition in the resources section.

Having said that, let’s get to the core of your question: You seem to describe a situation in which you’re comfortable and indicate you don’t wish to quit your job, but that you’re unhappy with the lack of environmental practices in your company. Ask yourself if you’re afraid of change in your work? Or is it simple inertia on your part?

You have two choices: One, you can create change in your current workplace. For example, you can research how to make your workplace more environmentally friendly, then draw up a plan for changes and present them to your boss.

Or, to echo our first question, maybe some of the changes can start with you. You may feel like a cog in the machine, but that means the machine depends on you — use that to your advantage. Instead of traveling for work by default, say “I’d like to schedule this online to save time and money and reduce emissions.” When ordering meals, go ahead and order more plant-based options and ask for compostable bamboo utensils and plates. What other choices are in your control? Act first and see if others follow.

Or two, you can find a new job with an organization more aligned with your beliefs — for example, sustainability-focused roles or organizations. ESG (Environmental, Social, and Governance) positions are growing rapidly across various industries, not just in traditional conservation sectors. You might choose to seek similar job positions where you can apply your existing skills to an eco-friendly nonprofit or business. See our resources below for information on environmental jobs.

Good luck and let us know how it goes.

Dr. Green

What are you struggling with as a dedicated environmentalist and global citizen? Use the form below to send your questions and success stories.

All participants are anonymous. Even Dr. Green has no idea who you are.

Send Dr. Green your questions and stories below:

All questions are anonymous and considered intended for publication. Individual replies are not possible.

Disclaimer: This column is not a replacement for therapy, and the advice given is educational in nature, not a replacement for professional psychological or psychiatric therapy. This is a peer-driven support effort by The Revelator to inform and build community with environmental and wildlife defenders.

If you are feeling critically depressed and suicidal, it’s time to immediately find professional help. Go to your closest emergency room or call the following numbers to get immediate help in your area:

SUICIDE HOTLINES

Worldwide: http://www.befrienders.org/support/

United Kingdom: http://www.samaritans.org

USA: http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

1-800-273-TALK

 

Resources

Dr. Green: What If Your Job Doesn’t Align with Your Eco-Values? (See Resources section of this article for green job boards)

Dissociation and Dissociative Disorders

International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 5: DSM-5 Diagnostic Criteria for PTSD

DSM-5: Dissociative Disorders

The David Suzuki Foundation

Greenspace as Workplace: Benefits, Challenges and Essentialities in the Physical Environment by Victoria Linn Lygum, Katia Dupret, Peter Bentsen, Dorthe Djernis, Sidse Grangaard, Yun Ladegaard, and Charlotte Petersson Troije.

Small Things, Micro-Affirmations and Helpful Professionals Everyday Recovery-Orientated Practices According to Persons with Mental Health Problems

Do Little Things Truly Make Us Happy? Here’s why small moments matter more than big achievements, by Sam Goldstein Ph.D.

New Year, New Impact: How Small Environmental Actions Add Up (January 2026) by the Ecological Servants Project

 

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The post Dr. Green: Do Small Environmental Actions Make a Difference? appeared first on The Revelator.

Sharks and their relatives may seem common thanks to their constant appearances in nature documentaries and pop culture, but they face enormous threats wherever they swim and are actually some of the most threatened animals in the world.

Protecting this globally distributed and occasionally highly migratory group of animals isn’t easy — it requires an enormous amount of scientific data, expertise, and collaboration. But an ambitious initiative called the Important Shark and Ray Areas project hopes to help jump-start a new era of conservation for these amazing and misunderstood animals.

Launched in 2022 and managed by the IUCN Species Survival Commission Shark Specialist Group, the effort has brought together hundreds of experts at regional workshops across the globe to help identify sharks’ and rays’ essential habitats. The core team is led by SSG chair Dr. Rima Jabado and features several marine conservation scientists with expertise in spatial ecology and conservation. Their collective goal: Publish a set of publicly accessible, data-driven, interactive maps that can help conservationists, governments, and other interested parties see where sharks live so they can identify the most important waters to conserve.

After months of effort, the first Important Shark and Ray Areas maps went online this summer.

“An ISRA is a place that matters for sharks, rays, or chimeras,” says Dr. Rima Jabado, the chair of the IUCN Species Survival Commission’s Shark Specialist Group and the lead of the ISRA project. “This is an area that we can put on a map and say based on the evidence, this place is important for these species during some or all of their life.”

Prior to this, one of the Shark Specialist Group’s primary efforts, like other IUCN groups and committees, has involved identifying the conservation status of its focal species — which shark species are at-risk, endangered, or have potentially healthy populations. The new maps make that data more actionable.

The current map of Important Shark and Ray Areas. The western North Atlantic and Atlantic Africa workshops have been completed but are still undergoing review and are not yet on the interactive e-Atlas.

“Species assessments tell us which species are in trouble, but conservation action has to happen in real places,” Jabado says. “Managers need maps!”

What Counts as an Important Shark and Ray Area, and Who Decides?

While reducing unsustainable fishing practices and curbing international trade are vital parts of shark conservation, it’s also critical to identify and protect key habitats that these animals need to survive.

But what counts as a key habitat, and how do you measure it?

To answer these questions for sharks and rays, the ISRA team started by adapting existing conservation standards like Key Biodiversity Areas and Important Marine Mammal Areas to the life history and ecology of sharks and rays.  The resulting 2022 paper, called “Putting Sharks on the Map,” outlined a series of criteria that would help prove that a given patch of ocean is especially important to one (or more) threatened species of shark or ray.

“We often talk about the ocean as if it is one big open space, but from the perspective of species, that is not true at all. Different places matter for different reasons,” says Jabado. “Some areas are important because there is food, some areas are important because they are safer for young animals, there are places used for mating, giving birth, laying eggs, resting, cleaning, or gathering seasonally. For migratory species, certain areas act like stepping stones across the ocean.”

The paper established four major criteria that can be used to identify whether or not a given habitat is an Important Shark and Ray Area. One such criterion covers habitat used by range-restricted species (those that live in just one or a few small regions). Others include a threatened species using the habitat for mating, or their pups using it as a nursery area. Areas with unusually high biodiversity of sharks and rays can also be considered ISRAs.

Criteria used to determine if an area qualifies as an Important Shark and Ray area, from Hyde et al. 2022

For example, Albatross Bay in Queensland, Australia, is a pupping ground for critically endangered dwarf sawfish and therefore considered an ISRA for reproduction. The Eastern Kerguelen Slopes, off the coast of Antarctica, received an important area classification because it’s home to severely range-restricted Kerguelen sandpaper skates, who depend on that habitat almost exclusively.

The Fact Sheet for Albatross Bay’s ISRA

Hundreds of expert participants have helped to identify these ISRAs through a series of 13 regional workshops held around the world over the past few years. For example, the Polar Waters workshop resulted in identifying 34 ISRAs.

Anyone, not just scientists, was free to submit a potential ISRA and provide evidence in support of their claim; an expert independent peer review panel considered all the evidence. Some ISRAs were identified based on information provided by SCUBA tour operators, resulting in biodiversity hotspots that weren’t on any scientist’s map.

 

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“The Mediterranean workshop saw shark researchers and experts coming together to collaborate in an unprecedented way,” says Simone Niedermueller, the Manager Species Recovery for WWF’s Mediterranean Marine Initiative. “The ISRA process allowed for some data to see the light of day when they had been sitting in drawers for years.”

“The key point is that the process is evidence-based,” says Jabado. We are not identifying areas because they are politically easy, or because someone wants them protected. We are asking ‘what is the evidence that this area is important?’”

So far the ISRA team has identified more than 1,000 ISRAs, which have been displayed on an interactive e-Atlas that’s searchable by size, location, and species involved. Some are huge — the largest, a migratory area used by blue sharks, is over a million square kilometers — and some are the size of a small cove. Some are close to shore, in the middle of the ocean, in shallow water, or in the deep sea. Each ISRA has its own fact sheet with evidence and citations. Users can also download data layers for GIS analyses, letting scientists, governments, and environmentalists use them for their analyses and conservation planning.

As of August 2026, all 13 planned regional workshops have been completed, and the results of 11 have been finalized and uploaded to the e-Atlas. And in a few years, the team will update the map through more workshops.

From Designation to Protection

An Important Shark and Ray Area doesn’t automatically receive any legal protections. The designation is intended to inform future management; if someone wants to create new marine protected areas, this data can help make sure that they’re placed in parts of the ocean that do the most good instead of placing them somewhere that won’t help very much at all.

“Once an ISRA is identified, it can be a very useful layer for decision-makers,” says Jabado. “Governments can use ISRAs in marine spatial planning, fisheries management, protected area planning, and other conservation processes. But ISRAs are not the end point. Identifying an important area does not automatically save it.”

Now that this data is available, the next step is up to concerned citizens, environmental nonprofits, and governments.

“Important Shark and Ray Areas are one of the key biodiversity datasets that can be used to create the first generation of high seas marine protected areas under the recently ratified United Nations treaty to conserve biodiversity beyond national jurisdictions,” says Dr. Lance Morgan, the president of the Marine Conservation Institute.

ISRA data can also be used in national waters for conservation. “We’ve submitted Mediterranean ISRAs in a series of national and regional marine spatial planning processes in Spain, Italy, and Croatia,” says Simone Niedermueller.

Dr. Jabado stresses that marine protected areas are one kind of policy outcome that can ISRA data can be used for, but not the only one. The information can also be used to improve fisheries-management policies, such as instituting gear restrictions or innovations that reduce bycatch of sharks and rays.

“The point is that sharks, rays and chimeras are finally becoming visible in spatial planning and management decisions where they have often been missing,” she says.

More than 1,600 scientists from around the world have spent years identifying the most vital habitats for threatened species of sharks and rays. The next step is up to us.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Incredible Journeys: Migratory Sharks on the Move

The post To Save Sharks and Rays, Protect These Places appeared first on The Revelator.

Iran has experienced multiple crises over the past few years, including economic challenges and war. So far, however, these have not appeared to affect one of the most practical initiatives developed by local conservation leaders in northern Iran: Gavbangi.

In Farsi Gavbangi refers to the call of the maral (also known as Caspian red deer, Cervus elaphus maral), who live in the green mountains in northern Iran from early September to early October. Maral habitat in Iran spans forests from the Azerbaijan-Iran borderland in the northwest to Golestan National Park in the east.

In autumn the forests in the north display beautiful, colorful leaves, and local people commonly hear a sound like a cow that they call Gav (cow) bangi (call). It is both inspiring and reassuring to hear the charismatic calls of deer echoing through the forests, a reminder of a functioning ecosystem. As a former conservation volunteer in Iran and a current Ph.D. student in natural resources at the University of Vermont, I experienced Gavbangi in northern Iran’s protected areas. During that time I witnessed firsthand the vital role of community collaboration in maral’s conservation.

I have also seen the importance of this collaboration: Poachers know this is the ideal time to find deer, specifically males.

A herd of maral in Kiasar National Park, Iran. Photograph by Hamed Tizrooyan. Used with permission.

Maral are a protected species in Iran, but according to the Iranian Department of Environment they face two main threats: habitat loss and poaching. During Gavbangi volunteer conservationists collaborate with rangers and protected area managers to address both threats in protected areas and potential habitats.

Volunteers stay in scheduled locations across the habitat, listening to deer calls and ensuring that poachers do not take advantage of this vulnerable period. Volunteers are divided into small groups assigned to remote areas that are difficult to monitor with a small number of rangers. Their visible presence alone acts as an obstacle, discouraging poachers from entering.

These days economic pressure may be driving an increase in poaching, although there is no reliable data. Human development like expanding road networks also makes these efforts more critical than ever.

A male Maral pictured by Hamed Tizrooyan at Kiasar National Park, Iran, Photo by: Hamed Tizrooyan. Used with permission.

Social media and wildlife photography have played a significant role in promoting awareness of species and habitat protection in Iran. Many young volunteers became interested in conservation activities by seeing the beauty of nature and its residents.

The most interesting social aspect of Gavbangi is how volunteers gather. In my experience social media, activists, and the role of wildlife photographers are crucial, as they showcase the beauty of nature and its diverse forms. These individuals typically work closely with rangers to manage volunteers and identify the best locations. This is an excellent example of collaboration between the public sector and volunteer conservationists, which began around 15 years ago.

A group of volunteers at Gavbbangi, Kiasar National Park, Iran, 2025, Photo by Amirhossein Gohardehi (used with permission)

Many experts say it’s necessary to see interested individuals as an opportunity to preserve biodiversity. The main advantage of these activities is that they involve more people in conservation, which could lead to more effective conservation of the red deer.

There is an ongoing debate among conservationists about whether participation in Gavbangi should remain purely voluntary or be integrated into ecotourism programs, where participants pay to join. Although hosting a tour can bring money to the area and invest it in conservation, it can attract irresponsible individuals and increase the human population, which can negatively affect the project’s goal and compromise the area’s safety.

To me another aspect of Gavbangi is that it provides amateur volunteers with the opportunity to explore the ecosystem in the wild, which could be an excellent driver for enhancing conservation.

As a former volunteer turned professional conservationist, I feel it essential that volunteer initiatives like Gavbangi be closely monitored as they grow to ensure they stay on the right path, especially in engaging younger generations in protecting the Maral during its most vulnerable period. To achieve this, it would be beneficial if local conservation groups collaborate with conservation experts to train the volunteers. And Gavbangi leaders can benefit greatly from engaging local residents on conservation efforts.

Based on my conversations with several experts involved in Gavbangi, Iran’s ongoing challenges have not had a direct impact on the event so far. However, conservationists in the country are under considerable pressure, and we may see the effects of these crises in the next Gavbangi event.

It is our collective responsibility to ensure that future generations can still hear the haunting call of the deer echoing through the northern forests of Iran.

References:

Hadi Pourmosa, S. M. G. (2024). Habitat suitability modeling of the Caspian Red Deer (Cervus elaphus maral) in the central zone of the Hyrcanian region: Identification of priority conservation areas. https://doi.org/10.5281/ZENODO.13823908

Kiabi, B. H., Ali Ghaemi, R., Jahanshahi, M., & Sassani, A. (2004). Population status, biology and ecology of the Maral, Cervus elaphus maral , in Golestan National Park, Iran. Zoology in the Middle East, 33(1), 125–138. https://doi.org/10.1080/09397140.2004.10638071

Kolahi, M., Sakai, T., Moriya, K., Yoshikawa, M., & Esmaili, R. (2014). From paper parks to real conservations: Case study of social capital in Iran’s biodiversity conservation. https://www.sid.ir/en/VEWSSID/J_pdf/108220140111.pdf

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Incredible Journeys: How Hoofing It Helps Deer and Caribou

The post Gavbangi: Iran’s Long-Running Conservation Effort Relies on Volunteers — and Turns Them Into Habitat Protectors appeared first on The Revelator.

As a cofounder of Native Species Network, I’m grateful for those who go beyond treasuring native plants and actually get out in the field to do the hard work of clearing away undesirable alien plants. But I have concerns about how some projects are affect the larger landscape, including the animals who live there.

For instance, when I taught an animal-tracking class in Point Reyes National Seashore this past June, I was surprised to find that someone had uprooted all the cakile (sea rocket) in my favorite tracking spot on the open sand at Abbots Lagoon. And they had also removed the few harmless foxgloves that managed to grow along the trail, as well as some ice plant and a few other nonnatives.

Tracking is an integrated practice in which we study all the visible lifeforms in certain areas and how they interact. In Sonoma County, where I’m based and have studied wildlife for virtually all of my 90 years, we like to see cakile because it has become a major food source for mice and voles, which themselves are a major food source for raptors, herons, foxes, bobcats, coyotes and weasels. Pipits, plovers, sand pipers and other insectivore birds like it because it harbors a rotating zoo of insects. Plus, it provides cover. At the end of the annual cycle, if there are any geese around, they graze the plant nearly to the ground, occasionally killing it.

If ever there are any non-native plants welcomed into our biosphere, cakile should be among them. The California Invasive Plant Council acknowledges it is an invasive non-native, but is generally not a problem, and they do not recommend a removal plan. Plus, it is an attractive flowering plant for people, many of whom have tasted the peppery leaves. To my eye this plant is integrating productively into the landscape. There are a few places where it displaces natives, and in those locations, it could easily be controlled by selective hand pulling a few times a year.

Ice plant is another plant that looks different through a tracker’s eye. We know that deer eat it a lot. Rabbits and voles eat it occasionally, as do some other critter we have not yet identified that takes the very tips of the leaves…maybe an insect. What seems to be the case around here is that in places where ice plant is getting enough moisture, like on the ocean facing side of Bodega Head, it becomes more invasive and displaces especially desirable, often uncommon, native plant life. But further inland, along the drier coastal terraces, it seems more like a hundred-year struggle is raging in slow motion between the ice plant and the natives. Ice plant thrives and spreads with damp weather, but in dry locations in the hind dunes, it dries out and dies back massively every summer. Now that the climate is warming, the natives are winning more battles. It makes me smile to find a waist-high yellow lupine blooming in a 20-foot circle of dead, black ice plant.

I say, sure, pull out the ice plant, especially where it’s doing harm. But treat it as an actor in the larger landscape. On Bodega Head, for example, the summers are tough on deer. As the milk herd, with 20 or so does, forms up in the fall, forage becomes precious. Among invasive plants that helps sustain them, in addition to ice plant and nonnative forbs, are the nonnative wild radish/mustards. By fall their leaves are almost stripped bare, but in the moist air they grow small new leaves that are eaten by the deer. Recognize, too, that many native plants are unpalatable to native herbivores.

I would like to see invasive plant priorities determined place by place, based on the role they now play in the local ecology. It seems pretty narrow for people to just pick projects based on the single principle that it’s good to eliminate any nonnative under all conditions, even where the species in integrating well. Removing a plant species is an intervention with impact on the local balance of nature that radiates out some distance. If we want to intervene, we should understand what we are doing not only to the species, but to the local environment. This is something you have to spend quite a bit of time in the landscape to learn to recognize. Trackers call this “dirt time.”

In Sonoma County, we track a lot in the Salmon Creek estuary. This tidal creek snakes lazily down out of the coastal hills and makes a 90-degree bend on the south bank a hundred or so yards before the ocean, then runs north almost a quarter of a mile, before bending 90 degrees again into the sea. The peninsula dunes that formed between the creek and the ocean is composed of dune grass, ringed on three sides by patches of cakile and various native plants. Mice, voles, rabbits, and gophers colonized the area. Geese and occasionally ducks nested there. Otters cross it as a shortcut from the creek to the ocean. There were always large open sandy patches, with a few natives. It was a great place to track because in that small, but productive area, we reliably found coyote, bobcat, fox, rabbit, skunk, raccoon, mice, and vole tracks, plus birds ranging from geese to sparrows and pipits. To us, this was a thriving ecozone.

One day, going on three years ago, we were astonished to find a crew completely digging out all the dune grass from this entire peninsula. I talked to the supervisor, and he explained they had gotten a contract to remove the dune grass. There was quite a bit of community opposition. It was further explained that Cal Trans wanted to open a channel directly through the peninsula to protect the north cliff faces from potential erosion, which had never happened yet. I was never able to determine who let the contract. And as far as I know there was never any community outreach for such a large, high-impact project. I told the contractor that dune grass roots go down 10 feet and will probably resprout, which is now happening even though a few clusters of natives have taken hold. One or two maintenance visits were undertaken, but I suspect that is all that the contract covers.  Personally, I think this was perfectly good grant money down the drain.

Now all the predators, except for the otters and a couple of foxes, have disappeared — not only from that location, but in large measure from the adjacent mainland for a half mile or so south of the creek. What we see now are only occasional forays into the old hunting grounds.

I tell this story for two reasons: One, to encourage native plant people to notice and account for the larger biological accommodations that the animals are making. Two, to show that removal projects at scale can affect not only the animals but the local human communities.

A third consideration involves failure to plan for maintenance. I’m not sure there’s a gain in removing ice plant, say, only to let wild nonnative grasses and forbs take over. Anybody who’s been involved in broom removal, for instance, knows that success requires years and years of maintenance to deal with the long-lasting seed bank. One project near Ft. Bragg, some time ago, involved an expensive, massive, and welcomed removal of Scotch Broom, followed up with five years of contracted maintenance. In the sixth year it all came back, thicker than ever.

And lastly, I want to mention priorities. In the Bodega Dunes and along the coast there have been several expensive campaigns to remove pampas grass, but now it’s returning. It would make sense to take it out now, while it’s relatively easy, rather than to wait until the infestation is unbearable. I think the parks understand this, but they’re starved for funding. This is much harder work than removing ice plant, but probably more important. Also, in addition to nonnative grasses, there are many other exotics that are at least as harmful as ice plant, ranging from poison hemlock to Monterey pines, and are seldom dealt with.

I’m not against intervention. I’m suggesting we need to understand what our objectives are. Even native plants should sometimes be controlled. Meadows, which are rich in both plant and animal diversity, are also said to be better carbon sinks than conifer forests, which support very restricted levels of wildlife. Yet many meadows in my area are being overrun by Doug firs, eucalyptus, coyote brush, coffee berry, poison oak, and blackberries. The local Pomo and Miwok treasured the open grasslands and meadows and kept them vital by burning. We should control them, too. To this end, the natural succession in this coastal area has already been interrupted for ten thousand years by burning the coast facing hillsides. In years past, grazing performed some of that job. But now chaparral is forming, and Doug firs are working their way downhill, while invasive Monterey pines are working uphill. Without intervention, redwoods will probably ultimately crowd all the way to the beaches, destroying the beautiful, open and fruitful habitat that characterizes the south Sonoma County landscape.

The most advanced regional resource I know of for science-based research into all of these problems is Pepperwood Preserve. I urge those who want to volunteer their efforts to acquaint themselves.

All of that said, I don’t want to discourage the good work being done by native plant activists. But realistically, we will never be able to eliminate more than a fraction of the nonnative species that always accompany the expansion of human population. Moreover, the worst is still to come, as climate change increasingly alters the environments that native plants evolved to thrive in.

I don’t have a solution to all of this, but I can attest that it’s rewarding to get out in the field and pay close attention to the struggles plants and animals are engaged in as they try to survive the epochal changes that characterize our era. I think we’ll make better choices if we respect some of the accommodations being made.

The post Is Removing All Nonnative Plants Always the Answer? appeared first on The Revelator.

At the foot of Njeza Mountain in Zimbabwe’s Mutare district, newly discovered lithium deposits have turned a quiet, small-scale farming enclave into the next frontier of the country’s mineral rush.

But more than a year after residents learned of the project, it remains shrouded in secrecy and has become a source of constant anxiety for farmers living in villages surrounding the proposed mine.

“We don’t know much about this project,” says Kwadzanai Nicholas Mukundidza, a farmer in the area. “We were not consulted, and there is a lot of fear among farmers. These projects are linked to powerful people in [Zimbabwe’s ruling party] ZANU PF. We are afraid we might lose our land, our pastures, our rivers, and our water.”

Farmers were resettled in this part of the country in the early 1980s, during the first phase of Zimbabwe’s land reform program after independence from Britain.

The farmers have every reason to fear the new lithium mining project: Similar mining ventures elsewhere in the country have displaced communities from their lands, polluted water and air, and disrupted livelihoods.

Coveted Minerals, Poisoned Communities

As the world races to secure lithium for the clean energy transition, Zimbabwe has emerged as one of Africa’s largest suppliers, attracting billions of dollars in foreign investment. Chinese companies — many with close ties to Zimbabwe President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s ruthless regime — have acquired much of the country’s lithium sector.

Although President Mnangagwa promised sweeping sociopolitical and economic reforms after seizing power from long-time dictator Robert Mugabe in a 2017 military coup, civic space continues to shrink. Activists, journalists, and community and political leaders have faced intimidation and arrests when challenging powerful political or commercial interests.

In lithium-mining communities this climate of fear has profound environmental consequences.

In Zimbabwe’s Buhera district, for example, Sabi Star Mine’s lithium project has already upended the lives of many local people. James Mupfumi, director of the investigative NGO the Centre for Research and Development, says drinking water around the lithium mine has been contaminated by chemical disposal.

Mupfumi says Zimbabwe’s Parliamentary Portfolio Committee on Environment, Climate and Wildlife carried out a fact-finding mission on July 12, when community-based organizations such as Buhera Residents Network Trust gave oral evidence, including testimonies from affected villagers on the dust and water pollution and resulting health problems.

“Latest information from Tagarira [in Buhera] community leaders indicates stomach-related challenges from drinking contaminated water. The Tagarira community is the worst affected,” he says.

He adds that at least 120 30-ton trucks use the dust road daily in the area to transport lithium from Sabi Star to Beira through either Beira or Durban ports. Six villages spread along the 30-kilometer (18-mile) dusty stretch from Tagarira to Gaza in Buhera are the worst affected.

A truck carrying lithium from Sabi Star Mine in Buhera, Zimbabwe- Photo: Leonard Mabasa

“These villages have five schools, and an average of 5 to 7 pupils visit the clinic every day seeking treatment for various illnesses caused by dust pollution,” Mupfumi says.

He says there have been very few efforts at dust suppression by the mining company to alleviate the suffering of communities.

“Villages in Tagarira and Mukwasi are also affected by dust from blasting and crushing, and as soon as the dust is cleaned, it soon settles again,” he says.

Official Threats

Buhera Residents Network Trust — an organization representing the interests of local people —presented oral evidence before the Parliament Portfolio Committee on Environment, Climate and Wildlife raising concerns over environmental pollution, water insecurity, worker injuries, community displacement and mining operations at Sabi Star Mine.

The Trust’s leader, Leonard Mabasa, told legislators that the community was not opposed to mining itself and acknowledged that Zimbabwe’s mining sector remained a cornerstone of the national economy, with lithium among the country’s most valuable mineral exports.

 

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But the residents want to ensure that mining is carried out responsibly and that affected communities receive adequate protection. However, after the presentation President Mnangagwa’s spokesperson George Charamba came out swinging, warning the residents to be “very careful” and not “wreck a good thing for a dime.”

Chengxin Lithium, the company that operates Sabi Star Mine, has maintained that it undertook extensive community engagement before developing the project and provided adequate water, electricity, and sanitation facilities. The company says it compensated villagers who suffered from the mine’s activities.

Charamba’s threatening X post prompted a consortium of Zimbabwe NGOs to issue a statement condemning the intimidation and publicly rallying behind the Buhera residents.

“Communities living alongside mining operations are not enemies of development. They are constitutional rights holders entitled to safe environments, meaningful participation in decisions affecting their lives, and access to effective remedies where harm has occurred. Responsible mining cannot exist without transparency, accountability and respect for human rights,” the NGOs said in the statement.

I asked Mabasa whether he still feels safe after his presentation to the Parliamentary Portfolio Committee. He says Zimbabwe Parliamentary privileges — special rights and powers granted to lawmakers so they can do their jobs safely and independently — should protect him from any threats during and after the submissions before Portfolio Committee on Environment Climate and Wildlife, “[But] what happens after that usually becomes too personal and uncontrollable. Smear campaign can make you feel insecure. Certain actions are shrewdly done to psychologically wean you off from the struggle. Safety is delicate. Physical and digital security can be issues of great concern which need not to be breached.”

Community Rights

Mabasa says the community needs to be aware of their economic social cultural rights — which include housing, health, education, and fair work — so compensation on relocation is anchored on “Free Prior Informed Consent.”

“I also think that legal support ecosystem is key for communities to be able to understand the terms and conditions of voluminous documents produced during the … Environmental Social Impact Assessment,” he says. This legal requirement, previously known as an Environmental Impact Assessment, evaluates how major projects affect ecosystems, health, and communities before they start.

Donald Nyarota, communications and advocacy officer for the Centre for Natural Resource Governance (CNRG), a Zimbabwe-based NGO, says they have observed a degree of fear and reluctance among community members in lithium producing areas to speak openly about their concerns.

“These concerns include environmental pollution, loss of agricultural lands, loss of livelihoods, water and security, particularly displacement,” Nyarota says. “These are issues that communities are afraid to speak about because [they’re linked to] very powerful government officials. Sometimes they just say ‘government officials’ — they don’t even want to name them because of the fear that they could be victimized and conflict with these powerful interests associated with mining operations.”

At CNRG, Nyarota says, they’re addressing these issues through creating spaces where communities can raise their concerns collectively and safely under their “do no harm principle,” where they protect the identity and maintain anonymity of the communities.

Nyarota says they place a lot of emphasis on community-led evidence gathering, where communities send evidence anonymously through their safe and secure social networks.

A Just Transition

Mupfumi says Zimbabwe requires a just energy transition for its green minerals such as lithium.

“There is a need to secure the supply chain from corruption and criminality that are negatively impacting the rights of host communities. These negative impacts also pose a direct threat to climate action,” he says.

Political elites’ participation in the industry, like what is happening in Buhera, Mupfumi says, seeks to mask these violations and shield extraction from accountability.

“It is therefore important that global measures, such as supply-chain exclusion under clean energy laws, are applied to companies operating in Zimbabwe,” he says.

He adds that the processed lithium from these companies enters the global electric vehicle and green-energy battery supply chains, so markets and laws must prevent automotive companies from receiving green subsidies or selling vehicles where their raw materials are linked to human-rights abuses or toxic pollution.

“For communities to fully benefit from lithium resources, extraction must be linked to human rights protection, environmental accountability, transparent supply chains and meaningful community benefits, rather than allowing communities to bear the environmental and social costs of extraction while global markets benefit from the resource,” Mupfumi says.

He says Buhera demonstrates that communities must recognize lithium as a critical mineral whose extraction should contribute to transforming host communities in line with a just energy transition, rather than leaving them to bear the social and environmental costs.

“This makes community unity, transparency and accountability critical, particularly in securing fair benefits, protecting rights and ensuring responsible extraction. Communities must also recognize their vulnerability under Zimbabwe’s insecure land regime, where state power and corporate interests can weaken their bargaining position,” he says.

At the same time, communities should organize early and seek independent legal support on compensation and relocation, ensuring that displacement only occurs when livelihoods, living conditions and adequate compensation have been properly addressed.

“Community exchange visits, such as the one already facilitated by CRD, remain critical in enabling communities to share experiences, build solidarity and learn from each other’s struggles,” Mupfumi says.

“Ultimately,” says CNRG’s Nyarota, “the issue is not whether the communities support or oppose mining. It’s about whether mining takes place in a way that respects their rights, protects the environment, and ensures that they have meaningful voices in decision-making on issues that are affecting their lands and livelihoods.”

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

Anthrax in Zimbabwe: Caused by Oppression, Worsened by Climate Change

The post How Zimbabwe’s Regime Is Fueling a Dirty Lithium Boom appeared first on The Revelator.

Revelator readers enjoy a love of wildlife and wild places around the world. Our September Gallery showcases readers’ wildlife and landscape photos, artwork, and other creative efforts. Enjoy these beautiful images from our readers — and read to the end to find out how to submit your work for future galleries.

 

Denise Blough
American Bumblebee
Mirrorless photography
© copyright Denise Blough

American bumblebee on saltmarsh mallow. I was so surprised and pleased to find this one covered in pollen in one of the photos I took a few weeks ago of Virginia saltmarsh mallow (Kosteletzkya pentacarpos) at Audubon Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Naples, Florida.

 

 

 

 

 

Denise Blough
Limpkin/Green Heron
© copyright Denise Blough

Limpkin/green heron: While on a casual walk with my camera, I noticed a green heron (Butorides virescens) quietly foraging atop lily pads. Suddenly, a limpkin (Aramus guarauna) flew over and picked a territorial fight with the heron, which is how I captured the resulting image. This was at Powell Creek Preserve in North Fort Myers, Florida.

 

 

 

 

Emma Smith
Waiting for Mom
Near entrance of East Glacier National Park in Montana.
Species: Grizzly bear (Ursus arctos horribilis)
© copyright Emma Smith

My friend and I spotted a black bear before taking a hike in East Glacier. As we drove out of the park, we saw two grizzly bear cubs with this backdrop of mountains. I quickly snapped the picture, staying in the car. It felt symbolic to see two grizzly bear cubs, presumably waiting for their mom, considering we had gone hiking after seeing a bear, which is not recommended.

 

 

 

 

Emma Smith
Room With a View
Napili Beach on Maui, Hawaii
Species: Critically endangered Hawaiian monk seal (Neomonachus schauinslandi)
© copyright Emma Smith

 

I’ve come to this beach over 100 times and could likely walk it with my eyes closed. I had never seen a critically endangered Hawaiian monk seal there before. This is Kalea, a roughly 250-pound monk seal. She’s one of 10 or 11 living on the island of Maui. There are only 1,600 living in the wild. I was at the beach with my family when I first saw her. I eventually went back to the hotel, grabbed my camera, and came back to take this picture of her sleeping in “her bedroom,” according to a volunteer with the Marine Mammal Center.

 

 

 

 

Emma Smith
Line in the Sand
Species: Critically endangered Hawaiian monk seal (Neomonachus schauinslandi)
Napili Beach on Maui, Hawaii
© copyright Emma Smith

Kalea, a roughly 250-pound Hawaiian monk seal, rests on Napili Beach on Maui in Hawaii. Legally, there is a line in the sand between beachgoers and monk seals: You cannot get closer than 50 feet to the critically endangered marine mammal on land or in water. As Kalea is one of 10 or 11 living on the island of Maui, volunteers were a bit on edge.

 

 

 

 

Emma Smith
Within a Thumb’s Distance
Species: Bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis)
Highline Trail, Glacier National Park, Montana
© copyright Emma Smith

A bighorn sheep walks along the Highline Trail, an 11- to 13-mile hike in Glacier National Park. [When I was] going to college in Montana, people who grew up there taught me that you are at a safe distance from ungulates and other animals when you can visually place your thumb over them while hiking. I took this image to highlight the importance of appreciating these species from a distance, especially as national parks experience overcrowding from a record number of visitors post-COVID. My friend and I were the only people at a thumb’s distance from this bighorn sheep.

 

 

 

 

Emma Smith
River Jaws
Species: Sea lion
Willamette River, Oregon
© copyright Emma Smith

A sea lion, known as “Jaws of the Willamette River,” surfaces with a fresh bite of salmon in its mouth. Currently sea lions are being trapped and euthanized in this region to protect native salmon and steelhead populations that are being threatened with extinction. Wildlife experts have also tried relocating them to the coast but many of them swim right back to falls and continue feeding.

 

 

 

Emma Smith
Honu Rising
Species: Honu green sea turtle (Chelonia mydas)
Maui, Hawaii
© copyright Emma Smith

My love for storytelling began in Hawai‘i, where I had the privilege of growing up and snorkeling with the Honu or green sea turtle, who are sacred animals there. Each time I’ve gone, I’ve tried to capture what makes them so special. This photo I feel depicts their quiet and peaceful beauty.

 

 

 

 

Ted Zukoski
Yellow-Headed Blackbird
© copyright Ted Zukoski

Yellow-headed blackbirds are spring-summer migrants in Boulder County, Colorado, where their cheery, cacophonous calls fill the marshes. We go birdwatching at these and other nearby ponds to enjoy the sights and sounds of our avian neighbors. This one was at Teller Lake No. 5.

 

 

 

 

 

Ted Zukoski
Osprey
© copyright Ted Zukoski Osprey with dinner. Teller Lake No. 5, Boulder County, Colorado. We watched this one catch the fish in the lake and fly to this snag to consume it. Ted Zukoski
Red-Winged Blackbird
© copyright Ted Zukoski

A female red-winged blackbird in a tiny wetland in a sea of prairie on the Pawnee National Grassland, Colorado. The males are much showier, but I loved spotting the little reddish splash on the female’s shoulder. We visit the grasslands annually from our home in the foothills to be amazed by the variety of wildlife — Burrowing owls! Dung beetles! Tadpole shrimp! Pronghorn! — in this sometimes-overlooked landscape that makes up almost half the state. 

 

 

 

 

 

Ted Zukoski
Pelicans on Post
Tulum, Mexico
© copyright Ted Zukoski

Pelicans on posts. Near Tulum, Mexico. Terns perched here during the day, but toward evenings, the pelicans ruled the roost. I enjoyed the geometry of this view.

 

 

 

 

Janet DeWoskin
Close Encounter
Photograph
© copyright Janet DeWoskin

Barred owl and white-tailed deer fawn across the creek from my backyard in Durham, North Carolina. Photograph captured by my trail camera.

Curator’s question: Did the fawn get away?

 

 

 

 

Janet DeWoskin
Close Encounter 2
Photograph
© copyright Janet DeWoskin

The deer did get away! The next image one second after the previous photo shows the fawn still running and no owl! You can see the fawn has veered to its right — still running, and there is no sign of the owl. The camera was practically in my backyard and I never saw any sign of a kill or even a scuffle.

Curator: Thank goodness! I was on the edge of my seat!

 

 

 

 

Janet DeWoskin
They Wait With Bated Breath
Fish are peering out from behind coral that is starting to bleach around the edges. They wait anxiously to see what we will do.
Painted from my imagination in my art studio in Silver Spring, Maryland
Acrylic on stretched canvas
© copyright Janet DeWoskin

 

 

Guidelines to get your masterpiece into the Revelator Gallery:

• • Original photos and art from you
  • No AI-generated or enhanced images
  • Images can be horizontal, square, or vertical
  • We accept only .jpgs and .png files
  • No limit on submissions
  • No people in the images, just wildlife and landscapes (animals, plants and trees, insects, sea life…look below for examples)

Send your submissions to ccrary@biologicaldiversity.org with the following information:

• • Your name
  • Title of image (if applicable)
  • Species of wildlife
  • The location (where it was created)
  • A brief description of what inspired you to capture or create this image
  • Medium: Photography (many types, be specific), painting, drawing, pottery, sculpture, textiles/fabric art, mixed media, glass, etc.
  • Let us know if you want us to include a specific copyright notice “©”

All submissions are considered intended for publication; submission does not guarantee publication. Monthly galleries will be distributed to our partner publications under a Creative Commons license, but you retain the copyright on your individual images. There’s no prize or payment, just  bragging rights.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy.

The post The Revelator Gallery: September 2026 Exhibit appeared first on The Revelator.

By Roberto Lucchini, Florida International University

Hundreds of first responders have told me they remember exactly how they felt during the World Trade Center attacks, even 25 years on.

They tell me that they remember not being able to think, see or smell anything. They could focus only on digging and pulling debris out of the way. They could not rest because those trapped beneath the rubble could not wait. Death was all around them, and they could only do as much as they could to hold it back.

While what happened on 9/11 was unprecedented, similar tragedies happen quite frequently. As a physician in occupational health who works with 9/11 first responders, I can easily imagine those same thoughts from other firefighters, paramedics and construction workers trying to save lives after the deadly summer 2026 earthquakes in Venezuela, Colombia and Indonesia or the disastrous floods in Nepal.

These first responders may also need to recover human remains from the rubble. Surrounding these moments of intimate grief are dust, toxic fumes and cries for help. And this trauma takes a toll.

The destruction of the World Trade Center was unprecedented, but such disasters are not uncommon throughout the world. Mario Tama/Getty Images

Whether it’s industrial or nuclear disasters, extreme weather, wildfires, volcanic eruptions, war or terrorist attacks, first responders and affected communities can experience significant physical and mental health effects both during rescue and recovery operations and for years afterward. All are vulnerable to mental and physical harm no matter how well trained they may be.

Research from my team suggests that among these risks is post-traumatic stress disorder that may cause their brain to age faster.

PTSD Among First Responders

Post-traumatic stress disorder, also known as PTSD, is a complex mental health condition that can develop after experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event. Psychological trauma refers to the lasting emotional effects of direct or indirect exposure to life-threatening circumstances or violence.

PTSD may involve intrusive memories, avoidance, heightened alertness, sleep problems and changes in mood and thinking. Anxiety and depression commonly occur alongside PTSD.

Around 23% of World Trade Center responders have been diagnosed with PTSD. In comparison, around 6% of the U.S. general population are estimated to have had PTSD over their lifetime.

When I talk to 9/11 first responders, they describe their PTSD and cognitive difficulties as interconnected problems that continue to affect their lives today. Those traumatic memories remain vivid, and some first responders continue to experience anxiety, depression, intrusive thoughts, sleep problems and difficulty controlling their emotions.

Trauma Speeds Brain Aging

As they age, many 9/11 first responders have also noticed their memory, concentration and mental sharpness get worse. They increasingly fear losing their independence. Rather than occurring as separate conditions, physical illness, cognitive changes and emotional distress often reinforce one another.

In another study, researchers from my team monitored the cognitive function of more than 5,000 World Trade Center first responders without dementia between 2014 and 2022. Over approximately five years, 228 developed dementia before age 65. First responders with the most severe exposure to potentially neurotoxic dust and debris at ground zero had a substantially higher incidence of dementia than those with minimal exposure or who consistently used personal protective equipment such as respirators. This link remained after controlling for demographic, lifestyle, medical and genetic factors.

Before I began studying the health effects of 9/11, I was examining workers exposed to neurotoxic metals and industrial pollution in northern Italy. Knowing the harmful toxins in World Trade Center dust, I began to wonder whether 9/11 responders might face similar long-term risks to their brains. That concern grew when brain scans of both groups showed a similar increase in deposits of a protein linked to Alzheimer’s disease and cognitive decline called beta-amyloid.

Research from my team also found that the brains of 9/11 male responders with PTSD had MRI results consistent with older-appearing brains than those without PTSD.

In that 2025 study, we measured the brain structures using MRI scans and an AI model to estimate each participant’s brain age. The AI model had been trained to predict a person’s chronological age from the overall structure of their brain, based on data from more than 11,500 MRI brain scans from healthy people ages 5 to 95. We used the difference between a person’s predicted brain age and their actual age as a measure of accelerated brain aging.

We also saw that first responders with PTSD had brains that appeared about three years older than their chronological age. In contrast, the estimated brain age of responders without PTSD approximately matched their actual chronological age. Each additional month a first responder spent working at ground zero was associated with roughly four to five additional months of apparent brain aging, suggesting that how long they were exposed to the disaster played a key role in this aging process.

Caring for First Responders

The experiences of first responders show that the effects of 9/11 are an ongoing health issue. These health consequences evolve as people age, and they still require coordinated mental, cognitive, physical and social support decades later.

Every 9/11 anniversary brings back vivid memories of the tragedy, along with the same restlessness, frustration and pain of being there. Yet many on the front lines have told me that they feel pride and a sense of belonging with the knowledge that they helped people in desperate need. Their service remains an enduring example of human solidarity in a moment of crisis.

Honoring that legacy also means protecting those who come to our rescue during the emergency. I believe that, as a society, Americans have a responsibility to safeguard, protect and care for their health throughout their entire lives. They were there for America in one of its darkest moments; Americans must be there for them in the years to come.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Previously in The Revelator:

Dr. Green: A Wildlife Researcher Asks About Trauma and Grief

The post Toxic Dust and PTSD May Be Accelerating Brain Aging Among 9/11 First Responders appeared first on The Revelator.

To many visitors a mangrove forest appears as a stretch of trees standing between land and sea. But if you walk through the same forest with a local fisher returning with the tide, a honey collector searching for wild hives, or a boatman who has spent a lifetime navigating its creeks, another landscape comes into view. What seems to be a single landscape is understood as many. Diverse names distinguish places where fish breed, honey is gathered, storm surges lose their force, or tides behave differently.

Across the eastern and western seaboards in India, coastal communities have developed distinct names for tidal forests that reflect ecological function as much as geography. In Bengal, Sundarban evokes a forest historically associated with the sundari tree and its life-sustaining tidal ecology. Along the Godavari–Krishna delta, the Telugu expression mada vanalu refers to brackish tidal forests that nurture fisheries and soften the impact of cyclones. Tamil and Malayali people use terms built around kandal to distinguish salt-tolerant coastal habitats, while related expressions across the Konkan and Gujarat coast identify creek-edge forests, honey-collecting areas, and other ecosystems.

These names are far more than local expressions. They reflect generations of close observation about how the forest functions and how people have learned to live with it.

Much of this vocabulary is quietly disappearing. In administration, education, and even conservation practice, diverse coastal landscapes are increasingly gathered under a single term, mangroves. The forest remains, but the distinctions that once helped people recognize its ecological diversity begin to fade.

Conservation has become notably good at measuring environmental change. Forest cover, species recovery, and habitat loss are monitored with increasing precision. Still, an irony remains. Even as technologies sharpen the view of nature, the ecological languages through which Indigenous peoples have long interpreted these ecosystems and processes are becoming less visible.

Before ecosystems disappear, the ability to read them often begins to erode.

Conservation routinely monitors species richness and habitat extent but rarely asks whether the vocabulary needed to recognize those habitats is itself surviving. That is conservation’s overlooked blind spot. Protecting biodiversity is not only about safeguarding species and habitats; it also requires sustaining the languages that enable people to understand the many distinctions within an ecosystem in the first place. Conservation cannot fully succeed while the ecological languages that make landscapes intelligible continue to disappear.

When Conservation Loses Resolution

Ecologists classify habitats by their vegetation, hydrology, and species, while people who have lived in these landscapes for generations have long relied on another system of classification — language. Their vocabularies did not evolve to describe nature in the abstract. They emerged from everyday interactions. In tidal forests people learn to distinguish places shaped by tides, soils, fisheries, storms, and seasons, allow them to understand differences that matter.

The problem arises when these locally evolved classifications are absorbed into broader, standardized terminology. A common vocabulary undoubtedly makes administration, education, and scientific communication easier. Yet it also carries an unintended consequence: Ecosystems begin to appear simpler than they really are.

India’s mangrove coast illustrates this shift.

These are not simply regional names but ecolexicons that condense generations of environmental observation into everyday language.

As this mosaic of ecological vocabularies gives way to the single label mangroves, something more than linguistic diversity is lost. It’s like reducing the resolution of a satellite image: The coastline remains visible, but its finer ecological distinctions begin to disappear.

This process may be understood as linguistic flattening — not merely a dilution of linguistic richness and a loss of words, but also the gradual loss of ecological resolution. Long before a language falls silent, it can lose the nuances that once helped people read landscapes.

Language as Conservation Infrastructure

Linguistic flattening also weakens the systems that have long governed how people interact with ecosystems.

Language is often treated as a medium of communication, yet in many Indigenous societies it functions as something more fundamental. It carries practical rules, ethical obligations, and ecological boundaries that are learned not from policy manuals but through everyday speech, stories, and customary practice. In this sense, language is part of conservation infrastructure.

The Māori understanding of harakeke (New Zealand flax) offers a striking example. The central shoot, or rito, represents the child, while the surrounding leaves symbolize parents and grandparents. This is more than a metaphor. The vocabulary itself shapes harvesting practices: Inner shoots are never cut, because removing them threatens the life of the plant. Only the outer leaves are taken, allowing regeneration to continue. Even the flowering stalks (kōrari) are managed with care so that nectar remains available for native birds, supporting pollination and the wider ecosystem.

This appears to be a biocultural expression but in practice is a sophisticated system for managing relationships between people and nature. The language does not simply describe ecological relationships; it instructs people how to behave within them.

Similar patterns are found across Indigenous societies, where names, stories, and customary expressions regulate seasonal harvesting, identify sensitive habitats, and define responsibilities towards land and water.

Conservation recognizes the value of Indigenous knowledge, yet it often overlooks the languages through which that knowledge is organized, remembered, and transmitted. Protecting place-based knowledge while allowing the languages that sustain it to disappear is rather like preserving a library after removing its catalogue. The books may still exist, but their meaning becomes increasingly difficult to recover.

Vanishing Languages, Vanishing Environmental Archives

Modern conservation depends heavily on data. Satellite imagery tracks forest loss, climate models project future change, and ecological surveys measure species abundance with precision. Yet most of these records span only a few decades. They rarely capture and interpret the much longer histories through which communities have understood environmental changes.

That longer record often survives in language. Across Indigenous societies, names for plants, animals, winds, tides, and seasons are not arbitrary labels but accumulated observations refined over generations. They preserve knowledge of when rivers shift their course, when particular fish arrive, how flowering responds to rainfall, which plants indicate groundwater, or where storms repeatedly reshape the coast. Much of this information was never written down because it did not need to be. It remained alive in speech, memory, and everyday practice.

When a language slips away, the environmental archive becomes fragmented, and we lose part of nature’s archive. Individual observations may still be recorded by researchers, but the wider system that connected them — linking species, habitats, seasons, and human experience — is gradually lost.

Conservation then faces an unusual paradox. We invest heavily in collecting new ecological data while allowing centuries of carefully accumulated environmental knowledge to disappear unnoticed.

Seen in this light, language loss is not simply a cultural concern. It also represents the quiet erosion of one of conservation’s oldest and least recognized ways of understanding nature. Protecting biodiversity therefore also means sustaining the living archives that have preserved ecological memory across generations.

Conservation Literacy Beyond Species Lists

Conservation governance has made important progress globally in recognizing Indigenous peoples as partners in biodiversity protection. The Kunming–Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework calls for respecting and applying traditional knowledge in biodiversity governance, while IPBES has repeatedly shown that indigenous and local knowledge strengthens conservation outcomes. Likewise, UNESCO’s International Decade of Indigenous Languages (2022–2032) emphasizes that these languages sustain knowledge systems shaped through long relationships with place.

Yet an important gap remains. Conservation frameworks celebrate traditional knowledge but rarely ask how that knowledge survives across generations. Knowledge does not exist independently of the language through which it is observed, evolved, organized, and passed from one generation to the next. A conservation strategy that values Indigenous knowledge while overlooking Indigenous languages risks protecting the product while allowing the process that continually renews it to fade.

This calls for a broader understanding of conservation literacy. Alongside species inventories, habitat maps, and ecological monitoring, conservation should also recognize the value of ecolexicons, the place-based vocabularies that enable Indigenous communities to distinguish habitats, seasonal change, and ecological processes.

Supporting community-led language documentation, multilingual ecological education, and regional diversity of Indigenous vocabularies are therefore not simply a cultural exercise. It strengthens the knowledge infrastructure of future generations to interpret and care for the landscapes they inherit.

Reading Nature Before It Falls Silent

Biodiversity conservation has long measured success in hectares restored, species recovered, and habitat protected. These remain essential benchmarks. Yet this understanding argues that another measure deserves attention: whether the languages that enable communities to understand, interpret and care for those landscapes are also surviving.

A forest is more than the trees it contains. It is also the vocabulary through which generations have learned to read its tides, seasons, species, and silences.

The next frontier in conservation is not simply protecting more land but protecting the many ways in which people understand that land. Every ecological language that survives preserves a way of noticing what others might overlook while their disappearance reduces the world’s ability to see nature in all its complexity.

Conservation cannot claim to protect the living world if it allows the languages that have long interpreted that world to disappear unheard.

Long before a forest falls silent, its words often do.

Republish this article for free! Read our reprint policy. Previously in The Revelator:

The Extinction of Languages Is an Environmental Issue

The post Conservation’s Blind Spot: Why Language Matters for Biodiversity appeared first on The Revelator.